Curate, connect, and discover
Commander Fox x Senator Reader x Commander Thorn
Summary: The senator becomes the quiet obsession of two elite commanders, sparking a slow-burn love triangle beneath the surface of duty and politics.
If anyone ever asked, you’d tell them you became a Senator by accident.
You weren’t born with a silver tongue or bred in the soft halls of Coruscant. No. You earned your seat by scraping your way up through the mess of planetary diplomacy, one bitter compromise at a time. And somehow—against your better judgment—you’d gotten good at it.
Politics were war without blasters.
And most days, you’d rather take a shot to the chest than attend another committee meeting.
Still, here you were—draped in crimson silks, shoulders squared like armor, and face carved into the perfect expression of interest. The Senate roared with debate. Systems cried for resources. Sycophants whispered and bartered behind you. But your voice—when you chose to use it—cut through like a vibroblade. That’s what made you dangerous.
Padmé once told you that change was a quiet thing, made in corridors and council rooms, not just battlefields. You told her it felt more like drowning slowly in bureaucracy. She just smiled like she knew a secret you didn’t.
The Senate was a performance.
A stage lined with robes instead of armor, filled with actors who knew how to posture but not how to listen.
You hated it.
And yet, you were one of its stars—elected against the odds, sharp-tongued, unrelenting, and quietly feared by those who underestimated you. You never pretended to like the political game. You just played it better than most.
Still, days like this tested your patience. The emergency session dragged past the second hour, voices rising, layered with false concern and masked self-interest. You didn’t roll your eyes—but it was a near thing.
“Senator,” came the calm voice of a nearby aide. “Security detail has arrived to sweep the outer hall. Commander Fox, Commander Thorn.”
You turned your head slightly as the two men entered the chamber.
Fox came first.
Red armor, regulation-sharp posture, unreadable expression. His presence was quiet but absolute, a man built for control. He walked with measured steps, every movement efficient. You watched him briefly—no longer than anyone else in the room—and noted how his gaze swept the perimeter with military precision.
He didn’t look at you. Not directly. Not for more than a second.
But you noticed the exact moment he registered you.
His shoulders didn’t shift. His mouth didn’t twitch. Nothing gave him away.
But you were good at reading people. And Fox? He was good at not being read.
Thorn followed.
Equally sharp, but louder in presence. His armor bore the polished gleam of someone who took pride in every inch of presentation. He offered a crisp nod to the aides and exchanged a brief, professional word with Senator Organa.
His eyes passed over you once. No pause. No flicker. But the angle of his head adjusted half a degree your way when he moved to stand by the chamber doors. Like he’d marked your position—nothing more.
Professional. Respectful. Untouched.
You exhaled slowly and turned back to your datapad.
Two Commanders. Two versions of unshakable.
You’d been warned of their reputations, of course. Fox, the stoic hammer of Coruscant. Thorn, the bold shield. Both deeply loyal to the Guard. Both rarely assigned together. Their presence meant the Senate was bracing for tension—possibly violence.
You liked them already.
Not because they were charming. Not because they were handsome—though they were, infuriatingly so.
But because they didn’t stare. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t approach with the practiced familiarity of most men who wanted something from a Senator.
No, they were disciplined. Detached.
And that, somehow, made them more dangerous than the rest.
⸻
Later, as the session adjourned and conversation bled into the marble corridors, you passed by them on your way to the lift.
Fox gave a slight incline of his head. Barely a greeting.
Thorn stood perfectly still, gaze straight ahead.
You didn’t stop. You didn’t speak.
But as the lift doors closed behind you, you felt it in your chest—that faint, inexplicable tightness. The kind that warned you of a fight you hadn’t seen coming.
And would never be able to vote your way out of.
⸻
The reception was loud.
Not in volume—but in elegance. Every glass clink, every diplomatic smile, every strategically placed compliment. That was how politicians shouted: with opulence, posture, and carefully crafted subtext.
You stood among it all, still in your robes from earlier, the deep crimson of your sleeves catching the soft amber light of the chandeliers. Surrounding you were names that made the galaxy shiver: Organa, Amidala, Mothma, Chuchi. Allies. Friends. Survivors.
You sipped something you didn’t like and watched the room, bored.
“Twice in one day?” Mon Mothma leaned in gently. “You deserve a medal.”
“Or a decent drink,” you muttered.
Padmé snorted into her glass.
You gave them a smile—small, real—and let your eyes drift.
And there they were. Again.
Commander Fox stood posted by the far archway.
Commander Thorn lingered near the entry steps. Both in armor. Both on duty. Both immaculately indifferent to the golden reception unfolding around them.
