Tunes-Giving Event: Hunter/Nez (NOV 30)

"Now we are even" || The Introduction || Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita

Author's Note: I am so excited to drop the first installment of a story involving Commander Wolffe. This is my first time writing for him, and I won't lie, I cannot express how much I've enjoyed getting in his head. I want to thank my lovely and dear friend @leenathegreengirl for helping breathe life into not just Perdita through her art, but also this story at large. This was truly a whim in every fashion of the word, but as Bob Ross once said, there are no such things as mistakes, only happy little accidents. I am really proud of what bit's I've come up with this pair so far. I apologize for future works involving them, because while this is an introduction set after TBB, I plan to go back in time a bit (wouldn't be part of the Filoniverse if there wasn't chaos with the timing I suppose). Also I'm still racking my brain over a shipname so I'd love the suggestions... Any who, enjoy loves - M

Summary: A story as old as time itself. A Clone Commander. A Jedi. Two people bound by honor and duty. Lives defined by unwavering codes. But now, everything is shattered as the Empire orders the galactic execution of the once-peaceful warriors known as the Jedi. When Wolffe unexpectedly crosses paths with a fleeting figure from his past, he faces an agonizing choice. Will he obey the Empire’s command, or will he risk everything—his identity, his loyalty, and his future—in the desperate hope of rediscovering the man he once was?

Pairing: eventual Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita Halle

Warnings: Mentions of Order 66, Brief mentions of assisted suicide, angst with a hopeful ending

Word Count: 5k

Masterlist || Next Part (coming soon)

Wolffe often found the hum of space to be unnerving. Not that space itself had a hum—space was cold, dark, and empty. The hum came from the ship, a constant, low vibration that resonated through its walls, a reminder of its fragile protection against the infinite void outside. He hated this liminal space, this time spent outside planetary orbits, where nothing anchored him.

The vacuum had nearly claimed his life once. He could still feel it if he thought about it too long—the suffocating press of nothingness, the frozen tendrils of death creeping up his spine as his oxygen dwindled. The darkness had wrapped around him like a shroud, a cruel mockery of safety. Skywalker, his padawan and the Sentinel had pulled him back at the last moment, but something about him had stayed behind, left adrift in that endless void. He’d survived, but a part of him hadn’t.

He wondered, often, if death would feel the same. Cold. Empty. A silence so profound it swallowed everything. Or would it be something entirely different? Something warmer, like the faint memory of a sunrise on Kamino’s horizon or the strength of a brother’s arm slung across his shoulders after a battle well-fought?

Plo Koon had once told him that death was not the end but a transition—a merging with the living Force. The words had stayed with Wolffe, though he wasn’t sure if they brought comfort or dread. The concept was simple enough, but it opened too many questions. Would he still be himself in the Force? Would his memories, his regrets, his flaws follow him into that eternity?

And what of those he had lost? Would he see them again? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. The idea of facing the Jedi again, seeing their calm, unwavering gazes, filled him with an ache that felt too large to contain. He respected them deeply, but respect came with weight, and he often felt crushed beneath the burden of their trust. Undeserved, he thought. Always undeserved.

He stared out the viewport, watching stars streak by as the ship hurtled through hyperspace. The endless cascade of light reminded him of something—he wasn’t sure what. A memory tugged at the edges of his mind: Plo Koon standing beside him, hand on his shoulder, as they stared up at the night sky from a dusty outpost.

“There’s always light in the dark, Wolffe,” the Kel Dor had said, his voice steady, unshakable. “Even in the emptiest parts of space, the Force is alive.”

Wolffe had nodded then, silent as always. Even now, the words felt too far away. The darkness pressed in closer these days, even when he was surrounded by his squad, even when the hum of the ship reminded him he was still alive.

Maybe death was different for men like him—men who had taken orders, done what they had to, and carried the weight of it in silence. Maybe for him, death wouldn’t be a warm reunion with the Force but a cold, endless void, like the vacuum that had almost claimed him.

Maybe that was what he deserved.

He tightened his grip on the edge of the console, the familiar vibrations grounding him, even as the void outside seemed to call his name. The stars streaked on, indifferent to his musings, and he stayed where he was, caught between the hum of life and the silence of the dark.

Sure, right now he might be aboard an Imperial transport ship, tasked with carrying a highly dangerous prisoner marked for execution. But in his mind, he was still in the Abragado system, sitting in a pod, waiting. Waiting for the moment his life would be snuffed out in a war he neither fully understood nor had ever truly wanted to be part of.

He hadn’t believed Master Plo when the Jedi had reassured him, promising that someone would come looking for them. Wolffe had learned early on that he was expendable, a belief etched into him by the longnecks on Kamino. He was just another number, another body in an endless sea of soldiers bred for war.

Then came the Jedi. Their compassion, their respect, their quiet insistence on treating clones as individuals—it had shaken the very foundation of everything Wolffe thought he knew. In a world where duty and obedience were everything, where each clone was molded to fulfill a singular purpose, the Jedi had introduced something foreign—something that made him question the very core of his existence. 

Master Plo Koon, in particular, had made an inerasable impact. There was a quiet strength in the way he carried himself, an unspoken understanding that resonated with Wolffe on a level he hadn’t known was possible. Master Plo didn’t just command him; he listened—and more importantly, he understood. The way he treated Wolffe wasn’t like a subordinate or a mere tool of war, but as someone with thoughts, desires, and a sense of self. He spoke to him not as a soldier on the battlefield, but as a fellow being who had hopes, fears, and a need for connection.

When the order came, he didn't want to believe it. He hated how easily his finger had complied, how instinct had overridden thought. The words echoed in his mind, even now when he laid down for sleep: Good soldiers follow orders.

But in that moment, as Master Plo Koon’s starfighter plummeted from the sky, spiraling toward the ground in a fiery descent, Wolffe felt an emptiness unlike any he had ever known. It wasn’t just the shock of watching his commander, his ally, fall—it was the crushing realization that he was complicit in the destruction. The weight of betrayal was a heavy cloak around his shoulders, pressing down on him with unbearable force.

He had followed orders, as he always had, but this time, there was no duty, no justification that could soothe the gnawing ache in his chest. For so long, he had prided himself on his loyalty, on his ability to uphold the ideals of the Republic and the men he fought beside. But as the remnants of Plo Koon’s ship burned in the distance, Wolffe couldn’t help but feel that he had lost something far more vital than the life of a Jedi. He had lost the sense of himself as a man who stood for something honorable.

The world around him seemed to blur, the familiar sound of blaster fire and the chaos of war drowning out in the silence of his thoughts. For the first time, he saw the full, horrifying scope of what he had become—a tool of an Empire that had twisted everything he had once believed in. His identity, his purpose, had been shattered in that instant. As much as he wanted to believe he was still the same soldier, the same Commander, a part of him knew that he had crossed an irreparable line.

Wolffe had never felt further from the idea of being “good.” Not just because of the life he had taken, but because of the loss of the man he had been—the soldier who had once believed in the nobility of his cause.

The last time Wolffe truly felt in his heart that he had done the right thing was the night he learned Rex was still alive. He could still see Rex’s face—pleading, desperate, filled with a conviction that cut through Wolffe’s carefully constructed walls. Rex had begged him to see the truth, to understand that the Empire’s orders were wrong. That hunting a child wasn’t justice.

Wolffe had spent years trying—vainly, tirelessly—not to question his orders. He was a soldier. And good soldiers followed orders. 

But good soldiers didn’t hunt children or order their friends to be killed.

Good soldiers brought in criminal lowlifes, the kind of scum he now had locked in the brig, to justice. At least, that’s what Wolffe had assumed when the prisoner had been described to him as “highly dangerous.” But maybe it was his more recent desire to question his orders, or the way something about this mission didn’t sit right, that sparked the flicker of curiosity. Maybe it was the sentimentality he’d been battling since Rex’s reappearance, or the uneasy edge that always came with being in space.

Whatever the reason, he made a choice. He sent his men off for an early retreat, claiming he’d stand guard himself. He told himself it was for tactical reasons, but it wasn’t. It was personal.

Just like opening the cell door.

The door slid open with a low hiss, revealing a dimly lit chamber. Wolffe expected to see a hardened criminal, someone rough around the edges, beaten down by years of wrongdoing. Instead, his breath caught in his throat.

Seated on the floor, her back pressed against the cold wall, was a woman—young, though her posture bore the weight of someone who had seen more than her years should allow. She didn’t flinch or rise as the door opened, her bright green eyes snapping to him with an intensity that felt like a challenge. Even in the faint light, they glowed, piercing through him like a blade.

“Commander Wolffe,” she said, her voice quiet but steady, the hint of an edge betraying both recognition and caution.

He froze. His hand hovered near his blaster, not out of fear but reflex. “How do you know my name?” he asked, his tone sharp, though his heart hammered in his chest.

A faint, bitter smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You don’t remember me, do you?” She shifted slightly, the movement revealing the scar that ran across her pale face, a jagged line that seemed out of place on her otherwise delicate features. “Not surprising. It was a lifetime ago.”

Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing. Her appearance tugged at a distant memory—a mission gone wrong, the deafening silence of space, and a bright flash of light. Falling out of the escape pod into waiting arms. Bright Green eyes. The scar.  His breath hitched as it clicked into place.

“The rescue,” he murmured. “Abregado.”

She inclined her head, her expression softened ever so slightly. “I was,” she said simply. “And now, here we are. Funny how the force works, isn’t it?”

His grip on the blaster faltered. This wasn’t a hardened criminal. This was a Jedi—a Sentinel, at that. She had pulled him from the pod, her face masked with the exception of her eyes. But he didn’t forget the voice, nor could he forget her scar.

He also didn’t forget the way she’d accompanied him to Aleen, attempting to calm his frustrations at the locals after the earthquake. He was built for combat, not a mercy mission. But she’d been there, calming that raging storm in him with her soft spoken words and delicate place of a hand on his skin. General Halle. Perdita. 

As he studied her features for the first time, he realized the shroud she had always worn concealed far more than he had anticipated. She had once explained to him that part of her trials as a padawan had been overcoming her vanity. After that moment, she had either been encouraged—or perhaps felt the need—to keep herself covered. The distinction between the two was significant, though he now found himself unable to recall which version of the truth it had been. The Jedi’s appearance had never been something he had been allowed to fully see, and so witnessing her efforts to hold her shoulders and chin high under his gaze felt wrong. Not that he hadn't been curious—he had. But seeing more than just those bright eyes and that scar across her face felt intrusive, as though he were crossing an unseen boundary.

Seeing her now, with her ghostly pale skin, so light that it was as if it had never touched sunlight. Her hair, equally fair, was a tangled mess of long braids and matted strands, though the right side was sheared close to her scalp, hinting at the harshness of the life she had experienced. Bruises etched into her neck, a testament to her resilience, showing that she hadn’t been easily subdued.

She was far more delicate than he’d imagined for someone of her position. She didn’t match the mental image he had formed of the woman who had once saved his life with her luminous eyes and sharp voice. Yet, in her very features, there was a contradiction that unsettled him. Her soft, pale skin was marred by a jagged scar that seemed to tell a story of its own. Her long hair clashed with the shock of short strands that spoke of some past confrontation. Her gentle eyes, framed by dark kohl. Her delicate lips—so soft and inviting—contradicted the clipped, controlled tone of her voice.

There was a complexity to her, an unsettling blend of contradictions, and it was that stark difference between appearance and reality that made her all the more enigmatic.

Not to mention, she truly was much more beautiful than he could’ve imagined. Even after their brief conversation together. He’d wondered, but to see it in front of him now, he found words difficult on his tongue. 

She wasn’t like most Jedi. Distant. Quiet. She wasn’t one to preach or stand at the frontlines of politics. Instead, she focused on the people of the Republic, working directly with them in ways that often went unnoticed, or at the Council’s rare request. But she was no stranger to rebellion either. He remembered how she’d stormed away when General Skywalker's padawan had been placed on trial—angry, in a way that Wolffe found unexpected. He had always been told Jedi were supposed to rise above emotions, especially anger. Yet here she was, as human as anyone else.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the weight of his own disillusionment pressing down on him. “Why would the Empire want you dead?”

Her smile disappeared, replaced by a shadowed expression. “Because I am breathing,” she said, her tone defensive. “And because that’s enough to be a threat to the Empire,”

Wolffe’s stomach churned. He wanted to call her a liar, to draw his blaster and end the conversation, but something about her words rooted him in place. She didn’t move, didn’t press further, as if sensing the storm inside him.

However, her eyes flashed with realization, and Wolffe felt the rare tug in his mind. He wasn’t immune to it. The Jedi, though usually respectful of a clone’s privacy, occasionally breached that unspoken boundary—usually in moments of intense concern. His thoughts became muddled, a fog settling over his mind, and in that instant, he knew. She had used the Force to reach into his mind.

“They sent you to hunt a child,” she said, her voice softening, almost mournful. “And now they’ve sent you to deliver me for my execution. How much longer are you going to follow orders, Commander?”

The words struck him harder than he expected, the weight of her gaze pinning him where he stood. For a moment, he didn’t feel like the soldier standing guard. He felt like the man adrift in the pod, lost in the silence of space, waiting for someone to find him.

He exhaled sharply, the silence broken by the harshness of his words. “What do you expect me to do? Not following orders makes you a traitor,” he spat.

She stared at him for a moment, uncertainty flickering in her gaze. “You’ve already disobeyed more than one order, haven’t you?” Her tone shifted, probing deeper. “Tell me, Wolffe—or do you prefer your number now? Should I respect the identity the Empire has forced upon you? After all, you seem so eager to follow their commands, to remain obedient, even if it means abandoning everything else.”

Wolffe’s jaw clenched as her words hit home, each syllable sharp, cutting through the layers of his resolve. He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching at his side, but he refused to let her see the crack in his metaphorical armor.

"I follow orders," he said, his voice tight. "It's what I was made for. It's what we all were made for. You think I like this? You think I want to be this?" He gestured vaguely toward his armor, the cold, sterile shell that defined him as much as his number did. "The Empire... they gave us purpose. A place in this galaxy. A role. And what do you want me to do, General Halle? Turn my back on that? After everything?"

She took a slow step forward, her eyes unwavering, assessing him like she always had. He could feel the pull of the Force, a subtle pressure against his mind. She wasn’t pushing, but her presence lingered, and it was almost like she could see through him.

“I’m not asking you to abandon your past, Wolffe,” she said, her voice softer now, though the challenge remained. “I’m asking you to remember it. To remember who you were before the Empire twisted everything. You have never been just a number.”

Her words settled into the space between them, heavy with meaning, and Wolffe felt something shift deep inside him—a faint stirring he didn’t want to acknowledge. He had spent so long burying that part of himself, the part that still remembered loyalty to something more than orders. But now, in her presence, in the weight of her gaze, it felt like the walls he had built up around himself were starting to crack.

"You think I can just walk away?" he muttered, almost to himself. "That it’s that simple? The wars, the lies..." He paused, the words thick in his throat. "I don’t even know who I am anymore."

Perdita’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes. She took another step toward him, this time with less certainty. She didn’t reach out, but the gesture was enough.

“You can always start again, find a new purpose, and maybe along the way find who you once were. I know you Wolffe. You are a good man. You always have been,” she commented quietly.

Wolffe didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the transport ship’s engines. The weight of his own thoughts pressed on him like an anchor, dragging him deeper into the abyss of uncertainty. He didn’t know what the right choice was. But standing here, facing the Jedi, he felt something stir in him that hadn’t been there for a long time.

The man he had been—the man before the Empire—was still there. Somewhere.

But could he still find his way back? Or was he already too far gone?

The question lingered, unanswered, and it gnawed at him from the inside out. The conflict within him was too great, an overwhelming surge of doubt and guilt. He was lost between what he felt and what he knew. He knew the Jedi were kind, compassionate—humane in a way the Empire could never be. But there was another part of him, the part shaped by years of conditioning, of following orders without question. The part that told him Jedi were the enemy, that they had betrayed him, betrayed all of them.

Even if she was correct, he didn’t feel he deserved a second chance.

"Stop," he snapped, his voice low and harsh, barely containing the fury building within him. "You're twisting my mind. That's why all you Jedi were executed." He spat the words, stepping back as if to escape the heavy weight of his own thoughts.

But Perdita’s gaze didn’t falter. Her eyes flashed with frustration—and something else. It was the same intensity that had pulled him from the wreckage of the Abregado system all those years ago. The depth her eyes had shown when he’d looked into them deeply under the glow of the setting sun on Aleen. The same ferocity that made her a Jedi in a way he could never fully understand.

“Did you pull the trigger yourself, Wolffe?” she demanded, her voice sharp and cutting through the haze in his mind.

His eyes widened. “What—?”

“Master Plo.” She took a step closer, her bound hands held out in front of her, as if she were trying to approach him without triggering some kind of defense mechanism. “Did you take the shot yourself?”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His mind flashed back to that day, to the moment when it all went wrong. The blast rang out, and Plo Koon had fallen, silent and still.

“I didn’t—” Wolffe started, his voice shaking. “I didn’t want to…”

But she was relentless, her voice a hiss, her anger barely contained. “Did you pull the trigger yourself, or did you let one of your men do it for you? Did you stand by while they carried out the order?”

Wolffe’s heart pounded in his chest. She was right. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, not directly. He hadn’t been the one to execute the order. But he had been there. He had stood by calling the order while his brothers did the work. His hands had been tied by duty, by obedience and the relentless weight of his training. 

Her words cut deeper than he expected, and for the first time in years, he felt a crack in the armor he had spent so long building. The Jedi saw through him in a way no one else had in a long time.

“No,” Wolffe said, his voice heavy with bitterness. “Boost did it. Shot down the starfighter,” he explained with a dramatic sigh, as though the memory still weighed on him like a stone in his chest.

Perdita’s gaze never left him, unyielding. “Why?” she pressed, her voice soft but insistent, searching for the truth behind his words.

