Hello ;3

Forests now strike fear within him.

There's something about the rustling of foliage—how the sound emits from the even slightest movement and how he remembers what it felt like brushing against his armor. It reminds him of Kashyyyk. Reminds him of Tantiss. Both places he won't want to remember ever for the rest of his life, but alas. They can't be easily forgotten. Not when one had been a place where he lost a brother, and the other where he'd thought he'd die.

But it was the trees that saved him from the fall. It was so high, he didn't think he would make it. His armor shield systems failed him when he took three bolts to the chest, propelling him backward and into the dark abyss in the midst of a thunderstorm. He took an excruciating hit to the back of his head, blacked out, and the next thing he knew when he was awake was that he was lying in a medbay of a ship.

It was all thanks to his old training sergeant; Vau. The other blurry figure in his periphery had been Sergeant Gilamar who was checking over his vitals. Both were relieved when he woke, although Vau's expression was more repressed. Scorch didn't expect any less.

And then there was you.

One of his hands was warm the entire time, only made him realize that you hadn't let go. Later he found out through Gilamar’s fond rambling that you'd never left the medbay. You were there since both Mandalorians brought him in, dashing from the cockpit to the medbay and went to depressurize his helmet. You knew how. Of course you knew.

Then it began the journey of his healing.

Foliage and underbrush scare him, so the easy solution was a house by the beach. There are rarely any peaceful beaches on Mandalore, so you had proposed somewhere else. Somewhere serene without prying eyes. Working under the Empire under the effects of the inhibitor chip has done so much to him, and after they removed the chip out, he needed the quiet. You promised to keep an eye on him. You knew how to take care of yourself, although your odds against a deadly commando is always thin. Vau was skeptical. And Sev, the other one they had pulled out too, shared the sergeant's concerns.

Scorch spoke up. It was his decision after all.

And here he is. Lying in the softest bed he couldn't ever have if not because of you, enjoying the way the warm morning sun pours through the bi-folding wooden doors and raises the temperature of his entire body. He never wakes up cold. Always to the sun. Always to the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline—an entirely different world from Kashyyyk and Tantiss.

It's expensive music to his ears, it's like witnessing a masterpiece being played over and over again by the same orchestra. But what's more endearing is how you hum a lovely tune from the kitchen, and he won't deny that love and all the fondness in the world he could fit in his body immediately floods his veins and takes control of his very beating heart.

Scorch decides to wake up, pulling his shorts on, and greet you good morning. Mornings are always good ever since he moved here with you, and there isn't a single regret. Although he misses Sev sometimes.

As expected he finds you in the kitchen, but not anywhere around the countertop stirring tea. The tea already sits there inside a couple of mugs, steaming next to a small bowl of boiled eggs, as they're all used to stall for proper breakfast planning. You aren't here just to watch over him, but also to give him a choice.

Scorch's bare feet pad quietly along the floorboards, and his loud sigh as he relishes the sight of you in nothing but his shirt that reaches your thigh announces his presence.

“Morning,” you smile, glancing over to him as you're watering your sea lavenders.

“Hi,” Scorch rasps, having not drunk a glass of water yet, and sidles close to your direction. You put down your watering can just in time his big strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. He buries his face in your shoulder. “Why are you up so early?”

You chuckle. “Scorch, it's way past sunrise.”

“So warm.” He continuously ignores you, attempting to absorb all the sunlight you've absorbed this morning into his own body. His thumbs are caressing your ribs. “You, too. You're very soft, mesh'la.”

You lean back against him. “And you're very strong.” Turning your head, you plant a kiss on his scarred cheek. Truth to be told you miss his quirky bleached hair, but he'll get there again when he's ready, or if he wants to. This is your Scorch, your beloved whom you give as much freedom as he wants.

Scorch hums, almost whining. His eyes feast on the shoreline that stretches from east to west, the ocean before him limitless beyond the horizon. “Bet I could carry you… from there”—he slowly tilts your body to show you one edge of the beach and the other—”to there.”

A giggle falls off your lips, your hands tightening over his arms around you. “Without falling or jostling?”

Scorch smiles into your shirt. “‘Course not.”

“Then I don't doubt it.”

He stays there, not planning to let go anytime soon. You don't seem to complain, especially not when you could've met his warm bare chest skin to skin. Even if you're both all alone on this side of the beach, not adhering the least of decency is strange to you.

Then he sees it.

A round, dark mark on the back of your shoulder. And just next to it, a red imprint of his teeth marks. Sensations from the night before crash into him again like those waves in the shore; how he ravished on you while you were on your hands and knees. You were caught drinking tihaar that he hasn't found out where it came from, and the alcoholic buzz had your receptors increased twofold that you sang for him loud, even louder than the evening coastal wind as he drilled into you relentlessly.

“Oh baby,” he mutters, concern pouring through his voice. “I bruised you.”

His fingers pry at the hem of your collar to reveal more bite marks. Before you can say anything to calm him down, a quick movement of his hand raises the hem of your shirt, indeliberately granting the coastal nature a view of your bare crotch, only to find more finger-sized bruises on your hip. A quiet gasp escapes him, blood pumping through his veins unexpectedly downward.