You could’ve ignored them.
You should’ve.
But after a half-hour of polite conversation and nothing to sink your teeth into, the idea of a genuine challenge was too appealing to resist.
You slipped away from your group, threading through gowns and murmurs. Your steps were casual but deliberate.
Thorn noticed first. You caught the faint movement of his helmet tilting. Then, quickly and without announcement, you redirected toward Fox.
He didn’t flinch. Not when you stopped a polite distance from him. Not when you met his visor directly. Not even when you tilted your head and offered the first word.
“You know,” you said mildly, “you’re very good at pretending I’m not standing here.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then: “I’m on duty, Senator.”
You gave him a slow nod. “So you are. Must be terribly dull work, watching senators pretend they aren’t scheming.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“Really?” You leaned in slightly. “What’s worse than watching politicians drink for four hours straight?”
He didn’t answer. But there was a pause—a longer one than regulation probably allowed.
Then finally: “This isn’t the place for conversation.”
“Neither was the Senate floor,” you replied, tone still light. “But you seemed comfortable enough ignoring me there, too.”
At that, something shifted. Barely.
His stance remained rigid. But there was a tightness in his voice now. Controlled tension.
“I don’t make it a habit to engage senators unnecessarily.”
You smiled. Not smug—genuinely amused.
“Don’t worry, Commander. I’m not here to engage you unnecessarily. I just wanted to see if you had a voice beneath all that silence.”
Another pause.
Then, quietly, like it had to be pried loose from steel:
“You’ve heard it now.”
And with that, he returned his gaze forward, unreadable once again.
You lingered a second longer than appropriate. Then turned, walking back to the crowd without looking over your shoulder.
Across the room, Thorn watched the entire exchange.
Didn’t move. Didn’t comment. But his gaze followed you as you rejoined your peers.
Unlike Fox, Thorn had no need for stillness. His restraint was a choice.
And he’d just decided not to intervene.
Not yet.
⸻
You hated how the armor caught the light.
Crimson and white, clean-cut, unblemished—too perfect. Commander Thorn didn’t just wear his armor; he carried it like a statement. Like confidence forged in durasteel.
He stood near one of the tall reception windows now, half-shadowed by draping silk and flickering light. Unlike Fox, who radiated stillness, Thorn watched everything in motion. His gaze tracked movement like a soldier born for the battlefield—alert, calculating, assessing.
But not unkind.
You’d caught his eye earlier during your exchange with Fox. He hadn’t interfered. Hadn’t so much as shifted his weight. But you saw the way he watched you walk away.
And now, with your patience for schmoozing officially dead, you veered toward him with no hesitation.
He acknowledged you before you spoke. A small nod. That alone told you he was already more accommodating than his brother-in-arms.
“Senator,” he said. Not cold. Not warm. Polite. Neutral.
“Commander Thorn,” you echoed, coming to a stop beside him. “You look like you’ve spent the last hour resisting the urge to roll your eyes.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Discipline.”
“Right,” you said dryly. “That thing I’m told I lack.”
“Wouldn’t be so sure. You made it through three conversations with Senator Ask Aak without drawing a weapon.”
“That is discipline,” you murmured, half to yourself.
Thorn’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was something in the tilt of his head, the faint ease in his shoulders. He wasn’t as closed-off as Fox, but still impossibly hard to read. He didn’t lean in. Didn’t flirt. But he listened. Sharply.
“You don’t like these events,” he said plainly.
You raised an eyebrow. “I’m shocked it’s that obvious.”
“You’ve looked at the clock seven times.”
You smirked. “Maybe I was counting the seconds until someone interesting finally spoke to me.”
He said nothing to that—no flustered denial, no cocky retort. Just the same steady, unreadable look. But his fingers tapped once—just once—against the side of his thigh.
Interesting.
“I take it you don’t like politicians,” you added.
“I’m a Coruscant Guard, Senator. I don’t get the luxury of liking or disliking.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He turned his head slightly, visor reflecting soft gold.
“It’s the only one I’m giving you. For now.”
You were about to press that—to tease it open, to see if there was a warmer man behind the armor—but fate, cruel and punctual, had other plans.
“Senator!” came a voice from behind you. Shrill. Forced.
You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Senator Orn Free Taa. Slime.
Thorn’s posture straightened by the inch. You fought the urge to groan.
“Senator,” you greeted coolly, turning.
“I must speak with you about your position on the Sevarcos embargo. It’s urgent.” He smiled like a Hutt—greasy and too wide. “We can’t keep putting blind faith in the neutrality of mining guilds.”