Wolffe hesitated, his eyes darkening with the weight of the past. “Because I couldn’t. Because I was weak…” His voice trailed off, thick with shame. He had always prided himself on being strong, unwavering. But in that moment, when the world seemed to fall apart around him, he had faltered.

“To lay down arms is not weakness,” she replied, her tone calm but firm, as though she had spoken those words to herself a thousand times.

He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Says the woman marked for execution,” he muttered, a sharp edge in his voice. His gaze flickered toward her, searching for the woman who had once saved him, who had risked everything to pull him from the wreckage when all seemed lost. The memory stung.

“You saved my life once,” he reminded her, his voice quieter now, tinged with a mix of gratitude and regret.

“I did,” Perdita agreed, her eyes softening, but her expression remained steady. “And now, may I ask one favor of you? A simple one, so that we can finally be even?”

Wolffe raised an eyebrow, the weight of her words sinking in slowly. There was something in the way she said it, something that made him pause. 

“Kill me,” she whispered solemnly, her words cutting through the silence like a blade.

Wolffe froze, his breath hitching in his chest. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t even process what she had just said. Kill me? The weight of those words landed on him with a staggering force, and for the first time since they’d started this uneasy exchange, his mind went utterly blank.

“W-What?” he stammered, confusion and disbelief mixing with a knot of panic that twisted deep inside him.

Perdita’s gaze never wavered, though there was a deep sadness in her eyes, a quiet resignation that tugged at something buried within him. She didn’t look like someone who feared death. In fact, she looked like someone who had made peace with it long ago.

“Kill me, Wolffe,” she repeated, her voice soft, but heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken things. “Where you are taking me is a fate worse than death,”

The words hit Wolffe like a punch to the gut. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he absorbed the depth of what she was saying. She was asking him to end her life, to release her from the nightmare that had followed her since the purge, since the fall of the Jedi. He could hear the quiet despair in her voice, the resignation that she had already accepted that no other option was left.

"Stop," he snapped, stepping forward with a sharpness he hadn't meant. His hand clenched into a fist at his side. "Don't say that."

Perdita’s eyes flickered to his, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability breaking through her hard exterior. "It's the truth," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve lived through so much betrayal, Wolffe. I’ve seen what the Empire does to those it deems 'enemy’, it’s not a pretty sight I assure you"

Wolffe’s breath caught in his throat as he processed her words. He had heard whispers of the horrors of the Empire, the ruthless efficiency of its cruelty, but hearing it from her—someone who had once been who had fought beside the clones and now found herself hunted—made the reality of it all feel sharper.

“It’s not fair for you to ask that of me,” he demanded, his voice tightening with frustration. The very thought of it made him nauseous. To kill an unarmed woman—especially a prisoner—was not only unjust, it would be a betrayal of everything he had ever stood for. It could lead him to a court-martial, or worse.

“Why not,” she demanded.

Her words struck him harder than he expected. The Empire had already claimed so much from him—his autonomy, his sense of purpose, his very soul at times. But now, the reality of what she was saying pressed against him like a vise. Was he just another pawn? Would he become expendable too, the moment they had no more use for him?

“I’m not one of them,” he said, his voice a mixture of defiance and doubt. He wasn’t, was he?

But Perdita only stared at him, her expression unreadable. “You’re more like them than you think,” she whispered. “You’ve followed their orders. You’ve done their bidding. And now… now you want to pretend you don’t have a choice in what happens to me. Pretend I got free, tried to kill your men. I’m a threat am I not? Is that not what they told you? Please Wolffe. I do not wish to suffer needlessly. However if your resignation truly is with the Empire then I suppose you truly do not have a choice.”

Wolffe took a step back, his breath quickening. She was right in one sense—he had followed orders, too many times without question. But was that enough to define him? Was that all he was now? A soldier for an Empire that cared nothing for his humanity? Or worse, the humanity of others.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I still have a choice.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wavering just slightly. “Then make it.”

He stared at her for a long moment, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. Should he kill her? Should he let her go? Should he risk everything? How much more guilt would he carry in delivering her to whatever fate she had foreseen? She was asking him to do something impossible, something that could destroy him just as easily as it would destroy her.

But the longer he looked at her, the clearer it became. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It wasn’t just about doing what was expected or what was easy. This was about redemption—for her, for him, for them both.

“I won’t kill you,” he said, the words steady but heavy. His eyes darted around. The cybernetic one struggling to see in the dimly lit cell as he searched for the control panel on the wall. 

Perdita didn’t respond, assuming he was ready to leave and her last attempt at peace, foiled by a clone who truly owed her little loyalty. As she prepared for his departure she felt the chains around her hands unlock, before falling away. Flexing her fingers she looked up to see him much closer now as he tugged her forearm.

“But I won’t let them take you, either.” His voice was low, almost aggressive in nature, as if he was revolting against the very action he was taking.

Perdita didn’t smile. She didn’t thank him. She just nodded, the flicker of something like hope passing through her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give him the courage to take the next step—whatever that might be.

“Why?” she asked, her voice calm, though it carried the weight of disbelief. She paused for a moment, taking a breath to collect herself in the wake of his unexpected actions.

Wolffe met her gaze briefly, then dropped his eyes to the floor, his attention lingering on the mud caked on the tops of his boots. After a moment, he lifted his gaze to hers again, his eyes scanning hers as if unsure whether to reveal the truth. Yet, in this moment—after throwing caution to the wind—it seemed honesty was the only option.

The problem? He wasn’t entirely certain himself. Of course, he had theories. Wolffe had been searching for a way out of the Empire ever since that night he crossed paths with Rex. Having a Jedi by his side would significantly increase his chances of desertion. So, part of his reasoning, at least, was rooted in a tactical advantage.

But then, as his gaze fell on her face, resting on the scar that marked her eye, something else surfaced. He remembered how much he owed her—how she had been the one to help locate their damaged pod. Without her, he would have been lost to the cold expanse of space. A debt like that, a life saved, demanded more than mere gratitude—it demanded something deeper.

“You saved my life once, General,” he said, though internally he wanted to slam his head into the durasteel wall. He knew that she had done so more than once—countless times, in fact, for him and his brothers. “Consider us even,” he added, his words laced with a mixture of gratitude and frustration.

After a brief pause, he heard the soft sound of her approach. Her arm brushed against his unintentionally as she spoke, her voice steady but curious. “What’s your plan?”

Wolffe felt the faintest stir at the brush of her arm, but he quickly focused on her words. He turned slightly, his gaze meeting hers, but there was a momentary hesitation in his expression. The question hung in the air, heavy with more than just the immediate answer.

He knew she wasn’t just asking about the details or the strategy—she was asking what came next, what he planned to do with everything that had led them to this moment. He could feel the weight of her question, the uncertainty that hung heavily in the air between them.

For a moment, he stayed silent, his mind racing through countless possibilities, each one more uncertain than the last. Finally, he spoke, his voice steady but tinged with the weight of the decision. "It’s a long shot, but I think it might work. You’ll have to trust me on this." He met her gaze, a quiet resolve in his eyes. "As for everything else, we’ll improvise—if we make it out of here."

"Alright. After you, Commander—"

"Wolffe," he interjected, his voice flat, almost terse. The weight of the moment pressed down on him—the knowledge that he was about to turn his back on everything he had ever known, to abandon the man he had been for so long. It felt like an impossible choice, and yet it was the only one left. In the face of such a drastic break, being addressed by his rank felt distant, cold, and impersonal. It was as though the uniform, the title, had become a mask for something that no longer fit him.

She paused for a moment, as if sensing the shift in the air between them. Her gaze met his, a flicker of understanding in her eyes before she nodded slightly, her voice equally dry, yet carrying a certain weight of its own. "Lead the way, Wolffe."

Her words, though simple, held a quiet acknowledgment—an acceptance of the change that had already begun. Neither of them needed to say more. The decision had been made, and whatever path lay ahead, it would be walked side by side.

To be continued...

(Also if you made it this far thank you so much! Below is the unedited image of Perdita courtesy of my lovely friend… you can find her bio HERE, on her page! Additionally, I may start a tag list soon so if anyone's interested just drop a comment or shoot me a DM <3!)

You were not only an experience, but you were everything. Thank you for this amazing story, it means the galaxy to us! The Bad Batch journey will continue to live on, and they'll never be without an adventure. ❤️🪐

"Goggle-Eyed" || Tech x OC Marina

Author's Note: Hi friends! Coming in with the next portions of Tech and Marina's story! A tiny bit of time has past since they met with this piece. I am really enjoying their dynamic! As always this is part of @leenathegreengirl's Pabu AU, and she is responsible for the absolutely STUNNING art of them that is featured both in the cover and at the end with the full image! Seriously she did AMAZING because LOOK at how handsome he looks! That being said, I have a Tag list for the Wolffe/Perdita saga... I suppose it's only fair to open that up to Rex/Mae as well as this new... pair of friends... ~ M

Pairing: Tech & OC Marina

Word Count: 9.4k +

Rating: SFW

Warnings: Mentions of divorce; Mentions of character death; tooth rotting fluff

Summary: Tech and Marina continue to spend more time together, with their connection deepening in ways neither fully understands. As they reflect on their growing friendship, Marina begins to notice her feelings shifting, though she remains uncertain about what exactly she’s experiencing. She rationalizes her appreciation of his presence, trying to make sense of the quiet pull she feels, but doesn’t quite voice what’s on her mind. Meanwhile, Tech wrestles with his insecurities, particularly about his appearance. Will a small change be enough to force them to confront the growing tension?

