Are you with me? All the way.

The first full day planetside is spent juggling meetings with politicians, dignitaries, and diplomats, each with conflicting opinions on how the Republic should assist. The most infuriating part is trying to gauge exactly how far the Republic can step in without making it look like meddling. She was told early and often that interference is a major “no-no” when it comes to earning Alderaanian favor. It’s a balancing act they’ve performed on other worlds, but here, the stakes feel higher, like the entire planet could ignite into full-scale civil war with a single wrong move. Their options feel painfully limited, leaving them fighting with one arm tied behind their backs. By the end of the day, her mind spins and her nerves ache for action. Anything beyond more drawn-out political nonsense.

Aric handles these slower days far better than she does—a skill she attributes to his time with the Deadeyes. His calm, steady presence is a grounding force at her side. From experience, she knows he hates this kind of work almost as much as she does, but he hides it well; his patience never falters. More than once, it’s the only thing keeping her from storming out of a room or snapping at some dithering politician. As yet another official drones on, she catches herself wondering when exactly he started having that effect on her—replacing irritation with a curious sort of… tethered calm, instead of the urge to prod him until he snapped.

————————

Once they escape the political doldrums of the capital, the pace of their missions ramps up and up and up until it feels like they’re at a dead run.

Still, this breakneck pace suits her far better than doing nothing.

“Here, thought you might be hungry.” Aric approaches, carrying some sort of instant food packet in each hand. It feels like the first break they’ve had in days other than to catch a few fitful hours of sleep at night. “Doesnt look great, but it’s food. Or so I’m told.”

“Don’t you know how to make a girl feel special.” She quips, taking the proffered container. It’s one of those types of comments that once upon a time would’ve earned her a lecture, or at a minimum, his sour mood for the rest of the day.

Or maybe it was just comments like that directed at Balker. She never really did figure that out.

Whatever the case, it certainly isn’t anything like that now.

“Well, if I’d known it was that easy…” There’s this glint in his eye, this mischievous quirk to his brow that sends a shiver dancing across her skin.

This—whatever this has become—is happening far too easily. The way their conversations slip into something familiar and warm without either of them meaning to, as natural as covering each other in a firefight.

Nothing will ever come of it, she reminds herself. It can’t. Aric Jorgan is discipline incarnate, nothing if not a model soldier, and neither of them are stupid, even if this flirting probably is.

She shakes the thought away and peels back the wrapper on the instant meal. She wrinkles her nose at the steaming brown mush in the container. “What even is this?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. Probably better off not thinking about it.”

“At least it’s warm.”

There is a stream gurgling quietly nearby, its clear water cutting a ribbon through the terrain. For now, they have just a few spare minutes while a thranta is being readied to carry them to the next outpost. Na’bria wishes there was time to kick off her boots and roll up her pants, letting the cold water lap against her ankles for a bit.

There’s never enough time.

“So,” she says, after she’s managed to choke down a few bites. If there’s one benefit to having been raised on military rations, it’s that she’s learned to make do with just about anything that even resembles food. “On a scale from minor headache to full blown Alderaanian civil war, what do you wanna bet the situation on this planet will be by the time we’re done here?”

“I suppose it’s probably too optimistic to hope that civil war is not something we’ll have to deal with, right?”

She snorts, and they finish the rest of the meal in companionable silence.

“Well,” Aric says, washing down his last bite with a swig from his canteen. “Looks like our ride is ready.”

The camp they’re at now is a good distance out from the capital, and transport out here is slim. Na’bria eyes the solitary thranta hitched near the command tent, and the small saddle tied down to its back, both of their gear strapped to its belly. Seems they’ll be sharing a ride to the next outpost.

The thranta shifts its weight as Na’bria steps up onto the mounting block, drifting slightly in the cool breeze.

Na’bria swings into the saddle first, settling in and adjusting the harness. He climbs up after her, the saddle creaking slightly under the added weight. He fits in close, but there isn’t really another option. He tightens the straps around his waist, and his knee brushes the back of her thigh. It’s brief. Incidental. Her skin reacts anyway, a sharp, unwelcome awareness sparking where they touch.

Then the Thranta suddenly lurches into the air. Aric’s grip on the saddle tightens reflexively, his forearm grazing her side as he steadies them both, and the way her stomach flips, she fears, has nothing to do with the ground quickly dropping away beneath them.

Damn flirting.

————————

The Killiks unnerve him more than he likes to admit.

It isn’t just the giant chitin carapaces, or the way they move in unsettling, seamless unison. It’s what they do to people. Pheromones rewiring brain chemistry. Individual thought dissolving into the collective hum they call the Song of the Universe. The idea of losing yourself and not even knowing it’s happening sits wrong in his gut in a way blaster fire never has. At least blaster fire is straightforward and honest.

When a mission brings Havoc into contact with a group of Republic scientists working on a way to reverse Killik joining, Aric finds himself watching Na’bria more than the bugs. As the scientists explain their findings in clinical terms, all he can think about is Taris. About her stepping forward without hesitation to let a rackghoul tear into her because it was the fastest way to get answers, and he finds himself with the sinking worry that Na’bria will volunteer to become a killik joiner.

His fears there, thank the stars, prove unfounded, and he dares to hope that maybe she’s finally gained a healthy respect for brains over bravado in their time together since Taris.

The illusion is short lived.

Not two days later, she goes and without hesitation offers herself up as a sacrificial lamb for Wolf Baron Thul in exchange for the release of a bunch of pompous Organa noblemen that had been taken prisoner instead.

Sometimes he’d really like to knock some damn sense into her thick skull.

Probably would too, if it weren’t for the fact that her qualities that infuriate him so weren’t also what made him respect her more than any other commander he’s served under.

————————

Aric doesn’t pace.

Not usually.

Patience is a discipline, one he’d drilled into himself long before Havoc. He’s spent days lying prone behind a rifle, breath slow, pulse steady, waiting for a single clean shot.

But now he’s wearing a path into the stone floor of the command room.

Back and forth. Boot heel. Turn. Three strides. Turn again.

It takes almost 24 hours for the Organas to decide on a rescue plan, and he paces the entire time.

————————

Aric closes the distance before the cell barrier has even fully lowered.

“What the hell were you thinking, Alarai?” he all but growls, anger and relief at the sight of her standing and still in one piece tangling so tightly in his chest that he doesn’t bother softening the edge.

Despite the circumstances she manages to have the audacity to look annoyed. “Jorgan I’m fine. It was one life against many, what other call could I make?”

Not just one life. Your life, he wants to protest as the rest of the rescue team files in around them, but he stamps the selfish thought and its damned implications down before it slips out. He won’t make this about something it can’t afford to be.

“Besides,” she says, with her signature smirk, that familiar stance with a hand on her hip. There’s exhaustion in the set of her shoulders and a bruise blooming along her jaw, but her spark never dims. “Knew you’d come after me.”

————————

The romance of a warrior’s end, the idea that there’s glory in dying on a battlefield is a young man’s delusion—born from stories told by those who survived and polished by those who never saw the bodies up close.

Na’bria has never quite believed in it. Her parents’ deaths tore through that illusion when she was still young enough to want to believe in something noble about sacrifice. She enlisted anyway, years later—not for glory, but for purpose. Something that meant the losses counted for more than a line in a report.

Gearbox dies hard.

Not gloriously. Not with any last words worth remembering. Just stubborn to the bitter end, blaster fire ricocheting off metal and shattered stone as Havoc presses in from three sides. The fight is tight and loud and over too fast to feel satisfying.

They’d tracked him across half the planet. Through noble estates and burned-out villages, through Killik-infested wilds and House skirmishes that weren’t theirs to fight but somehow always became their problem anyway.

Now he lies still.

The hunt for the traitors doesn’t feel the same anymore. The sharp, personal edge of vengeance has dulled under the weight of everything else pressing in on the galaxy. And somehow, standing over another fallen name on the list, she feels less like they’ve struck a decisive blow and more like they’ve stamped out a single ember while the horizon continues to glow with larger fires.

There are bigger stakes now than one man’s betrayal.

Aric steps up beside her, rifle settling against his back. He studies the body for a long moment.

“Stubborn bastard,” he says at last, which under different circumstances she might’ve found ironic coming from him. “He didn’t hesitate. Even when he knew it was over.”

“No,” she replies quietly. “He didn’t.”

A beat passes.

“Think he believed it?” she asks. “That it was worth it?”

Aric exhales slowly through his nose. “Doesn’t matter what he believed. Still ended up here.”

She glances over at him to see he’s already looking at her, something unreadable in his gaze. Like he wants to say something else - or something more, she can’t tell - but what she can tell is that she’s been holding his gaze too long and she wants him to say something more and that just won’t do.

She’s almost relieved when Dorne, already on the holocom with someone back at the Organa castle reporting their success and calling in a cleanup crew. One the definite perks of being the republic’s top squad - they rarely had to deal with their battle’s aftermath.

Aric clears his throat, finally tearing his gaze away. “Let’s head out.”

————————

As they’re preparing to leave Alderaan, the ship’s hyperdrive goes up in smoke. They’re left scrounging the local markets for parts, split up to cover more ground and hopefully find what they need quickly. Aric’s eyes drift over the booths, scanning the jumble of trinkets, tools, and scraps, when something catches the afternoon sun—a small, shiny blue stone. He’s not quite sure why he immediately thinks of her when he sees it, but then it hits him: It’s the exact shade of her eyes, he’s sure. A ridiculous thing to know, but apparently that’s where his mind has wandered these days.

The troidarin booth owner catches him looking and flutters over.

“Pretty stone for a pretty lady, eh?” He says, lifting the gem and holding it out towards him.

It would look nice on her.

For a brief, entirely self-indulgent moment, he considers buying it. Butt it’s a completely impractical gift, with too many completely impractical implications.

When the hyperdrive ends up taking the whole following day to prepare, he goes back to the market for additional parts. The stone is still there. He’d like to say he’s buying it on impulse—but after seeing that specific shade of blue every time he closed his eyes last night, that’s clearly a lie.

Besides, it’s just a small trinket. Doesn’t have to mean anything. Doesn’t have to end up in her hands at all.

And yet…

On the way back to the ship, he passes a jeweler. Silver chains gleam in the sunlight—chains that would perfectly suit the stone. He stops for a moment, turning the idea over in his mind. No, he tells himself. Bad idea. And there is no doubt that it is a bad idea, practically speaking.

But maybe it isn’t about meaning. Maybe it’s just… doing something nice. That can’t be wrong, especially after everything they’ve been through lately.

Dorne has taken some getting used to. She knows the Republic Military Code better than the ones who wrote it, and she quotes addendums he’s only ever skimmed. But for all her competence, he still feels that faint, instinctive hitch of caution whenever she speaks, some part of his brain wired on survival instinct registering it as the voice of the enemy.

And then there’s M1-4X. The droid is patriotic enough to make everyone else in the entire Republic army look underzealous by comparison as he speaks at maximum volume about justice, freedom, and “efficient termination of all enemies of the glorious Republic.”

They make an interesting group, but somehow… it works.

Aric stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the… crew - their crew - settle into an activity that still feels foreign on a military vessel: a board game.

The air shimmers with the soft glow of the game’s holographic projection, a miniature star system floating above the table, ships darting between planets, laser beams arching in midair. The display changes with each move, rotating and expanding as the players manipulate their pieces with flicks of their hands.

Dorne sits perfectly upright at the table, eyes sharp, fingers tapping a datapad she’s clearly using to calculate odds and memorize every rule. Across from her, M1-4X leans forward, metallic hands hovering over the board, whirring softly.

“INITIATING STRATEGIC DOMINATION. ALL ENEMIES WILL BE NEUTRALIZED WITH EFFICIENCY AND PRECISION.”

Dorne sighs, not looking up. “M1-4X, the objective here is points, not extermination. Please stick to the rules.”

“ACKNOWLEDGED, SERGEANT DORNE. MAXIMIZING POINT ACQUISITION.” The droid’s metallic appendages are too large to easily work the holotable, but he manages to send a fleet of tiny warships into an overly aggressive attack trajectory. Lasers streak the projection and a planet blinks out of existence.