You glanced at Thorn once more. He didn’t move. But the angle of his helmet, ever so subtle, told you he was still watching.
You gave him a single step back. The silent kind of goodbye.
He didn’t stop you. But his voice, soft and unhurried, followed you as you turned.
“Be careful, Senator. You look like you’re about to say what you really think.”
You smirked.
“Don’t worry, Commander. I’ve survived worse than honesty.”
⸻
“By the stars,” you hissed as the door closed behind you, muffling the tail end of the diplomatic reception, “I’m going to strangle Taa with his own headtails.”
Mon Mothma, lounging with practiced poise on your office settee, didn’t even flinch. “That’s the third time you’ve threatened to kill a fellow senator this month.”
“It’s not a threat if I have plans.” You flung your datapad onto the desk and tore off your formal sash like it personally offended you. “He cornered me twice. Once about mining guilds, and once about ‘strengthening our bipartisan bond,’ whatever the hell that means.”
Mon hummed, sipping something chilled. “You’re too good at your job. That’s the problem.”
You collapsed beside her, robe twisted at the collar and hair loosening from its earlier neatness. “I swear, if I get one more leering invitation to a strategy meeting over dinner—”
“You’ll start accepting them and sabotaging their food.”
You sighed deeply. “Tempting.”
The soft clink of glass was the only reply for a moment. It was late now. The reception had dwindled, but your irritation hadn’t. The pressure. The performance. The underhanded proposals thinly veiled behind political niceties. You hated it. Hated the hypocrisy. Hated that you had to smile while enduring it.
“I just—” you started again, quieter now. “I didn’t sign up for this to climb power ladders. I wanted to help. Not play diplomat dress-up while watching bills get butchered by people who care more about their name than the outcome.”
Mon glanced sideways at you, ever the picture of composed empathy. “And yet, you still manage to do good.”
You scoffed but said nothing more. Your throat felt tight in that old, familiar way. Not tears. Just frustration. A weight you couldn’t always name.
A polite knock cut the quiet.
You blinked, sat straighter. Mon rose, brushing down her dress with a grace you could never quite copy.
“Enter,” you called, standing as the door slid open.
Commander Fox stepped in.
Of course.
His armor gleamed despite the late hour. Hands clasped behind his back, posture impeccable, expression unreadable as always. A faint shimmer of exhaustion touched the edges of his movements, but it never cracked the facade.
“Apologies for the interruption, Senator,” he said, voice even, “but I’m required to confirm your quarters have been secured following the reception.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re personally doing room checks now, Commander?”
“Protocol,” he said simply. “A precaution. There’s been increased chatter about potential targeting of senators affiliated with the Trade Route Oversight.”
You and Mon exchanged a look.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” she said lightly, already stepping out. “Try not to threaten him with silverware.”
The door hissed shut behind her.
You turned to Fox, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “You weren’t stationed here earlier. Thorn had this wing.”
“He was reassigned.”
“How convenient,” you murmured, studying him.
Fox didn’t blink.
You sighed. “Well? Do you need me to stand still while you sweep for bombs? Or is this the part where you sternly lecture me about walking away from my escort earlier?”
To your surprise, there was the slightest pause. A fraction of a beat too long.
“…You’re not as unreadable as you think,” you added, gaze narrowing. “You listen like you’re memorizing every word.”
“I am.”
That surprised you. Just a little.
“But not,” he continued, “because I intend to use any of it. Only because I’ve learned the most dangerous people in the galaxy are the ones everyone else stops listening to.”
Your arms dropped to your sides.
For once, you didn’t have a clever reply. Just a pulse that thudded too loud in the quiet.
Fox stepped past you, eyes scanning the perimeter of the room. His tone was quieter when he spoke again.
“You don’t need to pretend you’re unaffected. Not with me. But you do need to be careful, Senator. You’re surrounded by predators—”
You turned slightly. “And what are you?”
He looked at you then. Finally. Even through the helmet, it felt like impact.
“Trained,” he said.
Then he stepped back toward the door.
“Your quarters are secure. Good night, Senator.”
And just like that, he was gone.
You stood in the silence, heart still. Breath caught somewhere too deep in your chest.
Too good to show interest.
But stars, did he listen.
⸻
Next Chapter
⸻
She wasn’t just their trainer. She was the trainer. The hard-ass Mandalorian bounty hunter who whipped the clone cadets into shape, showed them how to survive, and maybe, quietly, showed them something like love.
They weren’t supposed to fall for her.
She wasn’t supposed to leave.
But they did. And she did.
Now she’s back—in chains. On trial. And neither of them has forgiven her. But neither of them has stopped feeling, either.