Masterlist | Tech's Encrypted Files | Previous | Next (coming soon!)

Astonished. Flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. Confounded. Nonplussed. Taken aback. Stunned. Stupefied. Benumbed. 

Goggle-eyed.

Marina found herself struggling to make sense of the overwhelming surge of emotions she’d experienced that evening. What had started as a simple, straightforward task—repairing a crucial piece of equipment—had quickly spiraled into something she hadn’t anticipated. She had left with a mind full of swirling realizations, not just about her past, but also… something else. Delight?

She couldn’t be sure. Emotions, to Marina, were often erratic and transient, slipping through her fingers like water. They weren’t something she cared to dwell on. It was the facts, after all, that mattered most. And the facts were undeniable: the man who had moved into her old home, taking on the role once held by her deceased husband, was a disruption. His presence was unsettling, tearing at the fabric of the life she’d carefully constructed in his absence.

And yet… there was something about it, something she couldn’t quite put into words. He wasn’t the source of the discomfort she expected. In fact, he was becoming something far more complex in her mind. Tech, once nothing more than a mere discipline defined by wires, parts, and tools, had evolved into something far more profound. It had become tanned skin and sly smiles, accompanied by an ever-more penetrating gaze that she pretended not to notice from the corner of her eye. It was the calming baritone of his voice as he explained his work. Tech was no longer just a craft; it was a man—one who now filled her thoughts with a growing list of words, a catalog of impressions that expanded with each passing day, adding new, more positive descriptors to her mental inventory. Every interaction, every moment spent in his company, seemed to shift her perspective, pulling her deeper into uncharted territory. She wasn’t sure how to process it, but the list continued to grow.

She wasn’t one for ambiguity. Marina liked things clear, straightforward, and logical. But for the first time in as long as she could remember, clarity seemed elusive.

The clone had, perhaps unwittingly, shown her something she hadn’t expected. In his honest simplicity, he demonstrated not only a quiet respect for her former life but also a recognition of the love she had lost. He admired Keiron’s work, and more importantly, he kept the memory of her husband alive in ways that others never had. When she asked, he shared details about their shared craft, holding Keiron’s contributions in high regard, never diminishing their significance. It was a gesture that, while small, felt monumental. The rare few who had known Keiron never seemed able—or willing—to honor his memory in such a way. It was often clouded by pity, as though his legacy was something to be mourned rather than celebrated.

Tech, on the other hand, was a blank slate. He didn’t carry the baggage of shared grief or whispered condolences, and his only connection to Keiron had been through their mutual love of building things. It wasn’t weighed down by history, yet it still felt significant. He had no reason to keep that connection, and yet he did, treating her husband’s work with the same respect and enthusiasm he had for his own.

For a time, the idea of returning to a life of normalcy had seemed impossible, even after so many years on her own. The weight of grief had never fully lifted, and the pity in the eyes of others had only added to her sense of isolation. But Tech—this unexpected presence—had slowly begun to change that. With him, she could let go of the heavy mantle of widowhood, if only for a moment. It wasn’t that she had forgotten Keiron or erased his importance from her life. But for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t “Marina, the widow of our beloved Keiron.” She was simply Marina again—a woman with her own space to breathe, to exist without the weight of others’ sorrow pulling her down. The chance to return to herself, free from the constant reminder of her loss, felt like a rare gift—one she didn’t know she needed until it was there, right in front of her.

But there was something deeper than mere respect—something more unexpected. Marina had found, to her surprise, that Tech's presence was actually comforting. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a quiet alignment that resonated in a way she hadn’t encountered before. Tech was, in many ways, a mirror of herself—blunt, unapologetically straightforward, and entirely unafraid to speak his mind. Traits she had often been shamed for, but in him, they felt different.

He was intelligent, his mind sharp and precise, and the way he articulated his thoughts often mirrored her own. His tone—the same one she’d been accused of using, the one others had called condescending—didn’t carry the same negative weight when it came from him. Marina couldn’t help but recognize the eerie similarity, the way his words seemed to echo her own mannerisms, yet there was a subtle difference. Where others had seen her intellectual tone as an attack, as an unwanted display of authority, they never seemed to perceive it that way with Tech. His words were never laden with judgment or condemnation; they were simply the expressions of someone who understood the weight of knowledge.

In a strange way, Tech seemed to be the first person who truly understood her—someone who didn’t distort her intentions through the lens of preconceived biases. When she spoke with him, it wasn’t about putting others down or assuming superiority. It was about sharing knowledge and exchanging ideas. But for some reason, that same approach, when applied by her, had often been misread by others as arrogant or dismissive. Yet with Tech, her words felt accepted, as though he saw them for what they truly were—a genuine attempt to communicate, not to dominate.

The more she spent time with him, the more Marina realized that this wasn’t just about being understood. It was about being seen, truly seen for who she was—without judgment, without the weight of other people’s assumptions. In a way she hadn’t expected, Tech had become a safe space, a place where she could simply exist without needing to defend herself or constantly explain her intentions. It was a kind of relief she hadn’t known she was missing.

A recent revelation struck her with a quiet force: Tech possessed a simple, unassuming kindness that she hadn’t fully appreciated until now. It wasn’t loud or grand, not the kind of charity that demanded recognition, but it was genuine nonetheless. He asked about her work, about the things that others so often dismissed or scoffed at, showing a sincere interest that surprised her. Where most people, even those who were close to her, had no real curiosity or care for her craft, Tech seemed to value it, not out of obligation, but because he truly wanted to know.

And then there was his way of caring for his siblings. The ease with which he maintained things for them, often without a second thought for his own needs, was a constant reminder of the quiet depth of his generosity. He never made a show of it, never boasted about the ways he helped, and yet it was clear that, in his world, their well-being always came first. Take Crosshair, for example. The mechanical reel, essential as it was, was clearly more important to Tech than his own need for food or rest. Marina couldn’t help but admire that quiet sacrifice, the way his actions always seemed to put others before himself, even when no one was watching.

Tech’s kindness wasn’t extravagant. It didn’t demand attention or praise. It came in the form of little things—small acts of care, of thoughtfulness, that didn’t announce themselves but instead simply were. It was the sort of kindness that never seemed to wane, but rather ebbed and flowed like the tide—gentle, persistent, and always present.

In a world where so many people made kindness conditional or used it as a tool for gain, Tech’s quiet sincerity stood in stark contrast. He didn’t need to be noticed for it, and didn't require any kind of acknowledgment. It was just who he was. And for Marina, that was something rare—something that, over time, she found herself appreciating more than she could put into words.

Marina made a conscious effort not to dwell on Keiron. After all, it had been years since his passing, and the ache of loss, while never truly gone, had softened over time. She had learned to move forward, to carve out a life that was her own, one that didn’t constantly call upon the memory of the past. It wasn’t that she had forgotten him; how could she? Keiron had been her world, and that part of her would never fade. But she’d done what she could to keep the memories from overtaking her present, from weaving themselves into every quiet moment, every new day.

But Tech, in his own subtle way, was beginning to infiltrate the routine she had built. At first, it was a simple presence—his quiet way of asking about her work, his casual remarks about his siblings and their needs, the small acts of thoughtfulness that added a quiet rhythm to her days. Yet, with each passing interaction, she couldn’t help but notice how his movements, his habits, seemed to echo the ones Keiron had once had. The way Tech lingered in the workshop, inspecting tools and gadgets with the same meticulous care, reminded her of the evenings when Keiron would do the same, lost in the hum of his work, with nothing but his craft to accompany him.

It was subtle at first—a flicker of familiarity that she quickly pushed aside, telling herself it was just a coincidence. After all, Tech was his own person. But then there were moments when she’d see him pause in the same way Keiron had, when he’d focus intently on some small mechanical detail, his brow furrowing in concentration, and for a fleeting instant, she could almost see her husband in him. It wasn’t that he looked like Keiron or mimicked him outright; no, Tech was very much his own individual. But the way he became absorbed in his work, the focus he put into solving problems, the way he treated others with that same unassuming kindness—it all felt like an odd, comforting reflection of what had once been.

Marina tried not to let it bother her, tried not to allow the comparison to take root. It was unfair to Tech, she knew that. He was not Keiron, and he would never be. And yet, there were moments when the lines between the two blurred—when the way Tech moved through her world with such ease, felt eerily familiar. In those moments, it was hard not to think of Keiron, not to remember the long nights spent side by side in the workshop, their conversations flowing as easily as the work they did.