Na’bria (Alarai, your CO, he corrects himself again) is perched sideways on the couch with one leg tucked under her, studying the holographic battlefield. She isn’t playing yet—just observing—but she’s paying attention to everything: the droid’s aggressive maneuvers, Dorne’s precise formations, the subtle gaps in their virtual defenses. When she finally leans forward to place a piece of her own, it’s deliberate, precise and calculated.

He’s not sure why, but when they first met he’d initially pegged her as sloppy, careless maybe. Something in her attitude, her posture, the loose casual way she carried herself. It didn’t take long, though, to realize the inaccuracy of that assumption.

He may be quick to judge but at least he’s not above reevaluating his opinion.

She puts an incredible ammount of attention to detail in her work, whether is caring for the ship, writing a mission report, or just playing a silly game.

Lately, he’s caught himself memorizing the most ridiculous tiny details about her, like a puzzle he's trying to piece together in his mind - the way she chews in her lower lip while working through particularly tedious paperwork, which blaster is her favorite, how she likes her caf in the mornings. And by the stars, none of those things matter, Jorgan - but it's becoming a habit he can't seem to shake.

And here he is, doing it again.

The crew laughs at something Four-ex says—something about “gloriously vaporizing all threats”—and she glances over at Aric, eyebrow lifting in silent amusement.

He looks away before she can read anything in his expression.

_______________

Na’bria has always prided herself on knowing the rules of engagement—spoken and unspoken. She knows how to needle, how to provoke just enough to keep control of a conversation. With Aric Jorgan, especially, that rhythm had been set right from the get go: jab, parry, retreat behind sarcasm. This banter has become routine, predictable.

Instinct, really, almost in the same way flirting with Balker had been, but this is subtler than that, and somehow far more insidious.

There’s just something in the way she anticipates his glances before they happen, the way she finds herself adjusting her tone, timing her words just so when he’s around. There’s something in the little moments, when she notices him looking at her, and the corner of his mouth flickers with something she can’t name.

What used to feel like control now feels like balance, and balance can tip far more easily than dominance ever could.

Which is why it’s only as she makes a weird remark to his completely normal question about weapon inspections that she begins to realize something has shifted.

“Looking for an excuse to look through my personal effects, are we?” The words tumble out, sharp and teasing in her usual fashion—but now there’s a different undertone. Her stomach knots instantly.

She knows exactly how that sounds.

She knows exactly how it will land.

She has no idea why she said it.

Maybe it’s muscle memory, leftover habits from when needling him had been a way to throw him off balance, to reclaim ground. Back when their banter had been a defensive maneuver, not… whatever this is.

But, unlike before, he looks the complete opposite of thrown off. He doesn’t falter.

Instead, one eyebrow rises in a precise, calculated way that does something unsettling to her equilibrium, tilting it just a few dangerous degrees off center.

“Why?” he asks calmly. “Something you don’t want me to find?”

His tone is smooth, deliberate. There’s an undercurrent there, a faint thread of challenge woven through his voice that sends a shiver skating down her spine before she can stop it. She didn’t know he even could be smooth, didn’t know he could wield charm like this, and the laugh that bubbles up comes out far more breathless than she’d like. Her mind scrambles for footing, for the old familiar script. Sarcasm has always been a reliable shield.

“If I didn’t know better, Jorgan,” she says, arching a brow, “I’d say you were flirting.”

But he doesn’t deny it.

He leans back just enough—casual, unhurried—and that small movement somehow shifts the entire dynamic of the space. It’s subtle, but she feels it, the way one feels pressure change before a storm.

“It’s possible, sir,” he replies easily. “Just don’t tell Dorne.”

Next Chapter:

Previous Chapter:

Na’bria doesn’t hesitate. She’s everywhere at once, delegating Dorne to triage the most critical civilians while she moves through the crowd herself, assessing, directing, prioritizing. Her eyes flick from one person to another, reading wounds, calculating what can wait and what cannot.

What impresses him most is that she still cares—truly cares—about each person she tries to help. He’s seen too many soldiers harden themselves, shut down their empathy to survive the brutality of war. Most would call it necessary, practical even. Garza had tried to drill that into her right from the get go, but clearly that lesson didn’t stick. In this case, he thinks her stubborn refusal to bend does her credit. She doesn’t allow herself that ease. She bears the weight of everyone she touches, and carries on. It’s brave in a way that he can’t help but admire.

Aric finds himself thinking back to Ord Mantell, to the woman he first met, all swagger and bravado, who laughed in the face of danger. That’s still there, of course, but watching her now he can see that beneath all that is a proud and honorable soldier who refuses to be broken by circumstance.

_______________

Tatooine is a veritable nightmare on her pure white skin.

She makes a sound of frustration as she adjusts the scarf around her head for what feels like the millionth time. It doesn’t seem to matter how she arranges it - Tatooine’s unrelenting twin suns are determined to burn any exposed skin to a crisp.

“You alright, sir?” Aric asks from his position perched on a stone mesa beside her, rifle scope glinting in the brutal light as he scans the vast sea of desert below and the abandoned town the Geonosians have claimed.

“I’ll live,” she sighs, wishing for the millionth time this planet had even an ounce of shade. She’d even take a bush or small shrub at this point. A cloud seems like too much to realistically hope for.

It doesn’t help her frustration that their only lead at the moment comes from the word of a traitor, even if Fuze does seem for the most part contrite. It hardly seems enough to go on (let alone trustworthy) but it’s all they’ve got.

“Good to know,” Jorgan retorts, dryly as always, but she thinks she’s starting to read him now, starting to pick up on the faint inflections that separate grumpy from grumpier. And this one? This one is meant to be funny.

With Nar Shaddaa behind them and Jonas Balker in the distance, things between them seem to have settled back to normal… or whatever normal is for them lately, but at least it feels a lot less hostile than before. Like the ground between them has settled again.

Just hearing his voice without that edge of frustration or whatever it was that she wasn’t supposed to notice lets her shoulders drop an inch. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until she wasn’t anymore.

“Six guards outside,” he reports, tone shifting into business. “Three to the north at the main entrance, one each at the south, east, and west. Shouldn’t be hard to take care of.” His finger hovers over the trigger.

“You know, we can move closer.”

“No need.” He fires three shots in rapid succession—crisp, precise cracks that echo off the rocks. Below, the three guards at the north entrance crumple like puppets with their strings cut.

“Show off,” she mutters, and he smirks but doesn’t bother denying it. He shifts slightly, angling the rifle. The smooth confidence in the motion draws her attention for a moment longer than she intends. He’s annoyingly good at this—calm, steady, focused. He lines up another shot, but pauses. “South guard keeps pacing. Wait… now.” Another clean crack rings out, and the distant figure drops.

Na’bria lets out a low whistle. ““Alright, hotshot, you planning on doing all the work?”

“Only the fun parts.” He doesn’t look at her, but she catches the slight raise of his brow.

“Well, don’t have too much fun. I’d hate to have to put on the mission report that you soloed the entire mission while your commanding officer hid under a scarf and whined about the sun.”

He glances up from the scope, amusement unmistakable. He pretends to think about it, tapping a claw lightly against the rifle’s casing. “I suppose I could let you handle the enemies inside. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of all the heroism on the mission report.”

She snorts. “How generous.”

Two more shots ring out. Aric lowers the rifle, satisfied. “Perimeter’s clear.” He rises from his crouch, slinging the rifle across his back with a smooth, practiced motion. “Besides, close-quarters is more your style. More dramatic.”

She opens her mouth to argue, and then catches the flicker of amusement in his eyes. He’s teasing her. On purpose.

And stars help her, she likes it.

_______________

After three weeks on Tatooine, Aric thinks his clothes, body, and armor will never be completely sand free again.

Sand gets into everything.

Aric already knew this, in the broad, abstract sense—he’d been deployed on desert worlds before, had spent enough miserable hours brushing grit out of rifle chambers to last a lifetime.

But Tatooine? Tatooine feels like punishment. The sand here seeps under armor plating. It infiltrates sealed compartments. It burrows into his skin like it’s trying to take up permanent residence there.

He leans his shoulder against the battered wall of the safe house they’re hunkered down in, glaring out the narrow window slit. The sandstorm outside is thick enough to turn the world into a boiling blur of beige. It slams against the duracrete with a sound like gravel poured from orbit.

He can taste the sand every time he breathes, even though the place is sealed tight.

The storm trapped them indoors hours ago. Which means they’ve been sitting here. Waiting.

“Lieutenant,” Dorne’s prim voice calls from around the corner, “I should note that the cooling unit is operating at only twenty-six percent efficiency. It won’t hold this temperature for long.”

“It’s not holding it now,” Aric mutters.

Dorne pretends she doesn’t hear him. She’s knelt beside a wounded civilian the locals brought in before the storm hit, running a quiet diagnostic with her medscanner. Her hair is pinned up in regulation perfection despite the heat.

Near her, M1-4X stands sentinel, chest lights pulsing a soft amber. The droid occasionally cycles through an encouraging “MORALE BOLSTERING SPEECH" about heat resilience or the honor of protecting innocent civilians from Imperial tyranny—always at full volume.

Na’bria finally threatens to disconnect his voice modulators if he doesn’t lower it two notches.

Four-ex, somehow looking wounded, obeys.

Aric would thank her if he weren’t too busy glaring at the sandstorm.

“Any updates?” Na’bria asks from behind him.

Her voice pulls him from his thoughts. He glances back. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, datapad in hand, hair damp with sweat from either the heat or stress. Likely both. She’s stripped out of her heavy outer layers and pushed the sleeves of her undershirt up past her elbows to catch what little airflow exists.

She looks exhausted. So does he, probably.

“No,” Aric huffs. “Storms not supposed to clear for at least another day. Maybe longer.”

Na’bria lets her datapad fall to her lap. “Perfect. Just what we need.”

Aric snorts. “We don’t even have a real lead.”

“We do have a lead.”

“Yes,” he snaps, “from Fuze.”

Her mouth tightens. “…Fair.”

Fuze, the traitor. He’s a stain on Havoc’s history Aric can’t scrub away. Aric’s ears flatten with irritation.

“I don’t get,” he mutters, pacing, “how we’re supposed to trust intel from a man who abandoned everything the Republic stands for.”

“Not trust,” Na’bria says softly. “Just use.”

He huffs. “Feels the same.”

A beat of silence. Only M1-4X humming some patriotic jingle in the background. Then the wind kicks back up full force.

She gives him a sympathetic half-smile. “We’ll sort it out once the storm calms. I trust your instincts.”

That warms something low in his chest. His frustrations, however, still refuse to die quietly.

“Doesn’t help,” Aric continues, “that we’ve got the SIS breathing down our necks about this Czerka situation.”

Na’bria’s brows lift. “Don’t remind me.”

“We’re supposed to be tracking a bomber and taking Fuze into custody. Civilians are dying. But instead?” He gestures sharply. “The SIS calls and says, ‘Actually, we need you to put a pin in that and investigate some half-classified corporate research on the side.’”

”It would help if we even knew what Czerka and the SIS are looking for. Probably something illegal.”

“Everything the SIS does is illegal,” he grumbles, and she laughs lightly. It cuts through the heavy air like a welcome breeze. He can’t help glancing at her, lingering a moment too long on the curve of her smile before he catches himself and looks away.

“The SIS always gets in our way,” Aric mutters. “They dangle some cryptic intel, demand priority, then disappear when things hit the fan. Meanwhile we’re stuck picking up the pieces.”

Na’bria leans back on her hands, stretching her legs out. It’s no surprise that she easily picks up on what’s really bothering him, at least where the SIS is concerned. “Any word on the Deadeyes?”

“Not yet,” he says tightly. “They’re out there. Buried in some Imperial black site while the SIS keeps us chasing shadows.”

“We’ll get them back,” she says firmly.

He meets her gaze. Those clear, steady eyes don’t flinch, don’t mock, don’t pity. Just hold him.

“I know what they meant to you,” she continues. “What they still mean.”