⸻
Wolffe was gone.
Off to a frontline somewhere, chasing a ghost on someone else’s leash. He hadn’t said goodbye. Just stood in her cell, said her name like it tasted like blood, and left.
She told herself it didn’t sting.
Told herself that right up until the door hissed open again.
This time, it was him.
Fox.
She felt him before she saw him—every hair on the back of her neck standing at attention. She didn’t lift her head until she heard the soft clink of his boots on the duracrete.
“You always did have the heaviest damn footsteps.”
No answer.
Just the soft hum of the ray shield between them and the weight of six years of unfinished conversations.
She sat back against the wall of her cell, tilting her head to study him through the barrier. “You used to take your helmet off when you saw me.”
Fox didn’t move.
“You smiled, too,” she added. “Even blushed once.”
Still nothing.
She leaned forward. “Why don’t you take it off now, Fox? Scared I’ll see what I did to you?”
That one hit.
His shoulders shifted. Just enough.
“I loved you both,” she said, voice softer. “You and Wolffe. It wasn’t just training. You know that.”
“You walked away.”
“I had to.”
“No,” Fox said, voice hard behind the visor. “You chose to. We needed you. And you ran.”
He stepped closer to the shield.
“You trained us to survive, to lead, to kill. You were everything. You looked at us like we were people before anyone else ever did. And then you were gone. No note. No goodbye. Just gone.”
She stood now. Toe to toe with him on opposite sides of the shield.
“Don’t pretend like it was easy for me.”
“I’m not pretending anything,” Fox bit out. “But every time I close my eyes, I see the cadet barracks. I see you, pulling us out of bed, making us fight through mud and stun blasts and live fire. And every time I put this helmet on, I remember the woman who made me who I am.”
“And you hate her now?”
“No,” he said, almost too quiet.
“I wish I did.”
The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was heavy, loud, aching.
Then the lights flickered. Once. Twice.
Fox’s helmet snapped up.
“You planning something?” he demanded.
She blinked, surprised. “Not me.”
An explosion rocked the building.
Fox swore and turned toward the hall—too late.
The backup power cut in, and the shield between them dropped.
She moved first.
Elbow. Throat. Disarm.
Fox recovered instantly. Mandalorian training burned into his bones—her training.
They fought dirty. Brutal. No flourish. No wasted motion. Just rage and history and sweat.
He slammed her into the wall, forearm to her neck. “Don’t—”
She headbutted him. “Too late.”
He threw her to the ground. She rolled, kicked out, caught his knee. He staggered. She was up in an instant, swinging.
He caught her wrist. “You left us.”
She broke the hold, breathless. “And you never stopped loving me.”
That cracked him.
She tackled him.
They hit the floor hard.
His helmet came loose, skittering across the ground.
And for a heartbeat—
There he was.
Fox.
Red-faced. Bloodied lip. Eyes blazing with pain and love and fury.
He flipped her. Pinned her down.
“This is what you wanted?” he growled. “To be hunted? To fight me?”
“No,” she whispered. “But I’m not dying in a cell.”
Her elbow caught his jaw. He reeled. She moved fast, straddling him, fist raised—
And paused.
Just for a second.
He looked up at her like she was the sun and the storm.
So she closed her fist.
And knocked him out cold.
⸻
She ran.
Again.
Bleeding. Gasping. Free.
But not the same.
Not anymore.
Because this time, she left something behind.
And it wasn’t just her past.
It was him.
⸻
(Flashback - Kamino)
It was raining.
Then again, it was always raining on Kamino.
She stood in the simulation room, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm, a long line of adolescent clones in front of her. Twelve cadets. Identical on the outside. Nervous. Curious. Eager.
She hated this part. The part where they still looked like kids.
She paced down the line like a wolf sizing up prey. They were still, silent, disciplined.
Good.
But she could already see it—the cracks, the personality slipping through despite their efforts to appear identical. That one on the end with the defiant chin tilt. The one in the middle hiding a limp. The one watching her like he already didn’t trust her.
She knew it the second they marched in—twelve cadets, lean and lethal for their age. Sharper than the usual shinies. These weren’t grunts-in-the-making. These were the Commanders. The ones Kamino’s high brass whispered about like they were investments more than soldiers.
She smirked. “You all have CT numbers. Serial designations. Statistics.”
No one spoke.
She dropped her helmet onto a nearby crate and leaned forward. “That’s not enough for me.”
Eyes tracked her, alert.
“You want to earn my respect? You survive this program, you get through my gauntlet? You don’t just get to be soldiers. You get to be people. And people need names.”