But then she would pull herself back, reminding herself that Tech, despite the similarities, was different in ways that were undeniable. He was blunt, for one, where Keiron had always been more tactful. His sense of humor, dry and sometimes absent altogether, stood in stark contrast to the way Keiron had always laughed, the kind of laughter that had filled their home with warmth. There was a quiet strength in Tech that was different—more like a steady current, unwavering and calm, where Keiron’s had been a fire, always burning brightly, fiercely, and at times, unpredictably.

But in his own quiet way, Tech carried with him a form of baggage not so dissimilar from her own. His recent divorce, the painful rift caused by his decision to initiate the split, was a burden he bore silently, but it was one that mirrored her own experience in unexpected ways. Just as her widowhood had left her isolated, adrift in a world that sometimes felt too full of memories and too empty of connection, Tech found himself similarly alienated—an unwilling outcast in the wake of his decision.

Marina never asked about his past. It wasn’t her place to pry into the details of his life, just as he had never questioned her about Keiron. Their relationship was defined by a quiet understanding of boundaries—unsaid but deeply respected. She understood the delicate nature of loss and didn’t wish to push him into a space where he might feel exposed, just as she had once been when her grief was raw and fresh.

And yet, despite the unspoken agreement to avoid personal histories, there was something about the stillness of their shared time together that had a way of unraveling the walls they both built around themselves. In the moments when they worked side by side, when the quiet hum of their respective tasks filled the air, truth began to slip into their conversations—not in bold declarations, but in small, almost imperceptible ways. The weight of his past, his marriage, the pain of his decision, started to emerge in his words, in the pauses between sentences, in the way he sometimes stared off into the distance as though processing something just beneath the surface.

Tech didn’t speak of it directly at first, but in the gentle cadence of their conversations, in the soft exchanges that had nothing to do with the tasks at hand, it began to seep out. His words, casual as they were, began to reveal glimpses of his heartache. His explanations, more fragments than stories, hinted at the cracks in his marriage, the moments of miscommunication and misunderstanding that had led to its inevitable collapse. Marina didn’t ask for details. She didn’t need to. The hurt in his voice, the careful way he chose his words, was enough to convey what he couldn’t bring himself to say outright.

It wasn’t a dramatic revelation. It wasn’t an emotional outpouring. It was something quieter—something that formed slowly, like a river carving its way through stone. And in that same way, Marina realized that she, too, was revealing her own truths to him, without even meaning to. The stillness between them—the comfortable silence of two people working side by side—had become a space where vulnerability wasn’t forced, but simply allowed to exist.

A mutual understanding began to take root between them, born of the quiet respect they both held for their former partners. It was something unspoken but deeply understood. Tech did not harbor any resentment toward Leena, despite the painful way their relationship had ended. Even in the raw aftermath of their split, he still cared for her. The hurt was fresh, yes, but his words spoke of her with a tenderness that surprised Marina. He shared stories of their good times, those small, treasured memories that seemed to hold a quiet beauty—stories of a love that, though now distant, had once been full of life. The way he spoke of Leena reminded Marina of how one might describe an old friend with whom they’d simply grown apart, rather than someone with whom they’d endured the unraveling of a relationship. It was a love, locked in another time, but still genuine. And it was a love that, in its own way, helped Marina see that not all relationships, even those that end, are tainted by bitterness.

Similarly, Marina began to notice something else about Tech—how he seemed to pull out memories of Keiron that she had long buried. When she’d thought of her late husband in the years following his death, it was usually through a haze of grief and anger, a bitter ache over the empty space his departure had left in her life. She had always associated those memories with sorrow, and each reflection felt like another wound reopened. But when she shared those memories with Tech, they didn’t feel like that. Instead, they felt warm. They felt like a blessing, like a small light in the darkness, reminding her of the richness of her past without the sting of loss. There was no sorrow in those moments as she spoke of Keiron with him. Only a deep sense of gratitude, a quiet recognition that the love she’d once known had been profound, and that in itself, was something precious.

In a way, it was Tech who helped her see it. His presence, his quiet understanding, and his ability to listen without judgment, without expectation, created an environment where she could finally allow herself to reflect on Keiron without the flood of grief she had once feared. It was as if Tech had shown her that she wasn’t trapped in her sorrow anymore. She had moved through it, she had healed. And now, she could look back on that love with a sense of peace, rather than the sharp ache that once dominated her thoughts.

He had, unknowingly, helped her rediscover the depth of her own gratitude for having loved so deeply. And in that respect, it felt as though Tech had become more than just a companion in the present—he had helped her reclaim a piece of her past, transforming it from something painful into something she could cherish once more. And, in turn, how lucky she was to have someone like Tech, who could bring her back to those memories with such kindness and respect. It was a gift she hadn’t realized she needed until it was given.

In the relatively short time Marina had known Tech, his friendship had grown into something she deeply valued. What had started as a simple request to repair her boat’s engine quickly morphed into something far more significant. That first night had been spent not only fixing machinery but also learning from one another, sharing conversation, and filling a quiet space that both of them had been missing. Their time together was easy and unforced, a kind of companionship that made her realize how much she had been longing for this connection, even if she hadn’t known it.

Tech’s offer to help install the engine himself was a turning point, leading to more shared moments and an even deeper sense of connection. What had started as a technical task turned into an intimate tour of the boat, a look at her life, her home, her world. The boat was not just her mode of transport; it was where she lived, where she worked, and where she had spent years learning to be self-sufficient. Allowing someone else into that space was no small thing, but with Tech, there was an unexpected ease to it, as though his presence was just another part of the boat, fitting seamlessly into the corners where her daily life had unfolded.

Before long, Tech’s small acts of assistance became regular. He began making subtle modifications to the boat—small tweaks that helped her maintain her home and work environment more efficiently. It was clear to Marina that these weren’t obligations to him. He wasn’t doing it because it was expected or because she had asked; he was doing it because it was something he genuinely enjoyed. He told her it challenged him in ways that were satisfying, and she could see that. His mind worked through problems in a way that not only resolved issues but improved her daily life. His help became a reminder that he was invested in more than just fixing things; he was invested in her, in the life she had built.

But it didn’t stop at repairs. As the days turned into weeks, Tech’s interest in her work began to grow. Initially, it was just curiosity, but soon it became something more. He began gathering her reports, asking her to explain details, even reading them for fun. Marina was surprised, but there was something disarming about the way he engaged with her knowledge. He never made her feel like she was being overly academic or condescending, as she often feared. Instead, his questions were genuine, his desire to understand her work a quiet reflection of how much he respected what she did. Their evenings became filled with casual discussions about her research, each conversation a small exploration that allowed Marina to rediscover her own passion for her field.

Tech’s presence was never overwhelming. He didn’t force himself into her routine; rather, he became a comfortable part of it. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she found herself expecting to hear from him, to see him at least once during the day. There was something about his company that had become essential, a natural part of the flow of her life. She didn’t need to make space for him; he had simply slipped into the gaps that had once felt empty. His presence didn’t disrupt her, it complemented her. It was as though they had both found a quiet understanding, a rhythm that had been missing for so long.

With their growing connection came an unexpected candor, one that revealed fears, doubts, and the self-conscious shames she usually kept hidden from everyone else. In many ways, speaking with Tech felt like speaking to herself. But he had a kindness and gentleness toward her that she was often unable to show herself. When she opened up about her fear that everyone she grew close to inevitably met a tragic end, Tech tried to calm her, offering perspective. He explained that while she had undoubtedly been a victim of a string of unfortunate events, it was illogical to label herself as 'cursed,' as she often did. His words were soothing, a quiet reassurance that allowed her to momentarily let go of the weight of that belief.

In turn, she found herself trying to reassure him as well. She listened with genuine care to his deeper worries, those heavy concerns about his life and the choices he had made, but also to his more trivial musings. Whether it was a fleeting thought or a lingering fear, Marina offered him the same patience and understanding that he had given her. In these exchanges, a balance began to form between them—a silent promise that they could share their vulnerabilities without judgment. Each conversation, no matter how small, brought them closer, and in that closeness, they both began to find a space where their worries could be shared, acknowledged, and softened by the other’s presence.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

“I fail to understand how someone as methodical as you maintains such a non-functional hairstyle,” Marina observed, wringing saltwater from her hair as they emerged from the dive. The afternoon had been spent gathering specimens for her ongoing research, and Tech’s growing interest in her work had prompted his participation. Despite not being a natural diver, his analytical approach had proven advantageous.

Tech became aware of Marina’s gaze from the periphery of his vision. Her face remained mostly neutral, with the smallest hint of a smirk. It was the sort of expression that forced him to evaluate every aspect of his appearance—particularly his hair, or rather, the lack of it.

He’d first noticed the thinning during his cadet days. It wasn’t extreme, but it was there nonetheless. He suspected it was linked to his genetic modifications—Jango’s genome often predisposed men to hair loss, and he was no exception. The reality, however, was more uncomfortable: many women found it undesirable.

Tech raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "It’s an effective solution," he stated, his tone flat, but tinged with a subtle defensiveness. "It keeps most of my hair out of my field of vision."

Marina gave a quiet exhale, analyzing his mohawk with cold precision. The sides had regrown enough to form a near-blend with the longer middle section, and her gaze lingered. "Effective? I wouldn’t categorize that as such," she said, her voice devoid of humor but carrying a hint of clinical detachment. "It certainly attracts attention. Practicality, however, remains debatable."