He swallows hard. “It’s probably for the best that we haven’t heard anything. It doesn’t look like we’re getting out of here any time soon.

“Stars,” she sighs, rubbing the back of her neck, “this place is awful.”

He huffs a laugh. “Now that’s something we can agree on wholeheartedly.”

Na’bria’s jaw sets. “The SIS can shove the Czerka file for now. Fuze and the Deadeyes come first.”

He nods. “Agreed.”

Outside, the storm howls louder, battering the safehouse so hard the walls vibrate.

M1-4X booms, “HOLD STRONG, HEROES OF THE REPUBLIC! NO STORM CAN QUELL THE RIGHTEOUS—”

“Four-ex,” Na’bria says wearily, “indoor voice.”

The droid immediately reduces volume. “Apologies, Lieutenant. Reducing intensity of encouragement now.”

Aric exhales, almost a laugh, despite everything.

_______________

Tatoooine’s sand truly does get everywhere.

Even inside the Thunderclap, with the blast doors sealed and three layers of durasteel and an entire spaceport between it and the desert wastes, Na’bria can still feel a thin film of sand over everything.

She sits alone on the ramp steps, fingertips idly brushing patterns in the dust. The ship is dim, lights dulled to conserve power while they get ready for takeoff. Behind her, the faint sounds of activity echo through the cargo bay: Elara moving methodically through medical supplies, checking and re-checking them; M1-4X pacing his self-assigned patrol track with slow, whirring precision.

She hasn’t been able to stop replaying that moment—Gorik slipping away into the chaos with the bomb schematics tucked safely under his arm. Escaping because she let him. Because she chose Fuze.

Fuze, whose gentle nature always seemed at odds with his affinity for explosives.

Fuze, who defected. Who built a bomb that murdered civilians. Who looked at her with the same warm eyes she remembered and asked her to leave him to die.

Her justification feels thinner every time she rethinks it. He’s still a Republic citizen. He’s still one of ours. He deserves a trial. He deserves a chance to come back.

Or maybe she was just too much of a coward not to pull the trigger on someone she once called a friend.

A shadow falls over her, light blocked by a tall silhouette. She doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. She wonders how long he’s been watching her. Wonders, too, why it matter, why it alters things. She can't remember the last time she allowed someone to have that impact on her, isn't even sure anyone’s had that effect before.

“You don’t seem happy with how things went,” Aric says. It isn’t an accusation. It’s just… true.

“That obvious, huh?,” she mutters, “What gave it away? The thousand-yard stare?”

“Or the fact that you’ve been sitting in the same spot for an hour, and you hate sitting still,” he deadpans, and sits on the step beside her. Not too close, not far enough to feel like he’s keeping space. He rests his elbows on his knees just like she is, mirroring without meaning to.

He doesn't say anything immediately. She appreciates that, how he never forces her to talk, how he waits like the words are something she can hand to him instead of something he demands.

So she hands them to him.

“I thought Havoc Squad was going to be about doing good. About saving lives and stopping the Empire and being part of something heroic. Maybe that was naive.” Her fingers pick a pebble out of a crack in the ramp, roll it between them. “I didn’t… I didn’t think it would mean hunting down the people I used to eat breakfast with. People I joked with. People who used to trust me.”

She tosses the pebble down the ramp, and Aric’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “I know.”

She lifts her head. He’s looking forward, not at her, gaze fixed on the metal floor like it’s easier to talk to than another person.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to feel good about it, but you don’t need to beat yourself up about killing former Republic soldiers, either. They made the choice, not you. Once Tavus and the others made the decision to leave, there really wasn’t any other choice left for the rest of us. You did what you had to, sir,” he pauses for a moment. “And… for what it’s worth, I think you made the right call here. Sparing Fuze, I mean. The Republic should take care of its own. It’s not doing that that got us into this mess in the first place.”

She blinks. “…Really?”

“Really.” He glances at her now, green eyes steady. “You made a call because you believed someone you cared about deserved a second chance. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you decent.”

A beat.

“And decent people are in short supply in this galaxy.”

Despite herself and the conversation at hand, she chokes out a laugh. “Is that approval I hear? Who are you and what have you done with Aric Jorgan?”

He rolls his eyes and smiles at her then, just briefly. A flash and it’s gone, but it’s not just his usual dry, cynical smirk. It’s a real, genuine smile, all bright sharp teeth, an expression that’s so unexpectedly warm and inviting that she thinks she’ll have to try and get him to smile like that more often.

“A compliment and a smile?” She can’t help but tease, because it’s better than focusing on the way that damn fluttery feeling is back now. She hoped that had been left behind with the Blaker unpleasantness on Tatooine, but no matter how hard she tries to stamp it down it seems stubbornly here to stay. “I should’ve gotten this on a holo recording.”

“Oh forget it, see if I ever say anything nice again,” he grumbles, but there’s still a hint of a smile on his face and in his eyes, and a warmth in his voice that definitely wasn’t there a few months ago, and she leaves Tatooine feeling lighter than she has since Ord Mantell.

Next Chapter:

Previous chapter:

She allows her gaze to wander over her team as they stand in the airlock, performing one last sweep of their gear. The mood is tense but disciplined.

Dorne is methodically rechecking the seals on her gauntlets, her expression all precision and professionalism. For her, Tavus is a name on a dossier, a significant threat categorized and filed but nothing personal.

Forex hums quietly, weapon systems readying in a low buzz, ever eager to charge into another glorious engagement. Forex takes every slight against the Republic too personally, but still Tavus’s betrayal doesn’t strike the droid the way it does the organic members of the squad.

But Jorgan… Jorgan has as much of a stake in this as she does. Maybe more, in some ways. He lost his place in the chain of command because of Tavus. Lost his credibility. The man may hide behind gruff pragmatism and craggy discipline, but she sees it beneath the surface—the same drive she feels, the same need to settle this once and for all.

As her gaze lingers on him, a disquieting thought creeps in.

Once their business with Tavus is done—once the dust settles and the Republic decides what to do with the shattered remains of Havoc Squad—what reason would he have to stay?

She forces her eyes away at that. The thought is a sharper pain than it has any right to be. Maybe it’s the vulnerability of the moment. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s that she’s been leaning on him more than she meant to. But the truth hovers there, heavy and uncomfortably fragile: She doesn’t want him to leave.

_______________

It doesn’t matter anyway. It is a trap, of course. A minefield of laser fields and suicide drones and collapsing bulkheads. They all leave with an impressive array of burns, scrapes, and thoroughly soured moods. Alive, but bruised in every sense of the word.

She expected a trap going into this but somehow it feels like a slap to the face that Tavus hadn’t even bothered to face her himself. No confrontation. No reckoning. There was just a hollow flickering image on her holocom with the audacity to accuse her of murdering heroes.

She likes a fair fight, respects one, even when she loses. There’s dignity in it. After everything Tavus has put her through, she thought she at least deserved that much. A face-to-face. A chance to demand why. There’s no honor in luring your enemy into a trap, but that’s what you get from a traitor, she supposes. He took the coward’s way out on Ord Mantell too, traded all honor for a different uniform and this fancy dreadnought.

“Lieutenant! Report - were you able to neutralize tavus?” Garza’ a voice crackles over the ship’s holotable speakers.

“It was all just a setup. No tavus - just the shadow fist.” The words taste like acid. It’s telling that even Garza—ever stoic, ever sparing with praise—glosses over her usual criticisms. It would seem that even she felt that catching Tavus here was a long shot.

“On the plus side, you managed to wipe out the entire Shadow Fist,” she says, sounding almost pleased. “Ambushed by the Empire’s best and still standing. That’s no small feat.” Na’bria tries to take some consolation in that, summon some satisfaction, maybe even pride in that accomplishment. “Only option is to proceed as planned,” Garza continues. “Our technicians have determined your final two target locations: Tatooine, and Alderaan.”

_______________

They’re just setting Coordinates for Tatooine when Aric gets the call, and the news about his former squad sits like a stone in his gut. The lieutenant is still pacing the bridge like she’s trying to outrun the last vestiges of Tavus’s taunting holo and he hates to bring this up now but it just isn’t something he can ignore.

“More bad news, sir.” He calls out, stealing himself before crossing the bridge toward her. She turns instantly. Even tired, even frustrated, even with everything she’s already got on her shoulders, she listens attentively. He doesn’t know when that started to matter to him, but it does. “I just received a dispatch from command. It’s my old sniper squad, the deadeyes - they’ve been captured.”

Na’bria’s jaw tightens and her eyes soften—not exactly with pity or sympathy, but something sturdier. Something that lands deeper.

“I trained those men, sir. I need to know what happened to them.” He says. He expects hesitation. Maybe even the reminder that they’re on an active pursuit of Tavus. That Garza will skin them both alive if they deviate again. That Havoc’s mission has to come first.

But she doesn’t hesitate at all.

“Where should we start?”

We. Something in the way she says that - fierce, like it isn’t even a question - sends a tendril of warmth curling in his chest.

“Missions on Nar Shaddaa are usually green-lit but the SIS. With your permission, I’d like to meet with them. See what they know.”

“Well, we do know someone in the SIS…””

_______________

When that lead brings them to Nar Shaddaa with nothing more than Balker’s assurance that “something might be there,” she doesn’t blink. Not once. She's resolute by his side, breaking into an Imperial black-site prison without clearance from the SIS, without orders from the Republic Military, and with only the thinnest thread of intelligence to justify it. Just steady, unflinching readiness. For him. For his squad. For men she’s never even met.

They could have been court-martialed. Still might be.

He doesn’t know how to explain that her loyalty feels like a weight in his chest, warm and heavy in a way he isn’t used to. What he does know with undeniable certainty is that regardless of how he felt about it in the beginning, he’s lucky she’s the one he’s serving under now.

Previous chapter:

They’re supposed to be tracking down a rogue experimental republic war droid, not speed dating.

He’s not sure why he cares. Hell, even a month ago he would’ve confidently said he didn’t even like her. He tries to muster those feelings again, but it just didn’t feel as true as before. Somewhere between Havoc’s defection and trudging through the overgrown ruins of Taris he’d gone from begrudging tolerance to begrudging respect to something to something almost like camaraderie. He thinks of her then, facing down the rackghouls, no armor, all selfless idealism and bravery almost bordering on idiocy, and now there’s just this nagging thought that she could do better than someone like Balker, better than someone who’s nothing but smooth words in a sleazy cantina.

Deserves better.

And maybe if it wasn’t mid mission and he wasn't stuck listening to them it wouldn’t matter, but it is mid mission and it’s damned unprofessional to boot. Besides. She's the commander of Havoc Squad. The position alone should deserve some respect, even if she doesn’t want to act like it.

_______________

Everything on Nar Shaddaa is loud and bright and too close. Too many eyes. Too many unknowns.

Neon signs flicker and pulse from every direction, advertising services she doesn’t want and places she’d rather not imagine. The air smells like oil and spice and too many bodies packed into too little space. It feels like an assault on every one of her senses every time she steps outside.

If Coruscant is a city that learned to behave, Nar Shaddaa is one that learned absolutely nothing at all.

Jorgan must agree. “This place is starting to hurt my eyes,” she hears him mutter, somewhere slightly behind her and off to her left.

Na’bria grips her blaster tighter as she and Aric weave through the cluttered lower-market walkway. They’ve been searching for this rogue war droid for over a week now, and it feels like they aren’t even one step closer to finding it than they were when they first landed.

She hates this mission. She hates this moon. And today, she hates the way her thoughts keep circling back to Jorgan snapping at her a few days ago.

She steps around a vendor trying to push used blaster parts into her hands and shoots Jorgan a sideways look. He’s striding along behind her, jaw tight, eyes forward. She’s learned to read him enough to know when he’s annoyed (which is pretty much always) but right now he’s practically radiating it.

It could just be the mission.

Tracking down a stolen war droid on this planet-wide den of criminals is maddening enough to sour anyone’s mood. But she knows better. She saw the exact moment the tension hit - right after she laughed off Balkar’s ‘Trust me, there’s a reason I’m trying to get all this boring save the Republic business out of the way quickly’.