A flicker of something passed between them—confusion, curiosity, maybe even hope.
“But I don’t hand them out like sweets. Names have weight. You’ll earn yours. One by one.”
She paused.
“And I won’t name you like some shiny ARC trainer handing out joke callsigns for laughs. Your name will be the first thing someone hears before they die. Make it count.”
“You survive my program, you’ll earn a name,” she said. “A real one. Something from the old worlds. Something that means something. Not because you need a nickname to feel special—because names have teeth. They bite. They leave a scar.”
The silence was sharp. But the room listened.
The first week nearly broke them.
She saw it in their bruised knuckles, in the fire behind their eyes. None of them quit.
So she came in holding a data slate. Her list.
“CT-2224,” she said, nodding to the clone who was always coordinating, always calm under fire. “I’m calling you Cody.”
A pause.
“Named after an old soldier from history. Scout, tactician, survivor. He fought under another man’s flag but always kept his own code. You? You’ll know when to follow and when to break the chain.”
CT-2224 tilted his chin, something like pride in his eyes.
“CT-1004,” she called next. “Gree.”
He quirked a brow.
“Named after an Astronomer. A mind ahead of his time. You like to challenge the rules. You think differently. That’ll get you killed—or it’ll save your whole damn battalion. Your call.”
He smirked.
“CT-6052,” she said, turning to the one with the fastest draw in the sim tests. “Bly.”
“Bly?” he echoed.
“Named after a naval officer. Brutal. Unrelenting. Survived mutinies and shipwrecks. Your squad will challenge you someday. You’ll either lead them through the storm—or end up alone.”
He went quiet.
“CT-1138.” She stepped toward the quietest of the bunch. “Bacara.”
That got his attention.
“Name’s from an old warrior sect,” she said. “Real bastard in the heat of battle. No fear, no hesitation. You’ve got that in you—but you’ll need something to tether you. Rage alone won’t get you far.”
“CT-8826,” she barked. “Neyo.”
He didn’t flinch.
“Named after a colonial general in a lost war. Known for precision and cruelty in equal measure. You fight with cold logic. That’s useful. But one day it’s going to cost you something you didn’t know you valued.”
His stare didn’t break.
She nodded to herself.
Then she stopped in front of CT-1010.
This one was different. Always stepping in front of the others. Always first into the fire.
“You,” she said. “You’re Fox.”
He tilted his head. Curious. Suspicious.
“Not the animal,” she said. “The man. He tried to blow up a corrupt regime. People remember him as a traitor. But he died for what he believed in. He wanted to burn the world down so something better could rise.”
Fox looked at her like he wasn’t sure whether to be proud or afraid.
Good.
And finally—
CT-3636.
She exhaled. Quiet.
“You’re Wolffe. Spelled with two f’s.”
He arched a brow.
“You ever heard of General Wolffe? He died leading a battle he won. Knew it would kill him. Did it anyway. That’s who you are. You’d die for the ones you lead. But you’re not just a soldier. You’re a ghost in the making. You see things the others don’t.”
Something flickered across Wolffe’s expression. Not quite gratitude. Not yet. But something personal. Something deep.
She stepped back and looked at them all.
“You’re not just commanders now. You’re names with weight. Remember where they come from. Because someday—someone’s going to ask.”
She didn’t say why she chose those names.
But Fox knew.
And Wolffe… Wolffe felt it like a blade between his ribs.
⸻
That night, neither of them slept.
Fox sat on his bunk, staring at the nameplate freshly etched on his chest armor.
Wolffe couldn’t stop replaying the sound of her voice, the precision of her words.
It wasn’t just what she called them.
It was how she saw them.
Not clones.
Not numbers.
Men.
And in that moment—before war, before death, before heartbreak—both of them realized something:
They would have followed her anywhere.
⸻
“Target last seen heading westbound on foot. She’s injured,” Thorn’s voice snapped through the comms, sharp and clear as a vibroblade. “Bleeding. She won’t get far.”
Commander Fox didn’t respond right away.
He didn’t need to.
He was already moving—boots pounding against ferrocrete, crimson armor flashing in the underglow of gutter lights. His DC-17s were hot. Loaded. He’d cleared the last alley by himself. Found the blood trail smeared across a rusted wall. Confirmed it wasn’t fresh. Confirmed she was smart enough to double back.
Fox’s jaw tensed behind the helmet. That voice. That memory. He hated that it still echoed.
He hated what she’d made him feel back then—what she still made him feel now.
“She was ours,” Thorn said suddenly, voice low on a private channel. “She trained us. Named us. And now she’s—”
“A liability,” Fox snapped.