Tech registered the warmth behind Marina’s words, but there was an analytical quality in her tone that made it difficult to simply dismiss her observation. He adjusted his position, momentarily avoiding her gaze as he unstrapped his gear. The discomfort had become evident—his skin was flushed from the sun, and the absence of sunscreen was now a tangible reminder of his oversight.

"Well," he began after a pause, his voice lowering just slightly, "it wasn’t always my decision." He drummed his fingers against his leg, each tap methodical, an attempt to redirect his focus. "Leena insisted I maintain it after we removed the inhibitor chips. She said it concealed my receding hairline." There was a rare nuance of vulnerability in his tone, a crack in the otherwise rigid exterior. Her comments had started as casual compliments but eventually revealed the true intent: she preferred the hairstyle as a way to mask his imperfections.

Marina’s gaze shifted slightly, her expression wavering as she processed his words. She hadn’t expected this level of introspection from him—the unease, the vulnerability beneath the surface. It wasn’t her place to pry, yet the weight of the exchange was undeniable.

Her tone softened, her words still concise but imbued with an empathy that was almost clinical in its precision. "I don’t typically address Leena’s influence, as it doesn’t concern me. But," she paused, choosing her words carefully, "I apologize if her preferences made you feel obligated to hide something that wasn’t inherently a flaw. I cannot fully comprehend the pressure you may have felt, but you need not carry that burden—especially for something as insignificant as hair."

Tech’s gaze flickered away, the discomfort still evident. But Marina wasn’t about to let him linger in that space. She stepped closer, her posture both firm and non-threatening, like a guide offering a new perspective.

“You don’t need to hold on to someone else’s perception of what you should look like,” Marina said, her voice softer than usual but still clear and direct. “You have the autonomy to choose what aligns with your sense of self. You’re practical, intelligent, and distinct in your own right. Your appearance should be an expression of that—not a reflection of someone else’s standards.”

Tech shifted slightly, his discomfort becoming more apparent, as his eyes flicked away. The vulnerability beneath his usual composure surfaced more clearly. “I don’t want to appear…” he paused, as if searching for the right term, “unattractive. I mean, my understanding of attractiveness was shaped by her preferences. And... well, women generally don’t find receding hairlines appealing. It’s a physical indicator of decreased testosterone, which impacts the body’s evolutionary drive for mating,” he explained, his words mechanical, attempting to hold onto his analytical approach even as his insecurities leaked through.

Marina observed him quietly, her expression shifting to one of understanding. She gave a faint, reassuring smile—subtle but genuine. “Tech, you’re not unattractive. You have qualities that go far beyond your appearance. There are attributes people, particularly women, prioritize that are unrelated to biology. And your hairline doesn’t define your value or identity. You shouldn’t let someone else’s preferences shape how you perceive yourself.”

Tech raised an eyebrow, his skepticism still evident. “You think changing it would help?” His tone was guarded, an edge of doubt threading through his voice.

Marina’s response was calm, with no hesitation. “I believe it may prove beneficial in assisting you with moving past someone else’s expectations. You deserve to see yourself the way that aligns with who you are, not the way someone else saw you. You need to feel comfortable and confident with who you are, not hold on to something that possibly never fit you to begin with.”

Tech seemed to consider this, his gaze drifting between Marina and the water as he processed her words. For the first time, the defensiveness in his posture eased just a little, and a flicker of realization crossed his face. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to let go of the weight he’d been carrying without even realizing it.

“I guess… it wouldn’t hurt to try something different,” he murmured, a hint of openness in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

Marina offered him a small but approving nod. “Exactly. And if you don’t like it, you can always change it back. But at least you’ll know it’s your choice, not someone else’s.”

Tech’s gaze softened as he met her eyes, something shifting in his expression—vulnerability mixed with gratitude. “Thanks, Marina,” he said quietly, his voice almost shy, but the sincerity behind it clear.

Marina gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, a simple gesture that felt more comforting than words could express. “Anytime, Tech. And for what it’s worth, I’ve got no issue with a more mature hairline.”

Tech gave a small, relieved smile, the burden of his self-doubt easing just a little. “Good to know.”

The atmosphere between them changed, the unspoken tension that had weighed down on Tech’s shoulders beginning to dissipate as he processed her words. He stood still for a moment, reflecting on the conversation—on her reassurance, the bluntness that still managed to be caring, and the understanding woven between her observations. It was a lot to digest. But something within him shifted. Perhaps it was time to stop trying to conform to an external image, to someone else’s idea of who he should be. Maybe it was time to embrace a version of himself that felt authentic.

As if sensing his internal change, Marina gave him a brief, encouraging glance before turning toward the boat. “Come on, let’s get something to eat,” she said, her voice light and casual. “Diving is very strenuous and we should maintain a period of relaxation before continuing”.

Tech nodded, grateful for the shift in focus to something as simple as food. It was a welcome distraction, but as he fell in step beside Marina, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed between them. The awkwardness from earlier was still there, hovering at the edges, but now there was something else—something deeper. For the first time in a while, he wasn’t drowning in self-doubt. Her words had struck something in him, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

They made their way inside the boat, the quiet, rhythmic sound of the water slapping against the hull creating a steady background to his thoughts. As they moved toward the galley, Tech found his mind drifting back to what Marina had said. “Not unattractive.” She’d said it without hesitation, so bluntly, so matter-of-fact.

The words replayed in his mind. That simple affirmation had hit harder than he expected. It wasn’t some vague attempt to placate him with empty niceties. She hadn’t sugarcoated her assessment—just laid it out, clear and direct. And in her bluntness, there had been something real. Something genuine.

But beyond that, there was the other part—the part he hadn’t anticipated. She’d noticed. She’d acknowledged his appearance, and in doing so, she’d confirmed something he’d long suspected: that, at least in her eyes, he wasn’t unattractive. The realization made something stir inside him, a warm flicker in his chest that he wasn’t sure how to interpret.

Was that… attraction? He’d always valued Marina’s straightforwardness, her no-nonsense approach to things. But now, he found himself wondering if he was reading too much into it. If it was possible that she might see him in a different light than just a colleague, just a friend.

His hand instinctively went to his damp hair again, and this time, the usual discomfort was absent. The urge to hide it remained, but it wasn’t as strong, and for the first time, he could almost picture letting go of that trivial burden.

But then, there was the question of what this might mean for their friendship. Was it moving too fast? Had he misinterpreted the simplicity of her words? Tech felt a strange knot in his stomach, a mix of uncertainty and curiosity, and for the first time, he realized just how much he hadn’t considered about their dynamic.

He didn’t know if Marina was thinking about any of this. But he couldn’t help wondering if, perhaps, things weren’t so straightforward anymore. If there was more to this connection than he’d allowed himself to believe.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

The soft thump of footsteps on the ramp caught Marina’s attention, though she didn’t immediately look up from her microscope. She didn’t need to; the rhythm of the steps, the deliberate pace, and the faint echo of familiarity told her it was Tech. He had made a promise the night before, one that was likely the reason she hadn’t bothered to glance up when the door opened.

“I have returned with the temperature regulator I mentioned—” Tech’s voice filtered into the small lab space, calm and steady, as always. Marina continued to peer through the lens of her microscope, her eyes focused entirely on the cellular structure of the mollusk she had been studying. The intricacies of the tiny organism’s internal architecture held her full attention.

“Thank you, I’ll be able to assist in a moment,” she replied, her voice thoughtful, almost detached as she jotted down her observations on a nearby notepad. "I just need to write down my findings before they slip away."

Tech paused for a brief moment, as if considering whether or not to interrupt. It was a habit she and he both shared—becoming so absorbed in their respective work that they overlooked the small courtesies, the greetings that others might find customary. It wasn’t that they didn’t appreciate those pleasantries; they simply had a way of diving headfirst into what mattered most at the time. It was something Tech had come to find oddly endearing about Marina, the way she was so fully immersed in her work, so consumed by the pursuit of knowledge that nothing else seemed to matter at that moment.

Marina’s pencil moved swiftly, her shorthand almost a second language as she recorded the detailed observations of the mollusk’s cellular layers. She was so deep in thought that she didn’t realize she was subconsciously pulling herself further away from the task of acknowledging Tech, the quiet rustle of his movements almost blending into the background hum of her work. It was only when a slight shift in the air, the soft rustle of a bag being set down, and the subtle weight of his presence drawing nearer to her that she finally realized how much time had passed. She hadn’t heard him approach.

“Did you need help getting everything set up?” she asked, her voice smooth and casual as she finally lifted her gaze from the microscope, her pencil pausing mid-air. Her expression was focused but not unkind, as if her mind was still slightly tethered to her notes.

It was then that she looked up and froze. Tech was standing there, the same steady presence as always—only this time, something had changed. His mohawk was gone.

In its place was a much shorter, tidier cut that framed his face in a way that made him seem... well, different. She hadn’t expected him to act on her suggestion, let alone so quickly. For a brief moment, she was taken aback, unsure of what to say. She’d advised him to prioritize his own preferences over someone else’s vision, but to see him take that advice so suddenly… It was surprising, in the best way.