That little exchange still sits wrong in her chest. Balkar had been flirting, sure, but that’s just how he is. It bounces off of her without leaving a single mark. She flirted back because it was fun, and harmless, and because she almost never gets time for anything fun.

First Aric went stiff, then he snapped something curt about “Balker getting his priorities straight,” and then—Jorgan being Jorgan— pretended the conversation never happened. Shut down, like he did after Ord Mantell.

She can’t decide if it irritated her, or if it shouldn’t have irritated her but did anyway.

What Aric Jorgan thinks about her flirting is none of her business. Or rather, none of his business. And it’s certainly not something she should waste thought on while they’re hunting a stolen droid capable of cleaving a building in half.

But the thought loops anyway.

It's his unparalleled ability to make her feel like she's done something wrong that never ceases to bother her. She’d thought, maybe, they’d gotten past that somewhere in the jungles of Taris, but apparently they’re back to square one. She’s surprised, and then annoyed, at how much that stings.

She lets out a slow, irritated breath as they pass under another towering hologram—this one of a Twi’lek dancer ten stories tall, shimmering in pink and gold light. The glow reflects off Aric’s armor, catching on the hardened lines of his shoulders. He doesn’t blend in here, doesn’t soften into the noise or the chaos. He stands out, rigid and rule-bound in a place that thrives on bending every law ever written.

Na’bria ends up beside him, close enough to catch the way his jaw flexes as he scans the street. He doesn’t even glance at her, but she can tell he’s still thinking, still grinding something between his teeth. She can’t tell if it’s her… or the job… or both tangled so tightly even he hasn’t sorted it out.

She folds her arms and tries to push down the frustration bubbling beneath her ribs. Nar Shaddaa is too loud, too bright, too filthy for anything resembling clear thought.

“You’d think a droid capable of leveling a city block would be a little harder to misplace,” she mutters.

Aric grunts. “They covered their tracks well. And this moon’s full of people who’ll hide anything for enough credits.”

“Great,” Na’bria sighs. “So we get to keep wandering through this glowing trash heap until one of us goes blind from the neon.”

He gives her a look - half exasperated, half something else she can’t quite place.

“Stay focused, sir,” he says, but the words lack the bark they had earlier.

She rolls her eyes. She should keep quiet, not keep poking at the wound, but that’s a lesson she's never learned well and he’s really striking at that obstinate chord in her again today, so curiosity gets the better of her.

“Well,” she mutters, “maybe Balkar’s had better luck tracking it down. I’m sure he—”

His shoulders tense. It’s subtle, but immediate.

There it is again. That reaction.

Why should he care? Why should she care if he cares?

This is stupid.

Her fingers twitch, itching for action, anything to take her mind off this. She half hopes they’ll be ambushed by some gang, or better yet, Imperials. Someone she actually can punch.

_______________

“The alarm signal from the arms factory led to a surprising place - a penthouse at the Club vertica Casino.” Balker informs them like he’s delivering good news, and Aric can already tell he’s going to hate whatever comes next. He can feel the beginnings of a headache building just behind his brow.

Balker flicks a holo-map to life above the table, the casino tower glittering in luminous blue. “Club vertica is an extremely public place,” Balker continues. “We have to get you through the casino and up to the penthouse without causing a scene or any bloodshed.”

The Lieutenant raises an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Balker explains, “you’re going to have to take a page out of the SIS’s playbook for this one, and go in undercover.”

Aric resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Undercover. Brilliant. Exactly what they were not trained for.

Alarai considers it with a skepticism Aric appreciates more than he’d ever admit. “I’m not sure we're the best bet for the job then. You don’t have a couple of spare SIS agents to cover this part?”

Balker, to his credit, sheds all of his playfulness at that. “Not unless you want to give me the full story here, Lieutenant." His gaze sharpens. “I’m not sending my agents in half-blind, missing facts.”

Aric watches carefully to see what she’ll do. For all her worry about navigating this foreign field of politics and half truths, it’s a role she plays well. This time is no exception. “Then what do we need?”

Balker looks the two of them up and down critically. “I don’t suppose you’re wearing a dress or suit anywhere under that armor.” Oh yeah. He definitely doesn’t like where this is going.

“Is that really necessary?” Aric tries to keep the growl out of his voice, but he’s not really sure he succeeds.

“Well, we can’t exactly waltz into a club in full durasteel armor and go unnoticed.” Alarai says, which is a point he unfortunately can’t argue. Aric scowls. Figures this is what happens when you let SIS muck around in military business. Espionage, disguises, nightlife— nothing that resembles actual soldiering.

“Exactly,” Balker replies, far too cheerfully. “Try not to look so thrilled, Jorgan. The nightlife of Nar Shaddaa awaits.”

_______________

Back at the ship, one cursory glance at his wardrobe is enough to reveal that it is decidedly lacking in club wear. Its contents are bare bones and utilitarian, so he’ll have to make do with the few pieces of clothing he owns that aren’t army regulation. He manages to find a green jacket that doesn’t scream infantry, a plain grey shirt, and dark pants that at least aren’t full of cargo pockets and don’t have reinforced knees. It’ll have to suffice.

He wonders, absently, if the Lieutenant is having any more luck with her wardrobe than him. He’s never seen her in anything besides armor or fatigues, usually with a rifle slung over one shoulder like it’s an extension of her. He can’t picture her in sequins or ruffles. Honestly, the idea is almost comical.

He half suspects Balker planned this entire situation for his own entertainment.

He’s tugging the jacket into place when the door to the captain’s quarters slides open and Na’bria emerges.

The dress is long, black, and deceptively simple. Halter neck, high slits up both sides. Her hair, normally slightly wild from a day in the field, is pulled into a sleek high bun that makes her neck look impossibly long. Silver hoops glint at her ears when she turns.

He’d never taken her for the type to own jewelry. Or dresses. Or… whatever this is. But for some reason the jewelry is the easiest part of her ensemble to focus on, especially when she walks past him toward the ramp and the back of her dress comes into view—if it can even be called a “back.” It dips low. Very low. All the way down to the small of her spine. The entire stretch from shoulder to waist is completely bare. Her skin is pale in contrast to the dark fabric, and the low lighting of the ship’s interior casts faint shadows along the defined lines of muscle—lean, sharp, unmistakably shaped by years of hauling heavy weaponry and armor across battlefields.

It’s… a lot.

An interesting combination, some distant, uncooperative part of his brain notes. Elegant dress, lean muscled lines. No softness. Not like the women who usually frequent the place Balker is sending them.

He realizes too late that he’s staring.

She pauses at the bottom of the ramp and looks back at him, one brow raised. “Is something wrong, Sergeant?”

He snaps his jaw shut so fast he feels it click. “No,” he says too quickly. “No, sir. Just… evaluating the mission parameters.”

Her lips twitch, just barely. “Right.”

_______________

Strobing blue lights sweep across Club Vertica’s main floor as Aric steps in behind the lieutenant, doing his best to look like he belongs. The bass hums through the soles of his boots—well, shoes, technically. Their undercover attire is far from regulation, and he’s still not sure which part bothers him more: the music, the crowd… or how naturally his CO seems to fit into the scene.

She moves with easy confidence, chin high, eyes scanning the club for threats and opportunities alike. Aric swears half the room glances at her as she passes. Not helpful. Not convenient. Not what they need on this mission.

He forces his focus forward. Professional. Focused.

She leans close—too close for his comfort, close enough that he can smell her perfume as she speaks over the music.

“We need to blend in. We won’t know where Balker is until he makes contact. Care for a drink?” she suggests as her gaze sweeps the crowded room, and he thinks that just might be one of the best ideas he’s heard all day.

“Copy that, sir,” Aric says automatically.

She shoots him a sideways look, sharp and unimpressed.

“Aric,” she sighs, “Relax. Tonight it’s Na’bria.”

Right. Covers. Roles. He nods stiffly. “Right. Na’bria.” The name feels strange leaving his mouth, foreign, like something he’s not allowed to say. It belongs to a version of her he’s not sure how to interact with. As they weave through the throng of dancers, the shifting lights play across her skin, turning the white to an otherworldly violet.

There’s a lot of skin on display to catch the light.

He pointedly looks away, focusing on the bar ahead. Most patrons are nursing elaborate, glowing cocktails that look like they cost more than his boots. He half expects her to order something equally ostentatious. Something that fits the dress, the lights, the atmosphere.

Instead, she lifts a hand to the bartender and orders something amber-colored and decidedly ordinary.

“Huh,” Aric says before he can stop himself. “What, no girly cocktails?”

She arches a brow at him, faintly amused. “Nah. I like it straight and simple.”

A strange thing to learn about her. Small. Personal. Not mission-related in the slightest. But it settles into his mind with surprising ease, and he decides he likes that about her.

He lifts his own glass. “I can appreciate that.” They stand shoulder to shoulder, pretending to relax, pretending they’re just another pair of people out for a good time. Except Aric is terrible at pretending. His posture is too rigid, and his jaw is too tight.

Na’bria notices immediately.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone to detonate an explosive,” she mutters, sipping her drink without turning her head.

“Well considering a regiment of Imperials is operating out of this club, you never know,” Aric says.

She snorts. “Sure.”

He tries again, forcing himself to roll his shoulders back, take a slow breath, do something to look less suspicious. But the more he tries to relax, the more aware he becomes of her. Her perfume. The effortless command in her posture. The way the lights kiss the graceful curve of her neck as she looks over her shoulder.

When he catches himself staring (again) he snaps his gaze away, focusing anywhere else. The bar. The dancers. The glowing bottles lining the wall.

But inevitably, traitorously, his attention drifts back.

Settles on the sharp V her dark hair makes at the base of her skull, the fine, delicate hairs that fan against her skin just there, soft in a way the rest of her never seems to be.

It’s… weirdly captivating.

He’s not quite sure why he keeps looking at her. Probably because this version of her - elegant, relaxed, glittering beneath neon light - feels jarringly different from the armored, headstrong officer he’s begun to understand in pieces. Pieces he didn’t even realize he’d been collecting until tonight.

Trying to reconcile those two realities in his mind is throwing off his equilibrium.

Whatever the case, it’s strangely distracting, and that just won’t do.

He scans the dance floor, the crowd shifting in waves of neon light and glittering fabric. People are laughing, flirting, leaning close in ways that make them practically invisible to anyone not looking for them.

A thought strikes him that’s unpleasant, inconvenient, but tactically correct. “We should dance,” Aric mutters.

Na’bria tilts her head, surprised and more than a little amused. “You want to dance?”

“It’ll help us blend in,” he says gruffly. “We can easily get eyes on the crowd, and scan for Balker.”

Her smile is slow and sly. “Well, look at you suggesting something fun.”

“This isn’t fun,” Aric insists. “This is an operational—”

“Sure, sure,” she says, already setting her drink down. “Operational necessity. Come on.”

She grabs his hand—firmly, no hesitation—and leads him onto the dance floor. Aric tells himself this is fine. This is normal. He can do this.

He can absolutely not do this, and it takes all of two seconds to come to the conclusion that this is quite possibly one of the worst ideas he’s ever had.

Na’bria steps close, sliding one hand lightly to his shoulder. It’s nothing inappropriate, just enough to sell the act. But Aric’s brain short-circuits anyway, because she’s warm, and close, and every instinct tells him this is a terrible idea. He puts his hands at her waist carefully, respectfully, exactly where they should be. Too aware. Far too aware, because now he’s faced with the uncomfortable reminder of just how open the back of her dress is cut. The fabric - or lack thereof - dips just low enough that his fingers are left resting on completely bare skin. He swallows. Tries to relax his hands on her hips in what he hopes is a casual enough manner, tries to ignore how distractingly warm and soft her skin is under his fingertips, the way the club lights glint off of the dark fridge of her eyelashes.

Get a grip, Jorgan.

None of that should matter anyways because she is his CO and he’s danced with plenty of women before without putting this much thought into it. All the same, he hopes she can’t tell how awkward his hands feel at her waist or the way his heart is beating just a bit faster than it should. At least all of his sniper training keeps his breathing even.