“Oh, it doesn't hurt,” you attempt to quench his concern. “Really, it's fine.”

Scorch meets your gaze, his eyes blinking almost in disbelief. “It really doesn't?”

“No,” you shake your head, “Don't worry about it.”

Something about your lowered voice and occasional glances to his lips makes his cock hardening against you. He might've remembered how he left one of those bite marks or two—lost in fits of passion, and it was such a delight. “Don't lie, baby.”

He presses himself against you, making his situation known. You gasp as you feel him prodding against your thigh, separated by the fabric of his shorts.

“Honest,” you pant, his arms tightening around you, and his breath on your lips warm.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…” You sigh, moaning breathily, when Scorch finally closes the distance between you with a deep kiss. His mouth quickly closes over yours, the tip of his tongue teasing over your bottom lip. You squirm in his arms to turn and wrap your arms around his neck so you can confront his warmth, but Scorch grips you tight, keeping you in place.

“No baby, stay like this,” he growls against your lips, “Wanna fuck you again like last night. Manda, you just look so good with my marks on you.”

A whimper escapes you, your noises muffled by his tongue briefly dipping into your mouth. “It—it's turning you on?”

“It's turning me on so much. You have no idea, mesh'la.”

“I think…” You press back against this bulge making him groan into your lips. “I have some ideas.”

His trimmed nails drifting across your stomach, causing you to tremble in his arms and coaxing another whimper out of you. The pathetic noise can only do nothing but spur him on to turn you even softer and pliable for him. Without saying another word, he rips his lips away from you to tug your shirt up and off of you. You pant, surprised.

“Wait—” A soft moan cuts your warning as he palms your breasts and pinches your nipples. “Out here?”

“There's no one here. Just us.” Scorch gives you one last peck to your lips before grabbing your waist and fully turning you around. “Just us and the sea and the beach and the sun. Hold onto the railings, baby.”

You oblige and place your hands into the durasteel railings, your heart pounding as you wait in anticipation. Scorch buys his own time, stepping back to admire the way your curves glow in the sun before hurriedly tugging his bottoms off. Having pressed against you and thought about your marks over and over again has the head of his dick weeping.

Scorch reaches for you, tugging you back against him by the waist so your arms stretch as you grab onto the railings. Shivers wreck your body as you feel his hardened length against the cleft of your ass, thick and heavy and hot against you. Nearly bent over in your position, the plains of your back are yet to be littered with marks—he’d change that. Hand wrapping around his cock, he carefully prods the head past your slicked cunt lips. Then Scorch sinks his length completely inside you, groaning as his hips clapping against your ass.

“How are you still feeling so tight after all that we've done?”

Your words are rightfully stolen out of your tongue as your beloved immediately starts a rhythm to push his cock in and out of you. Scorch's hands wander over your front, his intention to make you gripping him tighter goes above all else. His mouth latches onto your shoulder to suck yet another mark while one hand drifts south to strum your clit, causing you to yelp and tighten around him.

“My prettiest baby letting out all the prettiest sounds for me,” he pants into your neck, his hand and thrusts into you remain relentless. “All of you for me, mesh'la?”

Only able to nod while moaning your agreement, Scorch feels your entire body tingle at his sharp thrusts. Your walls hugging him like fleshy vice are making his knees buckle, but he doesn't want this to end so soon. Not when you're limp and soft in his arms, your knuckles white from how hard you're holding onto the railing and your whines and moans become the most beautiful symphony he's ever heard.

You cry out when he rips his hand away from you, your orgasm lying still between your fluttering pussy and fading. Scorch then changes his pace to be slower, dragging his cock along your walls lazily with its tip sliding barely past your pussy lips just before he pushes it in again.

“Arch your back for me,” he says to your ear, voice husked and strained to hold out his own release as well. You oblige, whining, and he presses his forearm across the small of your back to deepen the arch. “Oh fuck—yeah baby, yeah just like that. Thank you for granting my wish, mesh'la. Feel how deep I can reach inside you like this, cyar’ika? You're so, so good…”

With every roll of his hips he touches every inch of your wet depth, his skin slapping against yours in every movement. He draws lewd sounds out of you again as he picks up his pace, your back begins to ache and your ears ring from all the pressure he's giving you. But nevertheless you love it when Scorch is in full control of how he'd like to take you.

He leaves trails of moist lips and tongue on the spot behind your neck, knowing that would incite more of your high-pitched noises. His throat releases his own whines as he grows closer, feeling your walls choking all around his cock. And yet, there; where he's drowning himself in pleasure that blood rushes to the top of his head, his eyes shoot open.

First thing he sees is your loose strands of hair and beads of sweet adorning your temple. But compared to the grand scenery laid before him; the way the waves kiss the shore with every tide, the sun giving everything it touches life. The vast beach littered with rocks and flooded with golden sand, the palm trees, your sea lavenders. You in his arms. His survival. And then there's your again, willingly taking all his love with your song that you release shamelessly to the heavens as if to compete against the crashing waves in the distance.