Marina blinked, a flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she absorbed the sight of him. She hadn’t thought much about how she’d phrased her suggestion, but seeing him here, looking more comfortable in his own skin, it was clear he had done just that—he’d listened. And she hadn’t expected how good it would look on him.

Her surprise lingered for only a moment before she found her voice, though it held a softer edge than usual. “Well, I see you’ve taken my advice.” The words were playful, but there was an underlying warmth in her tone, an unexpected admiration for the change.

Tech, sensing her reaction, offered a small, sheepish smile. “I thought I’d give it a try. It feels different. I do not recall having maintained a style similar since we were cadets, but, I admit you were right. It’s practical, and there appears to have been positive benefits in not disguising something I cannot control any longer.”

Marina studied him for a moment longer, her gaze softening as she took in the change. His hair, now cut into a short, neat style, which reminded her of a crew cut—undeniably better she realized. The style wasn’t just a change in appearance; it was a reflection of something deeper—a willingness to prioritize his own needs over the pressures of someone else’s expectations. Possibly even face his insecurity head on. The result was quite attractive.

For a brief second, Marina froze, unsure how to express what she was thinking. It wasn’t like her to shy away from speaking her mind, but seeing him standing there, looking different—softer somehow—was surprisingly stirring. She hadn’t anticipated how aesthetically pleasing he would look with a change as simple as this.

Her gaze shifted, and she stepped closer to him, almost instinctively. The movement felt natural, unforced. She hadn’t expected to be moved by something as minor as a new haircut, but there was something about this moment, something about Tech’s quiet vulnerability that made her want to respond differently than she usually would.

Without much thought, she reached out—just a touch. She didn’t think about the action, but simply brushed the side of his hair with her fingers. The texture had a certain softness to it that she hadn’t anticipated. His hair, no longer styled in an exaggerated manner, now rested in a way that emphasized his features more naturally.

Tech froze, his body going rigid at the unexpected touch. He wasn’t used to just anyone being so close to him, certainly not in the intimate, casual way that Marina was. The contact was gentle, but it caused an immediate stir in him—an unfamiliar warmth that traveled through his skin, his breath hitching for the briefest of moments. His initial impulse was to pull away, to retreat into the safety of his personal space, but something in Marina’s calm demeanor kept him rooted to the spot.

The sensation of her fingers brushing against his hair was foreign, something he hadn’t experienced in a long time, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it made something in him awaken—something he couldn’t quite place, a feeling that was both pleasant and disorienting. Tech had always kept people at arm’s length, both physically and emotionally, so the fact that he didn’t recoil, didn’t pull away from her, left him slightly confused.

Marina, sensing his unease but unwilling to let him retreat into his shell, spoke with a softness that was rare for her. “You look really good, Tech,” she said, her voice quiet, but carrying an undeniable sincerity. There was no teasing edge, no sharp words—just simple, unadulterated truth. “It’s a good change. You look more comfortable. Dare I say… confident?” She asked with a slight chuckle.

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, Tech felt a strange mix of emotions. The quiet praise, the unexpected touch—it was almost as if she had reached beneath his surface, past the walls he had so carefully constructed. And to his surprise, there was no discomfort. In fact, there was a small sense of... pleasure? It was a strange thought, something he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge before, but Marina’s calm approval felt different. It wasn’t based on superficial standards or expectations; it was simply about him being who he was, in that moment, and he couldn’t deny that it felt good.

Tech’s response was quiet, his voice tinged with uncertainty but also a hint of something else he couldn’t quite place. “I... Thank you.” He shifted slightly, the flush on his cheeks more noticeable now, though he tried to maintain his usual stoic demeanor. It wasn’t easy, feeling this exposed—this open—but Marina had a way of making him feel seen in a way that was both unnerving and, dare he admit, kind of comforting.

If Marina had thought Tech was handsome before, witnessing the bright, beaming smile that spread across his face when she confirmed he looked good, only intensified that feeling. She couldn't remember ever seeing him smile so widely, but it was clear her compliment had struck a deep chord with him. Marina gave a small, approving nod, her gaze still gentle. “Anytime, Tech,” she said, her tone steady again, but with an underlying warmth. Then, she stepped back, giving him space once more.

Tech stood there, processing the moment, his hand instinctively reaching up to touch his newly cut hair. It was still a strange feeling, and yet, it was starting to feel more like a choice he could own, not something that was forced upon him. And that, more than anything, made it worthwhile.

He had truly taken her suggestion without a second thought, cutting his hair the night before he could talk himself out of it. He wasn’t entirely sure why he did it. He valued her opinion, but letting it push him to make a change felt like a bigger step than he was used to. Still, before his usual, logical mindset could take over, he grabbed the trimmer and tackled the overgrown patch down the middle, barely sparing a glance at his reflection.

The thick curls at the top of his head, once unruly and standing in stark contrast to the shorter, slightly grown-out sides, fell away in uneven clumps. He started at the front, shearing through the bulk with each deliberate pass, the vibration of the trimmer against his scalp grounding him more than he expected. His fingers brushed over the newly uniform length, the contrast between his freshly buzzed crown and the textured remains of his previous style disappearing with each careful adjustment.

Yes, his hairline was more visible now, his features a little sharper without the towering mop of curls softening them. But there was something undeniably satisfying about the low-maintenance cut, and the way it felt weightless, clean—almost like a reset. For that sense of ease alone, he figured he could handle whatever attention it drew to his hairline.

But as Marina continued to smile at him, her expression soft with almost childlike wonder at the change, something in him shifted again. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the need to hide behind his usual barriers. There was a quiet understanding in the space between them, a softening of the edges, a subtle recalibration in the way they interacted. It wasn’t anything he had expected, but somehow, it felt like the right kind of change.

Marina’s words had sparked something in him—encouraged him to move past his discomfort and consider what he hadn’t realized he was missing. And despite his initial resistance, he found himself feeling surprisingly grateful for it.

As he processed the change, his voice came out slower this time, like he was still digesting it. “I didn’t think much of it at first,” he said, quieter than usual. “But I think you were right. I missed having it like this—the way I used to wear it during the war. I kept it slicked back from my face. It was practical, kept everything out of my way. It helped me focus, gave me a sense of control. And... I realized I missed that.”

Marina’s gaze softened, and for a moment, there was something almost tender in the way she looked at him. “That makes sense,” she said, her voice measured but warmer than usual. “I think this looks better on you. Not just practical, but…” She trailed off for a moment, considering the words. “There’s something about it. It highlights your features more, makes you look... more open? And, if I’m being honest, a little more attractive.”

Tech blinked, a brief flash of surprise crossing his face. He hadn’t expected her to be so direct. But Marina didn’t seem uncomfortable, just matter-of-fact, like she was acknowledging a simple truth. “I think it suits you,” she continued, her voice steady, but with a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “It's sharp. And... well, I can’t deny, it’s a good look on you.”

Tech swallowed, the words sinking in. It wasn’t just a reassurance or a vague compliment. She had really said it—he was attractive this way. The acknowledgment made something shift inside him, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. Instead, it was grounding, as if the external changes were finally matching something inside him.

Tech couldn’t help but feel a slight flush at her words, a quiet warmth spreading through him. He’d been so wrapped up in how others had seen him for so long, particularly Leena’s influence on his appearance, that he hadn’t realized how much he’d lost sight of what he wanted. But Marina’s suggestion had unlocked something—a way to transition back to a style that had felt like him, but in a way that was his choice now. Even more than that, he found her alignment with his own preference to be refreshing. 

“It’s an adjustment,” he admitted, his tone soft but steady. “But I think I’m starting to realize it’s not about changing who I am. It’s about reclaiming a piece of myself that was lost. It felt nice to just prioritize what I want and not worry about the outcome,”

Marina stepped a little closer, her eyes studying him with a thoughtful expression. “Well, I look forward to meeting this older, reclaimed version of Tech. I have no doubt this will continue to suit you if you let it grow or if you keep it this way,” she confirmed. Something about the way she seemed appreciative of his past, but also allowing him to grow was pleasant. More so than he cared to admit.

Tech studied her for a moment, a thoughtful expression crossing his features before he spoke. "We can’t all be blessed with something so distinct, to set us apart visually," Tech said, his words genuine. His gaze lingered on the silver strand of hair that framed Marina’s face, the one that stood out against the deep dark waves of her hair. He had noticed it the first time they met, the white streak seeming to capture the light in a way that made her presence feel even more ethereal. To him, it had become one of the things that defined her, an unmistakable part of her appearance that somehow reflected the complexity he saw in her.

“Are you referring to my eyes or my hair?” Marina asked, raising an eyebrow with a teasing yet intrigued look in her eyes.

Tech shifted slightly, his expression softening, his usual composure momentarily slipping. “Both,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with a quiet warmth. “Your features are... unique. I remember thinking the same thing the night we met. I can’t recall ever encountering someone with both mallen strands in their hair and heterochromia in their eyes. It’s... visually fascinating.”