They move together, awkward at first, then smoother as the rhythm pulls them in. Na’bria’s confidence guides them, her steps sure and fluid. Aric follows, finding the beat, matching her movements.

It’s not like he hasn’t noticed that she’s pretty before, but it’s never been something that he focused on. An observation, and that's that. Completely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. As his CO, it shouldn’t matter one lick whether she's pretty or not. But now ever since Balker had started flirting with her and she’d made the ridiculous quip about him being jealous, he can’t seem to stop noticing. It’s ridiculous, unprofessional, and currently definitely contributing to his irritable attitude.

The bass of the music rumbles through the floor in a slow steady rhythm, her hips swaying smoothly in time with it. He tries to ignore the way she’s close enough to smell the scent of her shampoo, the way her breath tickles his neck, and focus on the mission. Then Na’bria leans closer, voice barely a whisper against his ear, shattering his concerns all over again. “Contact at eleven.”

Aric’s attention snaps up. Jonas Balker strolls into the club with that insufferable swagger, scanning the crowd. The moment he spots Na’bria, his grin widens.

Her hand slides lightly down his arm as she turns them with the beat closer to the edge of the dance floor. Balker slides into their orbit with a bright, infuriating grin.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he says. “You two look cozy.”

“We were blending in,” Aric growls.

Balker gives him a knowing wink. “Right. Blending. Well, well,” Jonas says, giving Na’bria a slow, appreciative once-over. “If this is the cover you two came up with, I almost wish I was the one going undercover with you, Leutennant.”

Aric takes a step forward—subtle, professional… territorial entirely by accident.

“Focus, Balker,” he says flatly.

“Oh, I am focused,” Balker says with a grin, “just not on the mission yet.”

Na’bria, still in Aric’s arms for the sake of cover, lifts a brow, but only says. “You’re late, fill us in.”

Jonas places a hand dramatically over his heart. “You wound me, Lieutenant. I got here as fast as the speeder would carry me. Can’t rush class.”

Aric resists the urge to point out that Jonas wears class like a borrowed jacket: visible, but not convincing, and far more suited to the sleazy cantinas he usually frequents.

Na’bria steps back from Aric just enough to maintain cover without… whatever this is. Jonas eyes the distance between them with obvious amusement, and flashes Na’bria a grin that’s trying entirely too hard to be charming. Still, he slips closer, voice dropping into the professional tone he uses only when absolutely necessary.

“Alright. Here’s the layout.” He gestures subtly toward the far wall where a set of sleek elevator doors sit guarded by a bouncer built like a speeder engine. “Penthouse elevator. Private access only. Now, thanks to your work with Niall, you’re on the safe list. Your key card should call the elevator without raising any alarms. Still, best not let anyone get a clear look at you. Club staff knows every VIP, everyone on the guest list, every crumb that matters. Anyone taking that elevator who looks official, alert, or sober raises flags.

Na’bria arches a brow. “So what should we look like?”

Balker gives her a look so smug Aric feels his fist twitch. “Like a couple sneaking off to find a quiet corner. A private room. An elevator ride to anywhere that isn’t full of loud music and prying eyes.”

Aric clears his throat, stiff. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Actually, that's believable,” Na’bria corrects, giving Aric a pointed look.

Balker sighs dramatically. “See? If only I could’ve taken this mission with you, lieutenant.”

Aric bristles. “We’re wasting time.”

Balker continues, “Just get in the elevator acting overly interested in each other, hit the top floor button, and look like you don’t care who sees you. Staff shouldn’t question it.”

“Once we’re up there?” Na’bria asks.

Balker shifts to a brisk, professional tone. Finally. “The elevator opens into a private foyer. Door to the penthouse is on the right. Target should be inside with a pared-down entourage.”

Na’bria nods. “Understood.”

Balker glances between them, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Right. So. From here? You two start walking like you’re looking for someplace dark. The rest will be a piece of cake!”

Na’bria bumps her shoulder lightly against his, a move that’s playful and practiced for cover. “Relax,” she murmurs. “It’ll sell better if you stop glaring.”

“I’m not glaring.” He knows he is.

Balker claps Aric on the back. “Just put your hand on her waist. Look like you want to get her alone, Sergeant.” Balker gives her another lingering once-over. “Shouldn’t be too hard to imagine.”

Aric’s ears twitch, and he hates that Jonas sees it, but he places a careful hand at Na’bria’s waist. She slides closer, seamlessly fitting the part (and his side).

“Like this,” she murmurs.

Jonas gives a low whistle. “Perfect. Almost convincing. Try not to look like you’re in pain, though, Jorgan.”

Aric grits his teeth. “We’re done here.”

Na’bria nods once. “Signal us if the guards shift position.”

“You got it.” Balker steps back into the crowd. “Have fun up there.”

Aric doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Na’bria turns to him, her hand resting lightly on his chest for their cover. “Ready?”

Aric straightens, though he doesn’t step back. Can’t, not for the act. “Let’s get this done.”

Together, they start toward the elevator, Na’bria leaning into him with practiced ease, Aric doing his best to look like a man distracted by the woman on his arm… which honestly, with how tonight’s been going, isn’t too far from the truth. The crowd barely glances at them.

Exactly the point.

The elevator gleams like polished obsidian, reflecting ribbons of neon as they approach. The music grows muffled the closer they get—the pulse of the club fading beneath a quieter, more tense rhythm: Aric’s heartbeat.

Na’bria stays close to him, his arm still looped around her waist, her head tilted toward his shoulder like she’s whispering something enticing. It’s calculated, practiced… and annoyingly effective.

The bouncer stationed near the elevator glances their way, assessing, but only barely and only for a moment. His expression flickers into bored recognition.

Two people sneaking off. Nothing to see here.

Exactly what they want.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. They step inside, and the moment the doors close, the quiet hits him—no crowd, no flashing lights, just the muted hum of machinery and the faint scent of Na’bria’s perfume.

She reaches past him to press the penthouse button, brushing close enough that he feels the warmth of her, and then shifts instantly into command mode. Aric mirrors her stance with immense relief. Finally. Something he understands.

“This is where we stop pretending,” she whispers.

“Good,” he mutters, grounding himself in the familiar. “Pretending was—”

“Not your strong suit?” she offers without missing a beat.

“It was fine,” Aric insists, even though they both know it wasn’t.

“Mm-hm.”

She hikes up the slit of her dress—higher than he expects—and whips out a compact blaster that has apparently been strapped to her inner thigh the entire time. He blinks, momentarily stunned.

“Hold this.” She presses the blaster into his hands before he can react. The metal is warm—her warmth, seeped into its surface—and for one deeply unprofessional second, it’s all he can focus on.

Before he recovers, she’s already bracing a hand on his shoulder for balance, stripping off her strappy heels one at a time. The dress rides up with the motion, revealing a flash of toned muscle, but she’s focused on efficiency, not aesthetics. Barefoot, she takes the weapon back from him and performs a quick, practiced safety check. And this… this is the version of her he knows. The soldier. The officer who moves like a well-honed blade. Just barefoot in a cocktail dress instead of armor, but somehow she still manages to make it look intimidating.

Unfortunately for his sanity, it’s one of the most strangely attractive sights he’s ever seen. And that is a secret he’ll take to his grave.

He clears his throat sharply, trying to shake off the heat prickling up his neck. “I’m thinking maybe you should consider a career with the SIS, sir,” he says, leveling his own blaster at the elevator doors and shifting into a defensive stance. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her settle into readiness—balanced, quiet, coiled.

She rolls her eyes. “Please. This is a little fun, sure, but I do not have the patience for long-term subterfuge.”

He almost snorts at the accuracy of that statement. “That’s true. You do not.”

She gives him an amused look, and it strikes unexpectedly like a moment of camaraderie. A shared breath before the action begins.

The elevator slows. The floor lights blink. The soft ding announces their arrival.

Na’bria shifts her grip on her blaster. “Ready?” she asks, eyes sharp, voice steady.

Aric steadies himself. “Always, sir.”

_______________

He’s almost relieved when, as soon as they get back to the thunderclap, she changes back into uniform immediately, weapons secured, boots laced, hair back in its usual no-nonsense half ponytail.

Good. Good. This is familiar. This he can work with. The quiet hum of the ship’s systems feels like a return to sanity. The sharp edges of military precision, the predictable rhythm of duty—everything he understands and embodies.

He shoves the image of her taking on half a dozen imperials in a backless dress and no shoes into a mental lockbox in the far far back of his mind, seals it shut with all the discipline drilled into him over a decade of service. Barricades it behind protocol, carefully compartmentalizes it away like a good solder. Better yet, forget it entirely, and the sooner the better.

He exhales slowly.

Much better.

Mostly.

_______________

Na’bria chooses a table tucked against the wide viewport in the spaceport lounge, the noise around her a steady hum of starship engines cycling down, travelers bartering with vendors, glasses clinking. It’s easy enough to ignore. The datapad in front of her demands all of her attention anyways. The mission report refuses to write itself, and her brain keeps replaying flashes of the fiasco that's been their mission here.

At least there’s one unambiguous part of this operation: they have the droid. He’s safe. He’s loyal. And he’s eager (maybe overly eager) to join Havoc Squad. She should be proud. She should feel the satisfaction of a job well done.

It should feel like a win.

Instead, it feels like someone split the victory clean down the middle.

A half-success.

A coin flipped and landed exactly on its edge.

Still, she wishes - deep down, where she doesn’t acknowledge these kinds of thoughts often - that this one hadn’t slipped through her fingers quite so easily. That she could’ve come away with a clean win instead of this uneasy, hollow in-between.

Half a success sits like a stone in her gut.

She's never been a fan of halves.

She digs her thumb against a stress knot in the back of her neck, frowning at her datapad. Everything happened so fast. One moment they were rerouting the war droid before it could tear through the prison complex, the next she was standing in the Republic embassy, watching Balker piece together the truth she was ordered to bury.

Havoc Squad defected to the Empire.

She wasn’t supposed to let that get out. Command had been explicit—contain the narrative until they could craft an official version. No unnecessary leaks. No loose ends.

But Balker is SIS. He sees everything. Notices everything. And she could tell the exact moment the final piece clicked into place behind his smug grin. For once he didn’t even seem pleased with himself, just understanding. Too understanding.

Somehow that had felt worse.

She’d tried to sidestep it, redirect him, give him just enough information to keep him useful without handing over the whole mess. But his skills weren’t the problem.

Her timing was.

Her skill was.

Or maybe she just underestimated him.

He’s a spy. It’s his damned job to uncover secrets. It still feels like a failure on her part none the less. She crosses her arms, jaw tightening. She can already imagine the fallout: the debriefings, the questions, the subtle reprimands disguised as “clarifications.” Command won’t yell. They never do. They’ll simply look disappointed in that quiet, suffocating way that makes her feel like she’s back at the academy, being told she should’ve known better.

And the worst part? She did know better.

If she’d been faster. Sharper. If she hadn’t let herself be distracted by everything else swirling around this miserable moon—the chaos, the politics, Jorgan’s ridiculous reactions to Balker—it might’ve gone differently.

Jorgan.

She presses her eyes shut for a moment. She’s not sure what’s going on there, not sure why he’s getting under her skin in ways she doesn’t have time to unpack. Not with yet another mission already looming and almost an entire squad of traitors still on the loose.

One thing at a time.

Even if none of those things feel simple.

She’s halfway through a sip of something strong and citrusy when his shadow falls across the table.

Of course it’s him.

He doesn’t crowd, doesn’t hover - just stands there with that stiff posture that means he’s working up to something. For a moment neither of them speaks.

Then he clears his throat. “M1-4X is settling into the transport.” A beat. “He’s… enthusiastic.”

Na’bria snorts quietly. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Proud to serve the Republic,” Aric says with an exaggerated crispness, clearly quoting the droid. “I’m pretty sure he saluted a maintenance crate on our way to the transport.”