Something inside his chest bursts with gratitude. And love, and bliss. This is where he belongs.

“I can't lose you,” Scorch gasps, burying his face into your neck. His thrusts are now quickened and shallow, barely pulling out of you more than a couple of inches, as if you'd vanish if he'd pull out almost completely. “You've been so good to me, baby. You never gave up on me. You're mine forever in this little paradise of our own, yeah?”

“M’always yours, Scorch,” you whine, grunting to wait for him so you can release together. “I love you. With all my heart.”

“Thank you,” he pants, his voice quivering at the edge of sobbing. “Oh Manda, thank you…”

You both earn your high full with love to the brim. You cry out as you let go, your spasming walls becoming the endgame for your lover. Scorch releases deep inside you with a sharp thrust and a wet groan, his calloused fingers had clung to the flesh of your waist some time during his rambling. His pants are loud and exhausted and emotional as he keeps you there in his arms, his face buried into your shoulder where you can feel wetness.

Tears. He's crying. His sobbing had passed when he orgasmed, but this is a genuine moment of closeness he could've ever wanted from you. His love to you is pouring and pouring endlessly in its rawest form.

Still sheathed inside you, Scorch holds you close, knowing and taking every part of your word to heart—that you'd never let him go.

Scorch divider by me!

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @msmeredithrose @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat @gh0st-c0mpany @ct7567329

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

Forests now strike fear within him.

There's something about the rustling of foliage—how the sound emits from the even slightest movement and how he remembers what it felt like brushing against his armor. It reminds him of Kashyyyk. Reminds him of Tantiss. Both places he won't want to remember ever for the rest of his life, but alas. They can't be easily forgotten. Not when one had been a place where he lost a brother, and the other where he'd thought he'd die.

But it was the trees that saved him from the fall. It was so high, he didn't think he would make it. His armor shield systems failed him when he took three bolts to the chest, propelling him backward and into the dark abyss in the midst of a thunderstorm. He took an excruciating hit to the back of his head, blacked out, and the next thing he knew when he was awake was that he was lying in a medbay of a ship.

It was all thanks to his old training sergeant; Vau. The other blurry figure in his periphery had been Sergeant Gilamar who was checking over his vitals. Both were relieved when he woke, although Vau's expression was more repressed. Scorch didn't expect any less.

And then there was you.

One of his hands was warm the entire time, only made him realize that you hadn't let go. Later he found out through Gilamar’s fond rambling that you'd never left the medbay. You were there since both Mandalorians brought him in, dashing from the cockpit to the medbay and went to depressurize his helmet. You knew how. Of course you knew.

Then it began the journey of his healing.

Foliage and underbrush scare him, so the easy solution was a house by the beach. There are rarely any peaceful beaches on Mandalore, so you had proposed somewhere else. Somewhere serene without prying eyes. Working under the Empire under the effects of the inhibitor chip has done so much to him, and after they removed the chip out, he needed the quiet. You promised to keep an eye on him. You knew how to take care of yourself, although your odds against a deadly commando is always thin. Vau was skeptical. And Sev, the other one they had pulled out too, shared the sergeant's concerns.

Scorch spoke up. It was his decision after all.

And here he is. Lying in the softest bed he couldn't ever have if not because of you, enjoying the way the warm morning sun pours through the bi-folding wooden doors and raises the temperature of his entire body. He never wakes up cold. Always to the sun. Always to the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline—an entirely different world from Kashyyyk and Tantiss.

It's expensive music to his ears, it's like witnessing a masterpiece being played over and over again by the same orchestra. But what's more endearing is how you hum a lovely tune from the kitchen, and he won't deny that love and all the fondness in the world he could fit in his body immediately floods his veins and takes control of his very beating heart.

Scorch decides to wake up, pulling his shorts on, and greet you good morning. Mornings are always good ever since he moved here with you, and there isn't a single regret. Although he misses Sev sometimes.

As expected he finds you in the kitchen, but not anywhere around the countertop stirring tea. The tea already sits there inside a couple of mugs, steaming next to a small bowl of boiled eggs, as they're all used to stall for proper breakfast planning. You aren't here just to watch over him, but also to give him a choice.

Scorch's bare feet pad quietly along the floorboards, and his loud sigh as he relishes the sight of you in nothing but his shirt that reaches your thigh announces his presence.

“Morning,” you smile, glancing over to him as you're watering your sea lavenders.

“Hi,” Scorch rasps, having not drunk a glass of water yet, and sidles close to your direction. You put down your watering can just in time his big strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. He buries his face in your shoulder. “Why are you up so early?”

You chuckle. “Scorch, it's way past sunrise.”

“So warm.” He continuously ignores you, attempting to absorb all the sunlight you've absorbed this morning into his own body. His thumbs are caressing your ribs. “You, too. You're very soft, mesh'la.”

You lean back against him. “And you're very strong.” Turning your head, you plant a kiss on his scarred cheek. Truth to be told you miss his quirky bleached hair, but he'll get there again when he's ready, or if he wants to. This is your Scorch, your beloved whom you give as much freedom as he wants.