A pause.
Then Thorn said, “So are you.”
She’d been moving for thirty-six hours straight.
Blood caked her gloves. Her ribs were cracked. One eye nearly swollen shut. And still—still—she’d smiled when she saw the Guard flooding the streets for her.
“Miss me, boys?” she whispered, ducking into an old speeder lot, sliding through a maintenance tunnel like she’d been born in the underworld.
Fox was five minutes behind her. Thorn was closer.
She was running out of time.
So she did what she swore she wouldn’t.
She pressed a long-dead frequency into her wrist comm and whispered:
“You still owe me.”
⸻
Fox was waiting for her at the extraction point.
He stood in front of the old freight elevator. Helmet on. Blaster raised. Shoulders squared. He hadn’t spoken in five minutes. Hadn’t moved in ten.
When she limped into view, he didn’t aim. Not yet.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice flat.
“You’re still wearing your helmet,” she rasped.
He didn’t answer.
“Why?” she asked. “Why don’t you ever take it off anymore?”
That hit something.
He didn’t move, but the silence that followed was heavier than armor.
“You think if you bury the man I trained, the one I named, then maybe you don’t have to feel what you felt?” she asked, stepping closer. “Or maybe—maybe you think the helmet will stop you from loving the woman you’re supposed to kill.”
Fox raised his blaster.
“I’m not that man anymore.”
“And I’m not the woman who left you behind,” she said.
Then she charged him.
They hit the ground hard.
She drove her elbow into his side, but he blocked it—twisted—slammed her onto the deck. She kicked his knee, flipped him over, caught a glimpse of his face beneath the shifting helmet seal—eyes wild. Angry. Broken.
Their fight wasn’t clean. It wasn’t choreographed.
It was personal.
Every strike was a memory. Every chokehold a betrayal.
She got the upper hand—until Fox caught her wrist, yanked her forward, and headbutted her hard enough to split her lip.
“Stay down,” he growled.
But she was already back on her feet, staggering.
“You first.”
She lunged. He met her.
For one second, he nearly won.
And then—
The roar of repulsors screamed overhead.
A ship—low and mean—swooped in like a vulture. Slave I.
Fox’s head snapped up.
From the cockpit, Boba Fett gave a two-fingered salute.
From the ramp, Bossk snarled: “Hurry up, darlin’. We’re on a timer.”
She spun, landed one final kick to Fox’s side, and leapt.
He caught her foot—just for a second.
Their eyes locked.
She whispered, “You’ll have to be faster than that, Commander.”
Fox’s grip slipped.
She vanished into the belly of the ship.
The ship shot skyward, cutting between the towers of Coruscant, gone in a blink.
Fox lay back on the duracrete, chest heaving, blood in his mouth.
Thorn’s voice crackled in his comm:
“You get her?”
Fox didn’t answer.
He just stared at the sky, helmet still on, and muttered:
“Next time.”
⸻
The hum of hyperspace thrummed through her ribs like a heartbeat she hadn’t trusted in years.
She sat on the edge of the med-bench, wiping blood from her mouth, cheek split open from Fox’s headbutt. Boba threw her a rag without looking.
“You look like shab.”
She gave a low, painful laugh. “Better than dead. Thanks for the pickup.”
Boba didn’t answer right away. He just leaned back in the co-pilot’s chair, helmet off, arms crossed over his chest like a teenager who wasn’t quite ready to say what he meant.
“You could’ve called sooner, you know,” he finally muttered. “Would’ve come faster.”
“I know,” she said, quiet.
Bosk snorted from the cockpit. “Sentimental karkin’ clones. Always needin’ someone to save their shebs.”
She ignored him.
Boba didn’t. “Stow it, lizard.”
After a beat, he glanced back at her. “You’re not going back, are you?”
She didn’t answer.
“You should stay,” Boba said. “The crew’s solid. And you’re… you were like an older sister. On Kamino. When it was just me and those cold halls. You didn’t treat me like a copy.”
That one hit her like a vibroblade to the gut.
“I couldn’t stand seeing your face,” she admitted. “All I saw was Jango.”
He looked away. “Yeah. Well… I am him.”
She stood, stepped over to him, and rested a bruised hand on his shoulder.
“You’re better. You got his spine, his stubbornness. But you’ve got your own code, too. Jango… Jango would’ve left me behind if it suited him. You didn’t.”
He looked at her, lip twitching. “Yeah, well. You trained half the commanders in the GAR. You think I was about to let Fox be the one to kill you?”
She smirked. “Sentimental.”
He rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”
She moved toward the ramp. “Thank you, Boba. But I can’t stay.”
“You don’t have to run forever.”
“No,” she said, voice thick. “Just long enough to finish what I started.”
And with that, she slipped through the rear hatch, into the wind, into whatever system they dropped her in next.
⸻
Wolffe stood silent, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm. Thorn sat across from him, jaw tight, armor scraped and bloodied.
Plo Koon entered without fanfare, his robes trailing dust from the Outer Rim.
“You two look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the Kel Dor said mildly.
“She might as well be,” Thorn muttered.
“We had her,” Wolffe said. “Fox did. And she slipped through his fingers.”
Plo regarded them both for a long moment.
“I assume there is tension because Fox and Thorn were in charge of the op?”
Wolffe’s jaw tightened.
Thorn spoke first. “She’s dangerous. She’s working with bounty hunters now. It’s only a matter of time before she turns that knife toward the Republic.”
“Perhaps,” Plo murmured, folding his hands. “Or perhaps she is a wounded soldier, betrayed by the very people she once called vode.”
Wolffe’s shoulders stiffened.
“She made her choice,” he said flatly.
“And yet,” Plo said, gently, “I sense hesitation in you, Commander. Pain.”
Wolffe didn’t respond.
“She is off-world now,” the Jedi continued, glancing at a tactical holo. “Potentially aligned with Separatist sympathizers. The Senate will push for her recapture. But I believe it would be wiser… more effective… for the 104th to take point on tracking her.”
Thorn straightened. “The Guard’s been assigned—”
“And you failed,” Plo said, not unkindly. “Let Wolffe try. Perhaps what’s needed now is not more firepower… but familiarity.”
Wolffe met Plo’s gaze. “You’re using this as a chance to fix me.”
“I’m giving you a chance,” Plo corrected. “To understand. To remember who she really is. Not what she became.”
Silence.
Then Wolffe slowly nodded.
“Then I’ll bring her in.”
Plo’s gaze softened beneath his mask.
“Or maybe,” he said, turning to leave, “you’ll let her bring you back.”
⸻
The atmosphere stank like rust and rot. Arix-7 was a graveyard of ships and skeletons—metal, bone, old wreckage from a thousand forgotten battles. The 104th picked through it like wolves in a burial field.
Wolffe moved ahead of the squad, visor low, silent.
Boost sidled up beside him. “You know, this place kinda reminds me of her. Sharp, full of ghosts, and ready to kill you if you step wrong.”
Sinker snorted. “Yeah, but she smelled better.”
“Cut the chatter,” Wolffe growled, tone clipped.
Boost shrugged. “Just saying. Weird to be tracking the person who taught you how to hold a blaster.”
“Worse to be planning how to shoot her,” Sinker added, quieter.
Wolffe didn’t respond.
He just kept moving.
They found her in the remains of a Republic frigate, buried deep in the moon’s crust, converted into a hideout. Cracked floors, scattered gear, a heat signature blinking faint and wounded—but moving.
She knew they were coming.
She was waiting.
⸻
They found her in the wreck of an old Separatist cruiser, rusted deep into the jagged crust of the moon. Sinker and Boost had gone in first—quick, confident, all muscle and old banter. That didn’t save them from being outmaneuvered and knocked out cold.
Wolffe found their unconscious bodies first. And then, her.
She stepped into the light like a shadow peeling off the wall—hood pulled low, face scraped and bloodied but eyes still burning.
“You always send the pups in first?” she asked. “Or were they just stupid enough to come on their own?”
Wolffe charged her without a word.
Hand-to-hand. Just like she trained him.
But she didn’t hold back this time—and neither did he.
She was still faster. Still sharper. Still cruel with her movements, a blade honed by years outside the Republic’s rule.
But Wolffe had strength and control, and he’d stopped pulling punches years ago.
They traded blows. She bloodied his mouth. He cracked her ribs. He pinned her. She slipped free.
Then came him.
The air shifted—sharp with ozone and tension—and suddenly Plo Coon was between them. Calm. Powerful. Alien eyes behind his antiox mask, watching her without familiarity, without sentiment.
“Step down,” Plo said.
She bristled. “Another Jedi. Wonderful. Let me guess—here to ‘redeem’ me?”
“I don’t know you,” Plo answered. “But I know what you’ve done. And I know you were once theirs.”
“I was never yours.”
“Good,” Plo said, igniting his saber. “Then this will be easier.”
They fought.
The air crackled.
She struck first—fast and brutal, close-range, aiming to disable before he could bring the Force to bear. But Plo Coon had fought Sith, droids, beasts. He wasn’t unprepared for feral grace and dirty tricks.