She huffs a soft laugh. She’s grateful for the attempt. It’s light, simple, something easy to grab onto instead of the knot twisting in her chest.

Aric shifts his weight. He glances at her, tone softening just barely. “Next assignment should be more straightforward.”

She knows what he’s really saying—or trying to. It’s the closest he ever gets to comfort.

Still, her jaw tightens. “It doesn’t feel like a win.”

“Alarai—”

“I know,” she cuts in. “We got the droid. That part went fine.” She stares at the dizzying spiderweb of speeders weaving through the lower traffic lanes. “But Balker wasn’t supposed to find out about the old squad. Command trusted me with that, and I still screwed it up.”

“You didn’t screw anything up,” Aric replies immediately, firm, almost sharp. “It would’ve come out eventually.”

She looks at him, surprised at the certainty in his voice. His ears twitch once - he’s annoyed, though not at her, it would seem for once. It sits coiled under his voice like he’s irritated on her behalf, which is… new.

But then he clears his throat lightly, resetting himself. “So where’s Balker?” he asks, hitting the line like it’s part of the daily script.

She shakes her head, trying—really trying—not to show the lingering irritation curling in her chest. “He’s not my type. I was just messing with him.”

It’s one of those things that's out of her mouth before she's thought it through: defensive, unnecessary, and worse, honest. And now that she is thinking it through, she can’t come up with a single good reason for him to know that information. It’s none of his damn business who she flirts with or what she does on her own time.

But Aric doesn’t respond with one of his usual lectures or little reprimands. He just says: “Good to know, sir.” Cut and dry as ever. But there’s this slight quirk to his lips and she holds his gaze just a bit too long and that annoying little flurry in her stomach is back.

Before she can figure out what the hell to do with that feeling or crush it into dust where it belongs, Aric breaks eye contact. No commentary. No jab. No lecture about professionalism.

He just nods once, a simple acknowledgment, and turns toward the direction of the Thunderclap.

“See you onboard,” he says over his shoulder, as if he hadn’t just knocked her completely off balance with four words and a half-smile.

Na’bria stares at her datapad. Her mission report is now nothing but black text that swims uselessly across the screen.

She slams the rest of her drink down in one gulp.

Next Chapter:

Previous Chapter:

She shoves the thought away before it can take root.

And then they meet Sergeant Elara Dorne.

The woman stands straight-backed behind a small command console, crisp and immaculate in a way that seems impossible on Taris. She greets them with perfect posture, perfect diction, perfect readiness, like she hasn’t been breathing the same defeated air as everyone else. Na’bria watches her move, the sharp efficiency of her hands, the bright alertness in her eyes, and something in her chest lifts just a little. Elara Dorne looks like the Republic should look: competent, steadfast, still fighting even when the place around her seems long past saving.

In fact, shes such the model of a perfect republic soldier and so much more helpful than their assigned contact Colonel Gaff that at first, Na’bria a doesn’t even register the accent; it’s the least interesting thing about her.

Apparently no one else shares that perspective, a fact that only worsens her already sour mood.

As they leave the small makeshift command building, Jorgan reviewing a datapad beside her, Na’bria’s jaw tightens. She glances back through the doorway where Dorne is already back at work, another officer brushing past her like she isn’t even there.

She’s wasted in there, doing practically everything by herself and looking the only one in that entire post who hasn’t given up. She knows all to well what it’s like to be underestimated. To be written off before you even start

As the round the corner, Jorgan exhales through his nose, ears flicking in mild irritation. “That was... interesting,” he says and that superior judgmental tone that she could never stand on Ord Mantell is back.

She whips him an angry glare. “What, Dorne?” She stops walking, boots planting hard in the dirt, forcing him to stop too.

Jorgan lowers the datapad slightly, tilting his head. “I’ve had drill instructors more relaxed than that woman.”

The utter irony of him—him—complaining about someone being too rigid makes her want to scream until every reclamation worker and rackghoul on Taris hears it. But she can’t do that, not with him looking so composed, like he’s already picked apart the situation and filed it neatly into whatever mental folder all his unhelpful judgments go.

“Aw, looks like little Jorgan has finally met his dream girl.” She snaps instead.

It comes out sharp and acidic, far meaner than she intended.

Jorgan’s flinches, his jaw tightening just a fraction, but he says nothing. He just looks at her, eyes narrowing with a controlled, almost wounded look.

He adjusts the datapad against his chest. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lieutenant,” he says, voice restrained and clipped, “Forget I said anything.”

Then he steps past her without waiting for a response.

Na’bria stands there a beat too long, the Taris wind tugging at her hair, the ruins jutting up around her like broken reminders of every mistake ever made in this galaxy.

_______________

There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity and it’s one she walks every day. But this? This just might take the cake.

Aric stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching as the medical staff hover over her like she’s some kind of prized specimen. He sees the doctors and droids taking readings, measuring her breathing, her heart rate, the density of her bones. One of the droids is drawing blood to run diagnostics against every possible medical standard they have. All the while, Na’bria stands there, apparently unfazed, as if she hadn’t just volunteered to do something that could get her killed in the most ridiculous way imaginable.

“These people need help, Jorgan. Isn’t that what we signed on to do?” She insists with an almost infuriating degree of idealism when he questions her on the sanity of this course of action. Agreeing to be bitten by a rackghoul It’s absurdly risky. And also, he has to admit, absurdly brave and absurdly selfless. 

The thought sticks in his throat.

No, I signed on to fight imperials, is what he wants to say. But her ideals sound a lot more noble than his, when put that way, and he can’t quite bring himself to say it. Can’t figure out a good way to talk her out of this.. this experiment, really.

“Besides, if Needles has managed to weaponize the rackghoul plague, we need a treatment now more than ever.”

He knows better than to follow blindly into every reckless stunt someone pulls just because it sounds heroic. But when she says it like that, when she speaks with such certainty, such conviction, it makes it harder to argue with her. She makes it sound noble. She makes it sound like the right thing to do.

He’s watched her take on every impossible situation since Ord Mantell and somehow come out on top. It’s like she’s untouchable in her sheer stubbornness, and it makes no logical sense. She’s reckless, unpredictable, and often overconfident to the point of arrogance, but damn it if she doesn’t have a knack for making it work.

And so, with something bordering on begrudging respect, he follows her as she goes to find the nearest pack of rackghouls. Sans amor, of course, because, “How else am I supposed to make sure the infection actually gets into my bloodstream?” Which is a sentence he hopes he never has to hear anyone say ever again.

It doesn’t take long to find a pack of three of the vermin. The whole planet is crawling with the blasted things. 

“Just don’t kill them all before one bites me,” she says, easily. Casually, almost.

“Right, sir.” He wants to argue, but that hasn’t gotten him anywhere before with her so instead he just gives her a quiet, irritated shake of his head, gritting his teeth.

He can’t help feeling this whole ridiculously contrived plan is going to end in disaster.

_______________

“If I end up as a rackghoul, I want a statue. A non-rackghoul statue.”

Jorgan gives a semi-amused snort. “I’ll see what I can do, sir.”

After several days of mandatory rest in the med tent, she’s willing to admit that perhaps this time she’d taken things too far.

“I hope the force is with you, because the science here is stretched to the limit.” A medic had said on day one after the first round of scans and bloodwork. If that wasn’t just one of the least encouraging things she's ever heard a medic say. 

Now on day three, Na’bria presses her hands together to keep them from fidgeting, but it doesn’t quite work. She’s still here. Still herself, for now, at least. Her legs twitch on the surface of her bed, wanting something to do, anything to do, but the tubes and monitors attached to her make every movement feel like a laborious effort. And the damn bed feels too soft, too still, and too confining. The medical team had told her specifically their conditions for the observation period of the experiment (four days medical observation, then three more days resting on base returning for checkup and bloodwork each day) but she hadn’t thought much about it when she’d agreed. Now she almost wishes she’d reconsidered.

She glares at the med tent walls, her eyes tracing the seams along up and along the ceiling and, focusing on the drab lights overhead. Her muscles are stiff from being stuck in this room for so long. The incessant beeping of the monitors keeps time in her head, too rhythmic, too slow, like she’s stuck in a holding pattern, waiting for something, anything, to change.

She can’t quite suppress the flicker of unease at the thought. She’s still feeling the effects of the infection: how sluggish her limbs feel, how the air in the room seems a little too heavy. It’s not a pleasant thought, the idea that she could be teetering on the edge of something that could take her from alive to dead, from herself to something else entirely, in the blink of an eye.

Today only one med droid is here to poke and prod at her, noting all her symptoms and ending its examination with a question about unusual hunger for sentient flesh.

“I could go for a nerf burger. That doesn’t count, right?” She tries for humor, but as she sits up the room spins in sickening circles, and nausea churns low in her stomach again.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jorgan stiffen. It’s an automatic flicker of concern crossing his face before he masks it.

They hadn’t discussed it, but he’s been here every day. Every hour, basically. By some unspoken agreement, he’s waiting this out with her, sitting in the corner of the tent like a sentinel.

She’s half grateful. Half irritated.

It’s nice having someone to talk to, but also maddening knowing someone is watching her like she’s a bomb that might detonate at any second.

“Jorgan, I’m fine. Seriously. Just a bite, some blood loss, a bit of a headache.” She tries to wave off the concern, but the movement makes the wound on her side ache. She winces, irritated more by the fact that it’s making her argument less confusing than she is by the pain itself. “I’ll be back on my feet before you know it.”

“You can’t rush recovery, Lieutenant.” His voice is more patient than she feels, and Na’bria bristles at the soft authority in it.

“Are you sure?” she snaps. “Because I’m pretty sure if I stare at these walls another five minutes, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Jorgan raises a brow. “You said that an hour ago. Still mentally intact, best I can tell.”

“Barely.”

He snorts. “Try not to prove me wrong.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically, then mutters, “This is torture.”

“You volunteered.” He says, and by some small grace doesnt bother reminder her of how he tried to talk her out of it.

“Don’t remind me.”

He shifts in his chair, leaning back just slightly—relaxed, but still watching her. Not the unsettling kind of watching, either. More like he’s making sure she doesn’t suddenly try to sneak out and sprint into the nearest swamp, any place other than here.

…Which, to be fair, she has absolutely considered.

The silence stretches for a moment. Comfortable, in a way she wouldn’t have expected back on Ord Mantell.

Then Jorgan speaks, tone dry: “You know… if you do turn into a rackghoul, I’ll try to put something nice on your statue plaque.”

“Oh?” She narrows her eyes. “Like what? ‘Here lies Na’bria Alarai, too stubborn to die properly’?”

“Well,” he allows, lips twitching, “that was one option.”

She scoffs. “I’d haunt you.”

“I’m counting on it, sir.”

_______________

The hunt for Neeldes takes them farther and farther into the overgrown ruins. Vines drape over the towers like heavy curtains, turning everything into a maze of stone and jungle. Na’bria steps through the ruins with her rifle raised, every sense sharpened. Jorgan’s moss-softened footsteps follow at her back. 

“Coordinates are this way,” Jorgan murmurs as he checks his datapad. “Needles isn’t far.”

Let’s hope, she’s about to say when a subtle snap in the forest catches her attention. She raises a hand, signaling for silence.

Jorgan freezes. Listens. Hears it too: the click of metal, the shuffle of feet.

Figures. They can’t catch a single break on this planet. If it’s not the rackghouls, the flora and fauna, or toxic waste pools, it’s the damn pirates.

“Ambush,” he whispers, and a split-second later, blaster fire bursts from the vines overhead - brilliant red bolts hissing past where they’d been standing.

Na’bria swears and fires upward, catching a glint of metal and a shout of pain. Jorgan’s already moved, laying precise suppressing shots that keep the attackers pinned. They work together without thinking, instincts syncing perfectly.  

A metallic clink hits the stone beside them.

Jorgan’s head snaps toward the sound. His eyes widen.

“Grenade!”

He doesn’t hesitate. One moment Na’bria is rising to fire again, the next she’s slammed to the ground beneath him, his body covering hers as the explosion rips the air apart and shrapnel screams past. Na’bria’s ears ring, vision swimming.