Scorch hums, almost whining. His eyes feast on the shoreline that stretches from east to west, the ocean before him limitless beyond the horizon. “Bet I could carry you… from there”—he slowly tilts your body to show you one edge of the beach and the other—”to there.”

A giggle falls off your lips, your hands tightening over his arms around you. “Without falling or jostling?”

Scorch smiles into your shirt. “‘Course not.”

“Then I don't doubt it.”

He stays there, not planning to let go anytime soon. You don't seem to complain, especially not when you could've met his warm bare chest skin to skin. Even if you're both all alone on this side of the beach, not adhering the least of decency is strange to you.

Then he sees it.

A round, dark mark on the back of your shoulder. And just next to it, a red imprint of his teeth marks. Sensations from the night before crash into him again like those waves in the shore; how he ravished on you while you were on your hands and knees. You were caught drinking tihaar that he hasn't found out where it came from, and the alcoholic buzz had your receptors increased twofold that you sang for him loud, even louder than the evening coastal wind as he drilled into you relentlessly.

“Oh baby,” he mutters, concern pouring through his voice. “I bruised you.”

His fingers pry at the hem of your collar to reveal more bite marks. Before you can say anything to calm him down, a quick movement of his hand raises the hem of your shirt, indeliberately granting the coastal nature a view of your bare crotch, only to find more finger-sized bruises on your hip. A quiet gasp escapes him, blood pumping through his veins unexpectedly downward.

“Oh, it doesn't hurt,” you attempt to quench his concern. “Really, it's fine.”

Scorch meets your gaze, his eyes blinking almost in disbelief. “It really doesn't?”

“No,” you shake your head, “Don't worry about it.”

Something about your lowered voice and occasional glances to his lips makes his cock hardening against you. He might've remembered how he left one of those bite marks or two—lost in fits of passion, and it was such a delight. “Don't lie, baby.”

He presses himself against you, making his situation known. You gasp as you feel him prodding against your thigh, separated by the fabric of his shorts.

“Honest,” you pant, his arms tightening around you, and his breath on your lips warm.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…” You sigh, moaning breathily, when Scorch finally closes the distance between you with a deep kiss. His mouth quickly closes over yours, the tip of his tongue teasing over your bottom lip. You squirm in his arms to turn and wrap your arms around his neck so you can confront his warmth, but Scorch grips you tight, keeping you in place.

“No baby, stay like this,” he growls against your lips, “Wanna fuck you again like last night. Manda, you just look so good with my marks on you.”

A whimper escapes you, your noises muffled by his tongue briefly dipping into your mouth. “It—it's turning you on?”

“It's turning me on so much. You have no idea, mesh'la.”

“I think…” You press back against this bulge making him groan into your lips. “I have some ideas.”

His trimmed nails drifting across your stomach, causing you to tremble in his arms and coaxing another whimper out of you. The pathetic noise can only do nothing but spur him on to turn you even softer and pliable for him. Without saying another word, he rips his lips away from you to tug your shirt up and off of you. You pant, surprised.

“Wait—” A soft moan cuts your warning as he palms your breasts and pinches your nipples. “Out here?”

“There's no one here. Just us.” Scorch gives you one last peck to your lips before grabbing your waist and fully turning you around. “Just us and the sea and the beach and the sun. Hold onto the railings, baby.”

You oblige and place your hands into the durasteel railings, your heart pounding as you wait in anticipation. Scorch buys his own time, stepping back to admire the way your curves glow in the sun before hurriedly tugging his bottoms off. Having pressed against you and thought about your marks over and over again has the head of his dick weeping.

Scorch reaches for you, tugging you back against him by the waist so your arms stretch as you grab onto the railings. Shivers wreck your body as you feel his hardened length against the cleft of your ass, thick and heavy and hot against you. Nearly bent over in your position, the plains of your back are yet to be littered with marks—he’d change that. Hand wrapping around his cock, he carefully prods the head past your slicked cunt lips. Then Scorch sinks his length completely inside you, groaning as his hips clapping against your ass.

“How are you still feeling so tight after all that we've done?”

Your words are rightfully stolen out of your tongue as your beloved immediately starts a rhythm to push his cock in and out of you. Scorch's hands wander over your front, his intention to make you gripping him tighter goes above all else. His mouth latches onto your shoulder to suck yet another mark while one hand drifts south to strum your clit, causing you to yelp and tighten around him.

“My prettiest baby letting out all the prettiest sounds for me,” he pants into your neck, his hand and thrusts into you remain relentless. “All of you for me, mesh'la?”

Only able to nod while moaning your agreement, Scorch feels your entire body tingle at his sharp thrusts. Your walls hugging him like fleshy vice are making his knees buckle, but he doesn't want this to end so soon. Not when you're limp and soft in his arms, your knuckles white from how hard you're holding onto the railing and your whines and moans become the most beautiful symphony he's ever heard.

You cry out when he rips his hand away from you, your orgasm lying still between your fluttering pussy and fading. Scorch then changes his pace to be slower, dragging his cock along your walls lazily with its tip sliding barely past your pussy lips just before he pushes it in again.