A faint flush crept up his neck, coloring his cheeks as he realized how direct his words had been. He wasn’t one to get flustered easily, but there was something about Marina that made him lose his usual precision and guarded nature. The way her eyes held so much mystery and how the streak in her hair caught the light —it was a combination that was striking, yet so incredibly effortless as it was natural. 

Marina, for her part, blinked at the compliment, caught slightly off guard by his openness. Her initial instinct was to deflect, as she always did when attention was placed on something she considered unusual about herself. But there was something in the way Tech had said it—without judgment, without awkwardness—that made her pause.

Marina blinked again, her eyes narrowing just slightly as she processed his words. "Visually fascinating?" she echoed, her voice a little less playful now, a tinge of uncertainty creeping in. She shifted her weight, her gaze dropping briefly to her hands, almost as if she was weighing his compliment against the feeling in her chest.

Her self-consciousness stirred at the mention of her imperfections, something she’d always struggled with. People didn’t typically find these things “fascinating”—they found them odd, something to be fixed or covered up. Her mind immediately flickered back to all the times she’d tried to hide the streak of white in her hair, the way it made her feel out of place, like it was a constant reminder of something that didn’t fit with her age range. 

"Are you sure you're not just... being kind?" she asked, her voice quiet but laced with an underlying skepticism, as she tried to gauge his sincerity. "I mean, people usually don’t go out of their way to find imperfections attractive." Her eyes briefly flickered up to meet his, unsure whether she was simply overanalyzing the situation or if he truly meant what he said.

Tech could see the shift in her expression, and it made him feel a sudden pull of empathy, knowing all too well how it felt to be self-conscious about something others may overlook or criticize. He straightened slightly, choosing his words more carefully now, but still with the same warmth in his voice.

"I’m not attempting to purely be kind," he said, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I do find your features to be fascinating. I consider that fascination positive. It’s rare to see someone with both the mallen strands and heterochromia—They have a magnet quality."

His words were steady, but beneath them was an earnestness that felt real—no forced kindness, just the quiet observation of someone who genuinely appreciated the things that made her unique.

Marina tilted her head, her gaze studying him more carefully now, her initial uncertainty shifting to a mix of curiosity and disbelief. "But you really think that?" she asked, the question almost sounding like she couldn’t quite believe it. She hadn’t expected him to respond so openly, especially considering how often she felt the need to downplay those very aspects of herself.

"Yes," he affirmed, his eyes meeting hers without hesitation. "I do not feel I have given you a reason to assume I would fabricate a compliment in order to comfort your feelings, regardless of our friendship."

There was a slight pause as Marina absorbed his words. She still felt the familiar unease that came with being the center of attention for something she considered a flaw, but Tech’s straightforwardness and genuine tone made it harder to dismiss. Her heart rate steadied as she let his words sink in. He wasn’t trying to sugarcoat things or soften the truth—he truly saw her features as something worth noticing.

"I suppose... I admit to not being used to hearing someone frame it the way you did," she admitted softly, offering a small, uncertain smile. "Most people just... don’t look at my imperfections fondly."

Tech’s expression softened, and there was a quiet understanding in his eyes. "Maybe they should. Besides, I do not consider them imperfections at all," he said, his voice low but sincere.

The silence between them felt thicker now, almost palpable, as they stood just a few feet apart, each lost in their own thoughts but aware of the other’s presence in a way that made everything feel a bit more electric. 

Tech’s mind drifted back to Marina’s features, the ones that had caught his attention the moment they first met. Her eyes, so striking and vivid, held a depth he hadn’t expected. There was something about the way the light hit them that made him appreciate the contrast between her different color irises. It wasn’t just that they were beautiful; they were alive in a way that made it hard to look away. Captivating was a good word for the effect, Tech thought. 

And then there was the streak of white in her hair, the one that framed her face in a way that added a certain edge to her otherwise soft, dark waves. Tech had never seen something quite like it before, and while he knew she didn’t particularly see it as attractive, he couldn’t help but admire how it made her seem even more distinctive.

His attention shifted to her posture then, the way she stood with quiet confidence. She had physical strength, yet there was a calm power in the way she moved, deliberate and sure. Her features were delicate, but there was a sharpness that lingered. Be it the blue lines framing her skin, moving with the contours of her body, as the tattoos boldly stood out, or the lithe muscular structure she had.

Marina, for her part, had her own thoughts spinning as she took in the way Tech stood, every inch of him calm and composed, yet still distinctly masculine. She had never realized just how much his frame intrigued her—lean, but still strong in a way that wasn’t immediately obvious. His shoulders were broad enough to give him presence, yet his posture remained loose and fluid, never too rigid. The subtle muscle definition in his arms and chest made his clothes fit just right, neither too tight nor too loose. Not to mention, his extreme height.

Her gaze lingered on his face then, noticing again how sharp his jawline was, the way his dark eyes seemed so deep in contrast to the warmth that always radiated from them, especially when he was focused on something or someone. She couldn’t help but appreciate how his features seemed to soften when he wasn’t guarding himself so closely. His face wasn’t overly rugged, but there was something undeniably attractive in the way his expression shifted so effortlessly between serious and thoughtful. And his smile—subtle as it was—felt like a glimpse into something real, something less guarded.

It was then that she realized, with a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks, just how much she appreciated his physical presence. She hadn’t thought of him this way before, at least consciously. But now, as she took in the way he stood, his posture more open and relaxed than she had ever seen, she couldn’t seem to stop noticing the quiet strength in the way he held himself. There was something striking about his features that hadn’t quite registered before.

His face, angular and defined, seemed to capture the light differently now—his sharp cheekbones and strong jawline giving him a more mature, composed appearance. She noticed how his lips, fuller than she remembered, were now set in a way that exuded calm resolve. It was something she hadn’t noticed when he was always so focused on something technical, but now, in this moment, his expressions seemed more present, more... human. His golden skin caught the fading light, and Marina couldn’t help but admire how it seemed to glow with a subtle warmth. There was a clarity to him now, both in appearance and demeanor. 

Tech caught the shift in her expression, and despite himself, he couldn’t help but feel a rush of warmth through him. Now that he’d seen her gaze linger, the way her eyes softened when they met his, he realized how much he’d been thinking about her, in ways he hadn’t really acknowledged before. Her presence was striking, but it wasn’t just her looks that stood out—it was everything about her. The way she held herself, the confidence she alluded. Everything about her made him feel an unexpected sense of calm, despite the whirlwind of thoughts in his head. He hadn’t realized how drawn to her he’d become, how much he admired the quiet strength she had, both physically and mentally.

It became clear in the way he had subtly closed the distance between them. After Marina had gently stepped out of his personal space, careful not to intrude, Tech had unknowingly drifted back into the proximity they’d shared before. Even more telling, his hand had come to rest on the table behind her, a simple gesture that framed her within the space without being threatening. The air between them shifted, the quiet energy now charged, as both of them became acutely aware of how close they truly were.

They both stood there, each quietly acknowledging the attraction, but neither ready to act on it just yet. Instead, it lingered in the space between them, the unspoken connection hanging in the air. Both were more aware of the other’s physical being now, and while they weren’t quite ready to categorize the tension, it was there, building slowly but steadily, a quiet, undeniable truth they were both still processing in their own ways.

Tunes-Giving Event: Tech/Leena (NOV 26)

From the moment Leena laid eyes on him, she was utterly captivated, and when Tech met her, he was equally fascinated by her free-spirited nature. Together, they’ve always shared an undeniable magnetic energy. Leena brings spontaneity and excitement, while Tech offers a sense of stability and grounding. It’s true that opposites attract, and their quirky, endearing romance is a testament to that. With bouncy, playful tunes that capture Leena’s adventurous spirit, and thoughtful, lyrically rich songs that reflect Tech’s intellectual side, this collection perfectly blends their contrasting personalities. These songs will not only make you smile but remind you of a love as unique and delightful as theirs.

'Cause my love is very deep and I know what you need

What can I do to fulfill your dreams? I wanna be with you

There she goes again

Racing through my brain

'Cause we could stay at home or watch the sunset

But I can't help from askin', "Are you bored yet?"

And I'll be yours until two and two is three

Yours until the mountain crumbles to the sea

In other words, until eternity

From my heart and from my hand

Why don't people understand my intentions?

Nice to meet ya! 

EVENT MASTERLIST

(Special thank you my dear friend and creative partner @legacygirlingreen for making this event possible! She is responsive for all the writing, design layout, post editing & greatly assisted in song selections!)

💚Tag List💚

@legacygirlingreen @thora-sniper @sukithebean @thecoffeelorian @neyswxrld @somewhere-on-kamino @clonethirstingisreal @royallykt @morerandombullshit @burningfieldof-clover @tbnrpotato @keantha @returnofthepineapple @justanotherdikutsimp @antisocial-mariposa @techs-stitches @resistantecho @kimiheartblade @dezgate

I’m so sorry we didn’t learn, George.

The Fifth Element (1997)

Fast art, felt like it

When I first started drawing the Bad Batch, I felt it was like a story of Hunter being a mother duck leading a group of little ducklings.