She coughs and blinks up at him. “Jorgan - ”

His jaw is clenched tight, breath harsh. “You alright, sir?”

The concern in his voice throws her off more than the blast did.

“I’m fine,” she says automatically. “You—” She immediately spots the trail of blood streaking down the side of his armor. Dark. Spreading.

Her stomach drops.

“Shit Jorgan, you’re bleeding!” Shrapnel must’ve caught him perfectly in the gap in his armor just under his arm. 

Blaster fire starts up again, closer now.

Na’bria grabs him by the arm. “There’s too many of them. We’re moving. Come on.”

He doesn’t argue, which is a bad sign. Together, they lurch through the broken streets, slipping into the twisted remains of an old transit station half-consumed by vines and moss but defensible. The shadows swallow them, and they hold their breath until the sounds of the pirates fade.

Only then does Jorgan stumble.

Na’bria catches him, lowering him to sit against a cracked pillar. Her hands hover uselessly for a second as she takes in the jagged tear through his skin.

“That’s… not good,” she says, throat tight, digging into her field kit, hands moving on instinct until she locates the first aid supplies. 

He snorts faintly. “Figured that out on your own, did you?”

“Don’t start with me. I need to see it.”

His brow lifts. “So look.”

“I can’t see the wound through all this,” she says, tapping his armor and indicating the shredded shirt beneath. “Needs to come off.”

He hesitates only a beat before unclasping his armor and tugging the ruined fabric over his head, wincing as it peels away from the wound.

She tries to focus solely on the injury, on the embedded shrapnel and the angry red edges of torn skin. The taut lines of muscle shift each time he breathes, rippling beneath fingers as she steadies his side. He’s all sharp angles and hard planes.

Annoyingly, embarrassingly, she feels her face warm.

She swallows. Focus, Alarai. 

“You’re lucky that grenade didn’t gut you,” she mutters, voice crisp, clinical.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. You were in the blast radius. Wasn’t much of a choice.

“You know, if you hadn’t jumped in front of it you’d probably be rid of me,” She teases.

“Oh, is that all I had to do?” He sucks in a sharp breath as Na'bria cleans the wound carefully.

“Hold still, you big baby.” This is not her area of expertise, never had any interest in becoming a medic, barely passed the mandatory first aid unit required for field work. Her hands are much more suited to tearing flesh than patching it back together.

“Sorry.” When she begins stitching, his breath hitches again, but he doesn’t pull away. He sets his teeth against the thread tugging through the raw edge of the wound. She does her best to ignore how her fingers keep brushing heat and muscle with every precise movement.

Na’bria ties off the final suture and sits back, putting more solace between them. “There. I think you’ll live.”

He shifts to examine the jagged line of stitches running down his side with a critical frown. 

“Your stitching skills could use some work, sir.”

“Hey, I’m no medic. But at least you won’t bleed out on me.”

Jorgan gives a slow exhale. “Thank you, sir.”

She doesn’t look at his face, only his bandaged side.

“Hey, after taking a hit from a grenade for me, it’s the last I could do. Try not to tear it open though. I don’t have enough thread to fix you twice.”

He huffs a laugh, quiet, but real. “I’ll manage.”

For a long moment, they sit together in the dim, tangled ruin, the sounds of distant jungle echoing around them.

Na’bria lets out a slow breath. “When you’re steady enough to move, we’ll pick up Needles’ trail again.”

He nods. “Ready when you are sir, I’ll watch our backs.”

_______________

“Do you ever have the sinking suspicion that maybe we’re what’s wrong with the galaxy?” She asks later that night, while the moonlight filters through the haunting skeletal remains of what was once a great sky scraper above them. That’s where they’ve made a meager camp for the night. Just sleeping bags, bland field rations, and a portable energy shield that will hopefully last long enough to keep the rackghouls out until dawn. “Not you and me as individuals. War in general I mean. On both sides. I can’t help but wonder that if no one was so quick to line up to fight, that maybe the trillions of people that lived here would still be alive.”

“Is this some kind of attempt at small talk, sir, or a psych eval?”

“Humor me.”

The fire crackling between them is a warm, comfortable sound amid the eerie groans of the empty, decaying city, and the flickering flames cast convoluted patterns of light and shadow across his face. He’s silent for a while before answering, still picking away at the remnants of his dinner. 

“I think that’s just the way of the universe. There’s always going to be someone looking to pick a fight, prey on the weak. It’s our job to protect them as best we can.”

She nods slowly, chewing over the thought. It’s not comforting, exactly, but there’s honesty in it. It’s an uncomfortable thing, she thinks, to question the justness of your own cause.  

She continues to gaze at the wreckage above them, and wonders at what it takes for someone to sit in a command chair and make decisions that could wipe out thousands, maybe millions, with the rationalization that it’s for a greater good. Where ordering death and destruction on the almost unfathomable scale around them could fall within the parameters of acceptable losses.  Every war is just different sides of the same story, each side having faith enough in their own cause to stake thousands of lives on it. Whoever was responsible for this had to have believed in some way they were doing the necessary thing, at least, if not the right thing. 

In the end, though, war doesn’t determine who’s right. It just determines who remains. 

_______________

The thought of Needles still gnaws at her, a sharp, bitter edge in the back of her mind. She let herself think much about what she’d do when they caught up to Needles. Purposely avoid it. She’s never hesitated in front of an enemy before, but it’s completely different when the target is someone she once might’ve called a friend. 

In the end, she’s glad Needles makes the choice for her. He attacked first. There was no thought, only reaction, nothing for her to feel guilty about after it’s done. 

She does feel guilty, though. It’s another weight on her shoulders, subtle but there. Havoc is a heavy burden to carry. She never planned to have to carry the weight of the execution of her former squad mates as well, but she shoulders it anyways. Moves on, one step at a time, tries not to dwell on it. Tries not to dwell on the sinking wrong feeling in her gut as she packs up Needle’s research to bring back to the Republic. 

Previous Chapter:

Next Chapter:

The first few hours aboard are spent checking the ship, running diagnostics, and familiarizing themselves with the layout. Aric finds a rhythm in the routine. Each item he organizes and each crate he secures feels like a tangible accomplishment. The lieutenant drifts between tasks with the same kind of focused energy, never hovering unnecessarily, but never absent when her help is needed. There’s a comfort in the simplicity of it: just two soldiers, operating efficiently together, without the pretense of performance orr rank.

_______________

Shortly after they’ve settled in and set course for Taris, Na’bria finds him near the weapons locker, methodically inspecting the arsenal they’ve stocked. The familiar scent of oiled metal and the subtle clink of blasters being checked is oddly soothing to her, grounding in its normalcy.

“Do you agree with what Garza said earlier?” She leans against the wall, crossing her arms. “About being heartless so the people of the republic don’t have to be?” She watches him for a moment, noticing the way his hands move with practiced precision, the tension in his jaw, the faint furrow in his brow that relaxes only slightly when he’s focused on something concrete

He looks up briefly. “If you want to save room for sentiment, you picked the wrong line of work,” he says, as matter of fact as ever (not that she expected anything else). He adjusts the last blaster on the rack and moves on to an ammunition canister. “But,” he adds, a little quieter, “if we’re completely heartless we’re no better than the empire.”

Na’bria lets that sink in. It’s not much, but it’s enough. That small acknowledgment of shared values, buried beneath his gruff exterior, feels like the first real piece of common ground they’ve staked out.

Previous Chapter:

“Wow,” Jorgan whistles as they step inside the senate tower, the sound echoing faintly in the massive space. She has the vague and uncomfortable sense of being swallowed whole by some giant creature—a massive, glittering thing with marble teeth and vaulted ribcage ceilings. “This place is even more impressive than the holovids,” he mutters, eyes sweeping the endless rows of pillars. “Hard to believe we’ll be reporting here from now on.”

He seems like he’s loosened up - if only slightly - on the way from the fleet ship to Coruscant, but she’ll count her blessings. She feels better too, on her feet, moving towards a goal instead of sitting idly in transit. It’s the closest thing they’ve had to solid ground since Ord Mantell exploded out from under them.

Their surroundings now do seem completely unbelievable. The sheer colossal scale of the senate building makes her feel small and insignificant, and completely out of her depth. Even the marble floors look much too shiny under her boots, Ord Mantel’s mud still caked in the tread. 

She’s never been one for politics, and she can’t help but feel she’s in far over her head. She knows war, she knows weapons, she knows action. She knows field tents and garrisons.  Not marble floors and gilded pillars, not this blatant display of opulence and luxury. Here on Coruscant, in the beating heart of the republic, war and defection feels a million miles away. 

She knows all too well that war is full of grey areas. It’s never as simple as good and bad, right and wrong. But there’s a simplicity to the battlefield that’s always appealed to her. On the battlefield, things are black and white. You live or die. Succeed or fail. This game of placating senators with empty words and carefully worded half truths is a foreign role, and one she feels she’s particularly ill-suited for. 

It doesn’t help that most of the time, she can feel him watching her, his gaze unnervingly intense. It feels like he’s analyzing her every move, just waiting for an inevitable mistake. 

Rookie. Don’t embarrass Havoc. Don’t give me another reason to be right about you.

She keeps her chin up. She’s never been one to shrink under the scrutiny and she’ll be damned if she starts now. 

They reach the next ornate archway when she finally risks a sidelong glance at him.

He’s not glaring. Not exactly.

But he’s observing. Calculating. As if trying to determine whether she’ll crack under the marble weight of the Senate.

She straightens her shoulders.

Let him watch.

She’s not breaking today.

————————

When command dropped her into Havoc, he’d braced for a disaster. A wide-eyed academy prodigy who thought talent alone would carry her. A walking liability with a famous last name and no sense of her own limitations. 

But she’s not that.

Not entirely.

Still, the wariness sits heavy in his chest as they navigate their first few missions together on Coruscant.  Skill is only half of what keeps a soldier alive. The other half is discipline, judgment, restraint. And those… he’s not convinced about yet. 

All too often he’s seen good men fall because of poor leadership. How she handled things on Ord Mantell, that showed guts, not leadership.

Out in the field, the old rhythms come back easier than he expects. The chain of command has always been clean, straight, and unambiguous. You receive the order. You carry it out. You keep moving. Even with her, it’s like slipping into muscle memory. It feels good to be on the move, feel the weight of a weapon in his hands, each step and piece of information taking them closer to Tavus.

Tavus’s betrayal still twists like a knife in his gut, the wound raw and ragged. He’d thought himself decent at figuring out what makes people tick, but evidently he’d been way off there and even though it might not be fair, he can’t help drawing comparisons between Tavus and his new CO. 

Where Tavus had been smooth, polished, almost too perfect, she is all raw edges and unfiltered instinct. Where Tavus spoke with practiced conviction, she’s blunt and messy and occasionally infuriating. Tavus led through certainty; she leads by hurling herself at the problem and trusting everyone else to keep up.

She doesn’t calculate her expressions or soften her tone or present herself as anything other than what she is.

There’s no mask with her.

No pretense.

He finds himself trusting that more than he expected.

_______________

“We’re heartless so the people of the republic don’t have to be.” Garza says, and something about it just doesn’t sit right with her, twists in her gut as she ends the call with more force on the button than necessary. 

When she first read her transfer orders to Havoc Squad, she pictured—foolishly, naively—the legends. The heroic missions whispered through academy halls. The elite soldiers who changed the tide of wars. She’d pictured clandestine operations behind enemy lines, and nowhere in her wildest imaginings did she ever envision she’d be tracking down their own in the heart of the damned Republic and certainly not gunning down innocent civilians unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire. 

“I am not murdering civilians.” She shoves her holocom into her belt, holsters her blaster with a resolute force. She doesn’t know why she expects Jorgan to object. It’s not like she thinks he’s completely heartless. But he seems to have this innate need to disagree with her every thought and decision so why should this one be any different? But on this he surprises her and says, “Whatever we’re going to do, let’s do it quickly.”

When she lets the civilians go, he doesn’t argue, doesn’t threaten to turn her in. 

It’s oddly reassuring.