“Arch your back for me,” he says to your ear, voice husked and strained to hold out his own release as well. You oblige, whining, and he presses his forearm across the small of your back to deepen the arch. “Oh fuck—yeah baby, yeah just like that. Thank you for granting my wish, mesh'la. Feel how deep I can reach inside you like this, cyar’ika? You're so, so good…”

With every roll of his hips he touches every inch of your wet depth, his skin slapping against yours in every movement. He draws lewd sounds out of you again as he picks up his pace, your back begins to ache and your ears ring from all the pressure he's giving you. But nevertheless you love it when Scorch is in full control of how he'd like to take you.

He leaves trails of moist lips and tongue on the spot behind your neck, knowing that would incite more of your high-pitched noises. His throat releases his own whines as he grows closer, feeling your walls choking all around his cock. And yet, there; where he's drowning himself in pleasure that blood rushes to the top of his head, his eyes shoot open.

First thing he sees is your loose strands of hair and beads of sweet adorning your temple. But compared to the grand scenery laid before him; the way the waves kiss the shore with every tide, the sun giving everything it touches life. The vast beach littered with rocks and flooded with golden sand, the palm trees, your sea lavenders. You in his arms. His survival. And then there's your again, willingly taking all his love with your song that you release shamelessly to the heavens as if to compete against the crashing waves in the distance.

Something inside his chest bursts with gratitude. And love, and bliss. This is where he belongs.

“I can't lose you,” Scorch gasps, burying his face into your neck. His thrusts are now quickened and shallow, barely pulling out of you more than a couple of inches, as if you'd vanish if he'd pull out almost completely. “You've been so good to me, baby. You never gave up on me. You're mine forever in this little paradise of our own, yeah?”

“M’always yours, Scorch,” you whine, grunting to wait for him so you can release together. “I love you. With all my heart.”

“Thank you,” he pants, his voice quivering at the edge of sobbing. “Oh Manda, thank you…”

You both earn your high full with love to the brim. You cry out as you let go, your spasming walls becoming the endgame for your lover. Scorch releases deep inside you with a sharp thrust and a wet groan, his calloused fingers had clung to the flesh of your waist some time during his rambling. His pants are loud and exhausted and emotional as he keeps you there in his arms, his face buried into your shoulder where you can feel wetness.

Tears. He's crying. His sobbing had passed when he orgasmed, but this is a genuine moment of closeness he could've ever wanted from you. His love to you is pouring and pouring endlessly in its rawest form.

Still sheathed inside you, Scorch holds you close, knowing and taking every part of your word to heart—that you'd never let him go.

Scorch divider by me!

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @msmeredithrose @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat @gh0st-c0mpany @ct7567329

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

For the record, you never signed up for this.

“You’re not supposed to write kaboom,” you slammed the flimsi back on your desk. The little clone trooper bobblehead one of the shinies had left you bobbled its ridiculously big head in silent mockery. “How the hell am I supposed to explain to the Republic Oversight Committee that Sector G6, Level 3761 was partly demolished because one commando decided ‘kaboom’ was a sufficient justification? That was messy.”

RC-1262 stretched in the chair he’d dragged into your cubicle, helmet propped on his knee, grin plastered across his heavily scarred face, a fresh cut slicing the left corner of his mouth. “Well, it was accurate, wasn’t it?”

You pressed your fingers into your temples, picturing Senate auditors tearing into your unit’s quarterly report. The reparations bill for G6 would be astronomical. Worse, it was in the underworld - meaning months of subcontractor corruption, workers bribed or bullied into silence, citizens filing claims that the Republic would drag its feet on settling. Not that Coruscant’s lower levels ever believed the Republic gave a damn about them anyway. Well, that part was true, the Republic gives no shit, but that was beside the point.

“Accurate isn’t the same as professional,” you bit out. “There’s a reason the template asks for structural damage estimates, blast radius, munition type—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scorch twirled a stylus between his trigger fingers. “But you’d rather I wrote a novel? ‘Dear bureaucrats, today’s fireworks were brought to you by one well-placed thermal detonator and my sparkling personality.’”

You leveled a flat stare at him. “Honestly? That would’ve been better than ‘kaboom.’ At least then I’d have a word count.”

He barked a laugh, leaning forward onto your desk so abruptly the bobblehead toppled over. “Careful, sweetheart, I might just drag you on our next underworld op so you can see for yourself how fantastic my explosion is. Soooooo good it doesn’t need justification.” He shoved the flimsi back towards you with one finger. “Next one’s Benduday. Like Skirata says, we’re not stopping until every last seppie cell is dust.”

“Sweetheart?” you scoffed, jabbing a finger at the flimsi. “The only thing you’re getting from me is a rewritten report that won’t have the Oversight Committee slashing our budget in half.”

“Oh, come on,” he drawled. “You’d miss me if I stopped turning them in like this. Admit it. Gives you something to yell about.”

Before you could retort, a head appeared around the cubicle wall. Fixer. Somehow the only reasonable man in that squad. The one who didn’t act like (1) an edgelord sociopath, (2) a hyperactive kid high on detonator fumes, or (3) an unhinged trash-talking sergeant whose only contribution during his rare visits to your office was to stand stiffly in the corner and mutter “fuck me, not again.” Not what again? You’d never know.