He parried. Dodged. Let her come to him.
“You’re angry,” he said through gritted teeth. “But not lost.”
She lunged. “You don’t know me.”
“No. But I sense your pain. You’re not just running. You’re bleeding.”
“Pain is what’s kept me alive!”
He knocked her off balance, sent her tumbling. She scrambled, but he held her in place with a subtle lift of the hand, the Force pinning her in a crouch.
“Enough,” he said, not unkindly.
She panted, teeth grit, shoulders trembling.
“I don’t know why you left them. I don’t care. I only ask you stop now, before someone dies who doesn’t need to.”
Her gaze flicked past him, to Wolffe—who stood in silence, jaw tight, one eye focused and guarded.
“You Jedi think you know everything,” she hissed. “But you don’t know what it’s like to train them. To love them. And to choose between them.”
That made Plo pause.
“I chose nothing,” she said. “And it still broke them.”
The silence that followed was colder than the void outside.
Plo stared at her for a long moment.
Then, slowly—he stepped back.
Released the Force.
“You’ll run again,” he said, saber still lit. “But I won’t be the one to kill someone trying to hold herself together.”
She blinked.
“You’re… letting me go?”
“I’m giving you a moment,” he said. “What you do with it is yours to answer for.”
Wolffe took a step forward.
Plo stopped him with a look.
“She’s off world. Unarmed. And—” his voice lowered, “—no longer a priority.”
Wolffe’s fists clenched.
She didn’t wait.
She bolted into the wreckage, shadows swallowing her whole. Gone again.
This time, no one followed.
honestly, my favourite way of seeing the picture of dorian gray is a sick love triangle.
- basil loves dorian with all of his soul and he lets it devour him. henry loves basil in a sick “you’re my only equal” type of way, and dorian is completely submissive to lord henry.
basil’s love for dorian is the emotional centre of the picture of dorian gray - he’s completely consumed and lost in the tragedy of unrequited love and he feels it so much - that same love ends up killing him. the entire time with basil, his love is prominent. no, it isn’t just adoration and obsession. he worships him, but also loves him. he is constantly warning dorian and he never pushed him to do anything, he always looked out for dorian and wanted him to be happy, leading to his death. he was devoured by him. completely. he couldn’t paint without him, he couldn’t look at dorian without trembling. basil’s emotional character believed loving dorian was worth the pain. and that ends up murdering him.
henry’s love for basil is the most interesting to me. lord henry seems to crave influence over others around him, and all are influenced by him, all but basil. basil argues, disagrees, and even when henry mocks him, he still listens. he still cares for basil even through a twisted way. he cares for him because basil is the only person who wasn’t influenced. his only equal. the only one he can rely on arguing back and standing against him. basil is a long-term friend and unlike most of henry’s phases with friendships, they seem to still be close and constantly close. as soon as basil starts describing dorian and his obsession with him, henry doesn’t seem pleased and is eager to change dorian. and he does just that. he pushes basil’s buttons constantly because he knows basil cares and will react with emotion, unlike dorian who becomes increasingly detached. henry wants emotion because he lacks it. he needs someone who is devoured and powered by emotion because he cannot feel emotions anymore. he needs someone to contrast him. he enjoys seeing the emotional reaction over dorian’s. if he was ever able to be emotionally honest and vulnerable, he would do it with the one man he knows will be honest and emotional with him. he enjoys basil because basil is the reality. he’s there, he thinks what he thinks and he won’t be shaped by henry. dorian is the muse. easily shaped and formed. the tragedy is that he unfortunately prefers control - not connection. that’s why he picks dorian. he knows he’s better with control and he prefers the control because of it. basil forces a connection, he doesn’t like being controlled and won’t let henry control him.
dorian is young, naïve and doesn’t think for himself. henry steps into his life, and he immediately changes - when henry didn’t actually need to do much. dorian seems to submit to henry easily and very quickly. he was seduced and deeply influenced. he quotes henry constantly, he acts independent while also submitting to henry and obeying him. henry’s voice is constantly leading him - even when henry is spewing a thousand lies that even he doesn’t believe.
this makes the triangle so beautiful. none of the love is balanced. no one is giving back what they’re given. it’s unbalanced, it’s bound to fall apart and it’s dangerous. dorian kills the one man who loved him, dorian falls for lies, henry forgets about the one person who cared, henry gets lost in control when he could’ve had vulnerability, basil is killed by the person he adored with all of his soul and that same person he loved was influenced by one of the people basil cared about the most. tragic, but oscar wilde knows how to write a brilliant dynamic.