_______________

Aric sits stiff-backed in the Senate hearing chamber, a the senators’ voices drone on—pointed questions dressed up as polite inquiry, each one circling the same accusation.

“Do you believe that anyone serving on Ord Mantell should have seen this situation coming?”

His jaw tightens, and inside, something twists. He should have seen it. He’d worked with the old Havoc Squad more closely than about anybody. He’d trusted Tavus, respected him. And all the while, Tavus had been preparing to betray everything Aric thought Havoc Squad stood for. Rot at the core, and Aric hadn’t noticed a damn thing.

A part of him thinks he deserves every question and implied failure.

“No one could’ve seen this coming,” the lieutenant says, calm and unshaken. “Blaming anyone here won’t change what happened. What matters is that we stop them before they do more harm.”

Her confidence is startling, steadfast truth delivered with unnerving clarity.

Aric glances at her. For the first time in days, something in his chest eases. Just a fraction.

_______________

Overall, Coruscant feels like more of a success that she could ever have dared hoped for. In just a few weeks, they managed to cut off Havoc’s supply shipments from both the Back Suns and the Migrant Merchant's Guild. With Jek Karden and his mercenary group defeated, they now have locations for four of the traitors and finally a clear plan of action.

It feels good.

Even Jorgan seems to be in a better mood than normal. The two of them make a far more effective team than she would’ve thought possible after their rocky start. 

On the taxi ride back to the Senate tower, he comments on some of the buildings they pass, rattling off small historical points and practical facts while she listens from the corner of her eye. He knows a surprising amount about the area. She wonders absently if he’s lived here before.

They pass a towering casino, all neon lines and ostentatious glow, and he lets out a low whistle.

“Big place. Not really my style though. Corner cantinas with a good pack of regulars are more my speed.”

“You know,” She comments, a hint of amusement lifting an eyebrow and curling the corners of her lips, “You’re chattier than I thought you’d be.”

The change in his demeanor is immediate. His posture tightens, arms folding defensively, the easy manner gone as if she’d flipped a switch. Such a predictable reaction that she can’t help the grin that follows.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” Her tone is light, colored with a small laugh. “Just an observation.”

He relaxes just a bit, and she thinks she thinks she can see something beyond the usual annoyance in the furrow of his brow, but she doesn’t know him well enough to tell what it might be. Despite their personal differences, he’s a model soldier and she is grateful to have his help. Even if something about him does seem to bring out the absolute worst in her personality. 

She does feel a slightly guilty for ruining the conversation this time though. 

She clears her throat softly. “Sorry,” she says, quieter this time. “Didn’t mean to shut you down. I just meant it’s—” she shrugs, gaze drifting to the cityscape below “—nicer than I thought. Working together, I mean.”

Jorgan glances at her sidelong. “Nice?”

There’s just enough humor in it that she rolls her eyes instead of snapping back. “Don’t make it weird,” she mutters, but her smile undercuts the words. The taxi hums around them, traffic streaming in organized chaos outside the transparisteel windows. She watches the senate tower draw closer through the window, imposing in a way that makes it seem like it’s designed to make people feel out of their depth.

Some of her satisfaction with their recent accomplishments fizzles as she thinks about having to stand in front of the senate again. There’s a whole universe out there, a whole world that isn’t defined by military regulations and survival instinct. Her military upbringing had always given her an edge in the Academy, but now she feels its limitations, the missing perspective on how the rest of the galaxy and everything that can’t be sorted by military protocol works.

“I've no idea what I’m doing.” She says quietly, and it somehow feels like an admitted defeat. “About navigating blasted politics. Keeping senators satisfied with just empty words and half truths. All this maneuvering, all these expectations… I don’t have the right connections, or the upbringing, or the perspective. Half the time I feel like I’m guessing.”

The silence settles again, a little softer now. For a moment, she wonders if she’s said too much, if she’s revealed a crack she should’ve kept hidden. Then Jorgan clears his throat.

“I get where Garza’s coming from,” he says, voice firm but quieter than before. “Trying to keep this under wraps. And I’ll follow orders. But I don’t agree with it. The people of the Republic deserve to know the truth.”

“Yeah?” she asks.

He nods decisively. “I don’t agree with Tavus, but his reason for defecting was real enough.” His jaw tightens; the words sound almost like a confession. “Sweeping things under the rug doesn’t fix the issue. It won’t prevent this from happening again.”

“We’ll get him. Tavus.” She doesn’t know why she hears herself trying to reassure him—this role is as unfamiliar as everything else since Ord Mantell. “Then everyone can know the truth.”

“You bet we will.”

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The Republic military had to find someone for to blame for the sudden defection of their most decorated special forces squad, and Jorgan was just unfortunately close enough to be caught in the crossfire. A convenient scapegoat.

Jorgan doesn’t talk much on the transit shuttle from Ord Mantell to the Republic fleet. At first glance his posture seems relaxed enough, leaned back in his seat, head against the window of the shuttle, legs stretched loosely in the isle, but she can see the tension in the way his arms are crossed too tightly across his chest, in the way the deep furrow of his brow only hints at the fuming that’s going on behind his eyes.

She can’t blame him. His whole demotion situation was beyond unfair, and she’s tempted to say something to him along those lines, but the word rookie still hangs in the air between them, tense and accusatory. She’s got a flawless record and nothing to prove, but something in his gaze makes her feel like she does. Like he’s just waiting for her to make a mistake, like somehow she’ll never measure up.

So she doesn’t say anything either, and for now the break in her snide comments is the closest thing to an “I’m sorry” as he’s going to get. She’s is grateful to have his help, even if something about him does seem to bring out the absolute worst in her personality. There’s just something about the way she can get under his skin that makes it so satisfying. Something about his tough exterior and gruff manner, something that makes her want to push him until he cracks.

If she's being honest.

Besides, he makes it too damn easy.

When the shuttle docks at the fleet, she’s the first to break the silence by suggesting they get something to eat, and he offers a curt agreement, but other than that says nothing at all.

————————

“We’ve been working together for, what,” she racks her brain, trying to think of how long it’s been since she first landed on Ord Mantell as she sets her food tray on the cantina table and slides into the booth. Somewhat to her surprise, he sets his tray down across from her. She’d half pictured him picking a separate table on the opposite side of the room, but she supposes he had made it plenty clear that he's a professional who'll follow orders, personal differences between damned. Even if they come from her, it would seem.

“A few weeks?” She continues. That can’t be right. But when she thinks about it, it has to be. Somehow it feels like both a lifetime and a day with all that’s happened since. She stabs a piece of mystery meat from her tray, waves it vaguely in his direction. “And I don’t think we’ve had a single actual conversation.”

“This isn’t a conversation now, sir?” He says, the sir sounding like it took actual physical effort for him to get out and looking completely bothered by the fact that she’s talking to him at all.

She rolls her eyes. If he wants to be petulant, she can be plenty petulant back. “It’s just the two of us for now, and for who knows how much longer. We’re going to have to figure out how to talk at some point.” When he doesn’t respond she presses, “What was your post before Ord Mantell?”

For a beat she doesn’t think he’ll even answer, looking far more interested in the contents of his plate than the contents of the conversation. But then he says, “Stationed with the Deadeyes. Elite sniper unit. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime,” but his tone is one that makes her think he’d rather anything but, and also makes it clear that the conversation is over.

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He almost ignores it, almost turns his back to head for the shooting range, which was his intended destination, but curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself picking a spot on the edge of the crowd to watch.

She’s not wearing much, just a cropped tank and sweatpants, hair pulled back in a short messy ponytail. There’s not much soft about her. Part of it might’ve been due to the Cathar’s genetic predisposition towards lean muscle, but it’s also clearly honed by years spent sporting durasteel armor and carrying heavy weapons. She’s quick, light in her feet, dancing around her opponent with a practiced ease.

“Not exactly fair fight,” he finds himself saying a short time later when she’s easily pinned the lieutenant to the sparring mat, spurred on by some ridiculous need to wipe the triumphant look off of her face. “She’s cathar. Better balance. Faster reflexes.”

“Well come on then,” someone in the crowd of onlookers says, and he supposes he kind of was asking for it, “Show us a fair fight!”

“By all means,” she gestures to the sparing mat with a dramatic sweep of her arms. It’s a foolish idea, and he definitely has better things to do with his time, but there’s no sense denying he’s got a bit of a competitive streak too. And he is curious.

The practice mats are still warm as he steps onto them. Alarai tightens the band around her hair.

“You sure you want to do this, Jorgan?” she asks, stretching her legs out with lazy confidence. “I’d hate to bruise your ego in front of all your subordinates.”

Aric finishes strapping his gloves, smirk sharp enough to cut steel. “I’ve got nothing to prove. You do.”

He steps closer, circling her, and she narrows her gaze, measuring him up.

They close in, their shadows overlapping on the mat. She moves first, a quick jab to test distance. Aric blocks, fluid and controlled. The sound of gloves snapping against forearms echoes through the gym. She pivots, and he mirrors. Their feet squeak on the polished mat in tight, fast patterns. A few soldiers cheer from the sidelines.

Aric goes for her midline, but she twists, catching his wrist and using his momentum to spin him around. He lands on one knee, not quite down, but enough for her to grin.

Aric surges upward, catching her off guard just enough to hook an arm around her waist. She gasps - more in surprise than alarm - before twisting out of his grip and sweeping at his ankle.

He jumps back, barely avoiding it, and she smirks. She’s trying to bait him, but it won’t work.

He attacks again, controlled and precise, and she blocks with equal accuracy. They’re close now, breathing each other’s air as strikes land faster and faster, turning into something more like choreography.

Then she steps in, shoulder brushing his chest as she grabs his forearm, spins, and sends him down onto the mat with a thud.

Aric blinks up at her from the floor, her forearm pinned across his throat. She leans over him, triumphant. “Looks like I win.”

So maybe it isn’t entirely dumb luck, he concedes to himself, but the proud smirk she wears does absolutely nothing to change his opinion on her overconfidence and arrogance.

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The day the news breaks about Havoc Squad’s defection, Aric doesn’t believe it at first. He refuses to. He stands there in the command center, listening to the report with a growing, ice-cold sickness in his gut. Names he’s fought beside, trusted, bled with—heroes, legends—turning their backs on the Republic and joining the Empire like it was nothing more than switching uniforms.

A betrayal with the force of a punch to the ribs.

For a long moment he can’t move. He can barely think. Just watches the holo-feed flicker with mission footage, casualty assessments, the kind of aftermath Havoc was trained to prevent—now caused by them.

And worst of all? Na’bria Alarai is the only one left. And not because of some outstanding heroics, not some display of loyalty, but because she wasn’t even there yet. She walked into the wake of destruction and got handed the keys to the squad like it was some prize.

Lazy, arrogant, brat. Used to getting what she wants, and here’s Havoc Squad, plopped right into her lap like a present all wrapped up with him as her new subordinate for the bow while he’s left demoted and dealing with the backlash.

Just his blasted luck.

He watches her as Generall Vorne delivers the news to her—shoulders square, chin lifted, Havoc patch bright on her armor—and he feels something boiling under his sternum. Something sharp, unpleasant, almost childish in its rawness.

Jealousy isn’t the right word. Neither is resentment.

It’s betrayal wearing a different uniform.

She must catch something in his expression. "Is that going to be a problem, Sergeant?" Her tone is snappy, and he doesn't miss the way she emphasizes that last word. It's hard not to flinch. Salt on a fresh wound.

"No," he snaps, and immediately regrets how immature it sounds. Get a grip, Jorgan.

“Guess you’re stuck with me then,” she drawls, looking entirely too satisfied with the whole situation.

"Don’t get used to it." He growls. Don’t get used to it, sir, he reminds himself, but some stubborn part of his brain that's nursing a good deal of injured pride won't let the words out of his mouth.

Notes: I’ll eventually be moving this to Ao3 but several years ago in a moment of self doubt about my writing skills I deleted my account and now apparently you have to wait for an invite to be sent out to create a new one and that will take several weeks 🙄 Why do I do this to myself

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