Fixer looked between you and Scorch with a pair of dead bored eyes. “Scorch,” he said flatly. “Stop flirting with the officer and finish your paperwork. Boss wanted us to be done with it yesterday.”

“We’re not flirting,” you and Scorch said in unison.

Fixer sighed, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “kill me now,” and disappeared behind the manual sliding door that separated your cubicle from the rest of the office. Not that you’d ever demanded exclusivity, but apparently being the Safety and Compliance Officer (temporarily covering Risk Assessment too, since the sleemo who held the post resigned last quarter to become a holonet fashion influencer) meant your desk had turned into a revolving door of frontline troopers and spec-ops. It had gotten bad enough that upper management finally decided your constant parade of armour-plated visitors was “disruptive to the peace and productivity of the workplace.” Their solution was to wall you off and install a door. A flimsy little thing, manual slide, but it did the job. Honestly? You were grateful for the privacy.

“Fine,” you sighed. “Twenty-four hours. I want it in my inbox. Written in your own words. Not churned out by those automated generators you troopers love so much. They strip context, blur accountability, and interfere with transparency. The Senate committee will gut us if they think frontline reports are being fabricated by software instead of actual operators.”

“Last time I checked,” Scorch scoffed, “I’m not one of the GAR’s comm officers. So if I want to use those automated tools, I will. Not a part of my job des—”

“Or I’ll personally call your Mandalorian handler and get you disciplined.”

That shut him up for a second before he leaned in and hissed through a grin, “Oh, you would never. Because if you did, I’d call your—”

“SCORCH.” The bark came from behind your door. You both turned to see another figure behind the frosted transparisteel window in orange-and-white armour, and a standard regulation cut. “We were supposed to be at Qibbu’s an hour ago,” Boss snapped.

Scorch winced as he rose, helmet under his arm. “Guess I’ll have to finish threatening you later, sweetheart.”

You groaned and immediately grabbed the little bottle of overpriced “relaxing” room spray you’d panic-bought from some wellness shop at the Embassy Mall. One quick spritz, two, three - still not enough to kill the smell of armour, sweat, and whatever seppie-fueled hell Delta Squad had just crawled out of. When was the last time they showered? You didn’t even want to know.

Sinking back into your chair, you pulled the flimsi towards you and forced yourself to reread the report.

GAR Incident Report  Filed by: RC-1262, “Scorch” Mission Code: [Redacted] Sector: G6, Level 3761 Objective: Root out separatist cell. Blow stuff up. Actions Taken: Kaboom. Threw thermal (bigger boom). Collateral Damage: Approx. 1/3 of the block is now “modern open-plan design.” G6 train station maybe offline. Check with locals? Civilian casualties: none witnessed. Notes: Explosion was fantastic. Recommend giving me more thermals for future ops. Blast radius: “big enough.” Structural damage: “see attached doodle.” 

You pulled out an attachment with a crude sketch of a building with little “boom” clouds drawn in, and a stick figure (labeled “ME”) holding what looked like a thermal detonator.

Conclusion: Kaboom. 🎉

The flimsi fluttered as you let it drop back onto your desk. You stared at the stick figure drawing hoping it might spontaneously combust and put you out of your misery. Somewhere out in the office, someone’s caf machine hissed. You pressed your forehead to the desk.

“I’ve told you to ask for a transfer if this job frustrates you so much,” Besany from the Logistics Center said as she slid a tray across to you, steam rising from the white ceramic bowl of dumpling soup and a rice noodle on the side. She’d been your only semi-sane friend in the building since last year, which meant she’d appointed herself your unofficial career counselor. 

“Go apply to the Republic Science and Technical Center,” she continued, unwrapping her burger and squeezed out a sachet of spicy condiment. “I heard they’ve got a compliance officer vacancy. And you know how those scientists are, they’ll happily push a prototype into testing without documenting blast limits or failure contingencies. Someone has to babysit their ‘brilliant’ ideas before they vaporise half a lab.”

“Eh. I’m good here.” You shrugged, picking up your spoon. “Besides, the pay’s decent. I’m on a permanent contract now. Don’t feel like starting over in a quarterly contract at the Science and Tech Center. Yes, I saw the ad.”

“I mean, you always complain about troopers, especially commandos, not giving you a proper compliance report after finishing high-stakes missions.” She bit into her burger, muffling her next words. “Funny. Guess these lot are better as friends, not colleagues.”

“To be fair,” you stirred your soup, “maybe a select few would make good colleagues. I’ve never heard Zita complain. That guy works with the Corries at the Senate Building, and apparently his desk is blissfully quiet. No commandos barging in, no stick-figure doodles attached to reports.”

“Is this about Scorch again?” Besany perked up immediately. “I swear to whoever created this wretched galaxy, you always have a problem with that one! I thought the edgy one would be trouble.” She barked a laugh. “You know, I saw him zoning out in one of the hangar lifts once. I asked him what was wrong, and he simply said, ‘Oh right, forgot to push the buttons,’ and walked straight out. Didn’t even look embarrassed.” She cackled, shaking her head. “Those commandos are such a riot.”

“Oh, of course,” you murmured. “You’re biased. You’re dating one of them.” Chuckling quietly, you kept your volume low so the analysts at the next table wouldn’t overhear.

Besany almost choked on her nerf burger. “Excuse me? There is nothing between me and Ordo.”

“Nobody said anything about Ordo,” you laughed, pointing at her with your spoon. “Oooooh—unless…”

Her cheeks flushed the faintest pink, and she jabbed her straw into her drink. “Don’t start,” 

“Maker, I knew it. All this time you’ve been lecturing me about my so-called commando problem, and you’ve been sneaking off for caf with ‘one of the most esteemed ARCs’ himself.”

“It was one time,” she whispered fiercely. “One caf. For work.”

“Uh huh. Sure. Totally professional. Just like my office smells totally professional after Scorch drags in half the underworld with him.”

Besany groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “Stars, you’re insufferable.”

“I better see Scorch’s revision in my inbox before sunrise tomorrow. Otherwise it’s over for him and his—ooh, wait.” Your datapad pinged, cutting you off. “It’s only been six hours?”

The sender glowed in bold blue text: [email protected]

“That was… surprisingly fast.”

You opened the mail. No attachment. Only a single line in the body text:

Subject: (no subject) Message: kaboom

Underneath, he’d slapped in a blurry photograph of himself giving a thumbs-up with a half-eaten ration bar hanging out of his mouth. Behind him was Sector G6, judging from the cracked street sign hanging at an angle,a blast site he was supposed to report properly.

You unceremoniously flipped your datapad to Besany.

Across the table, Besany nearly spat her drink. “Oh my stars, is that what counts as work correspondence with him?”

“I… hate him. I really do.” You stared at the screen, equal parts furious and begrudgingly amused. 

Your datapad pinged again.

Second message from [email protected]

Subject: addendum Message: pls tell the oversight committee the blast radius was ‘yay big’ (see attached) and literally zero casualties.

You opened the attachment and groaned. A photo of Boss and Sev, standing at the centre of the blast site, both pointing vaguely at the background. Nothing in the frame except scorched duracrete, shattered piping, and a blackened transit sign. The entire sector was scorched, pun fully intended.

Sighing, you turned back to Besany. “He says ‘literally zero casualties.’ Which means I now need to triple-check it with Civilian Affairs for property claims, Health and Welfare for casualty cross-reference, and the bloody Coruscant Guard Incident Registry in case the CSF down there already filed complaints. And then I have to do the Risk Assessment report with all three reconciled before I can even draft my compliance note for the Oversight Committee.”

Besany winced. “That’s like… five offices.”

“Six if Infrastructure and Utilities decides to scream about the train station.” You jabbed your spoon into your soup. “Scorch gets to write ‘kaboom,’ and I get to chase down hundreds of divisions and a thousand subcommittees for the next two weeks.”

“If I were you, I’d just take him out for a caf and ask him nicely.” Besany finished the last of her meal. “Sometimes it’s the only way to get through to them. You know how the Republic treats them. Their BAS is abysmal, their rations are worse, and on top of that, they’re expected to blow things up and do paperwork afterward? I understand compliance is important, but stars, it must be exhausting for them.” She sighed, softening for a moment.

You rolled your eyes as you chug down your soup. “Boss and Fixer never complained. Sev either, oh especially Sev, he gets very descriptive. It’s scary how detailed his reports are sometimes. He once wrote two pages on what a body looked like after a flamethrower exposure.” You shuddered. “The Omega Squad’s been compliant too, and they’re deployed out of system most cycles. So no, I don’t think this is about exhaustion.”

“Mm.” Besany chewed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing. “So it’s just him.”

“No. Don’t.” You pointed your spoon in her direction. “Hardcase from the 501st also behaves the same way, but—”

“But he’s not like Scorch?” Besany’s smile curved.

You ignored it, plowing on. “But his captain and lieutenant actually review everything before submitting in bulk to me.”

“Really? An entire legion? Rex and Jesse do that?”

“No, just Torrent Company,” you muttered. “Anyway, that’s beside—”

“I still think a caf is on the table,” Besany interrupted smoothly, leaning back with that maddeningly smug look.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” You groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

“I am,” she said sweetly. “And my side says, stop drowning in subcommittees and bribe him with caf.”

To his credit, Scorch did eventually submit a revised report before the deadline. It wasn’t good, but it was legible. Well, legible enough that you could scrape together actual data points and build a compliance file that wouldn’t get shredded by the Oversight Committee. Of course, that meant you had to spend the next few days chasing down Civilian Affairs for casualty verification, cross-referencing the Coruscant Guard’s incident logs, and pulling in Infrastructure and Utilities to sign off that the transit lines were “structurally compromised but not a total write-off.” By the time you packaged the whole thing into a neat document, you were running on two hours of sleep, three cups of strong black caf, and the faint hope that your inbox wouldn’t ping with another disaster before noon.

So when Delta Squad’s next mission file hit your desk, you braced for more flames, rubble, and the usual stick-figure doodles. Instead, you got Boss himself dropping a stack of flimsi on your desk.

“No detonation this time?” you asked warily, flipping through the report. “No broken infrastructure?”

Boss scratched his jaw. “Well… our sniper shot down two speeders when they started tailing him. Had to, or we’d be fucking toast.” He pointed a finger at the report. “Double-check with Jusik if you don’t believe me. Fi was there too. Recon mission was ass. Boring as fuck.”

“Boss.”

“Minimal damage,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “Couple engines slagged, one karking crash into a kriffing wall. Building didn’t fall down, so that’s a fucking win in my book.” He scowled. “Do you know how fucking hard it is to haul a team of commandos through the underworld without blowing the place sky-high? It’s like sneaking a herd of rancors into a civilian speeder. Filthy, heavy, smells like shit. And the higher ups still expect us to write a polite little fucking compliance report about it?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Boss—”

“Look,” he huffed, planting his hands on your desk, “you’ll get your compliance forms, love, but don’t you dare tell me we didn’t do the galaxy a favour by not turning half the district into scrap metal. That’s me behaving, in case you missed it. So stamp it, sign it, send it, whatever the fuck you do back here, and let me get the hell out before my boys throw a house party at Qibbu's.”

He turned towards the door before he paused to look over his shoulder. “Oh, and Scorch said something about sending you proof there were no explosions this mission. Expect it by noon. Kid’s floating in bacta right now, pulled a couple muscles. Fucking hilarious. Let him loose with a satchel of thermals and he’s skipping like a fucking cadet, but tell him to sneak around quietly and he injured himself.”

You spent the better part of the morning scanning the paperwork Boss had submitted, and filed them one by one to the laggy GAR intranet system. It was the kind of thing that made you want to file another report directed at the HR division for subjecting you to psychological torture. Every line had to be combed over at least three times. For instance, Boss had written “minimal damage” in three separate places, but in one section he also admitted that “a rowdy speeder chase was happening in the Entertainment District.” He’d called it “on-site improv,” which you had to rewrite into “counter-surveillance measures taken to prevent compromise of mission objectives.” Then there was the line where he described the local gang who’d been doing some intel work for the Separatists as “shit-for-brains street scum.” That one, you spent an entire ten minutes debating how to sanitise into acceptable language before finally settling on “local non-state actors engaged in obstructive activities.” By the time you reached the conclusion section, where Boss had simply written ‘job’s done, fuck off,’ you had your head in your hands and the beginnings of a headache behind your eyes.

So when your datapad pinged again with a message from [email protected], you knew, deep in your bones, that you were about to regret opening it.

Subject: proof no kaboom Message: told ya. zero explosions. all stealth. 10/10 would do it again.

Attached was not, as you desperately hoped, a proper incident log or even a schematic showing zero detonation evidence. It was another blurry bacta tank selfie of himself, submerged up to his neck in bacta fluid, giving a smug thumbs-up with one hand whilst the other floated limp in its waterproof sling. Behind him, Sev peeked behind the tub with his sniper rifle, and Boss’ and Fixer’s reflection could be seen in the mirror behind Sev with their middle fingers raised directly at the camera.

You stared at it in silence for a long moment before you locked your datapad and let your forehead rest against your cold metal desk.

The datapad pinged again, and you lifted it lazily to see a follow-up message.

Subject: addendum Message: see?? no kaboom but my body’s cracked (because no kaboom).  

You closed your eyes, and prayed for patience. Sitting up straighter, you cracked your knuckles before typing the driest, most by-the-book soul-sucking response you could muster.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Dear RC-1262, Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, the attachment provided does not constitute acceptable compliance documentation under Republic Oversight Committee standards. As per GAR Compliance Directive 14-C, missions where no detonations are used must still include proof of compliance. Minimum documentation required: - Ordnance Inventory Log signed by your squad’s quartermaster (to confirm no issued explosives were deployed). - Weapons Discharge Record (to verify engagements were limited to small arms/sniper fire as reported). - Structural Integrity Clearance from the local Infrastructure and Utilities division (to confirm no damage to public works). - Civilian Casualty Cross-Check with Civilian Affairs/Coruscant Guard (to verify zero civilian injuries or fatalities). - After-Action Statement from your squad leader, in full sentences, detailing operational measures taken in place of demolition. Please revise and resubmit within 12 standard hours. A photo of yourself in a bacta tank does not qualify as acceptable evidence. Regards, Safety & Compliance Officer 894 GAR Risk and Compliance Division Commlink Code: 990808

You sent it off, satisfied at the blunt professionalism. For all of thirty seconds.

Your datapad pinged again.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: rude. that bacta selfie took effort. had to hold my breath so the bubbles wouldn’t ruin it.

You let out the longest sigh of the week as you massaged your temples. You told yourself not to reply, though your fingers had brains on their own.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: Effort would have been filling out the form correctly the first time. Best.

Ping.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: i’m injured, you know. you’re bullying a wounded soldier.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt and hammered back a reply.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: I will gladly call your CO and ask him to discipline you if you keep misusing government email.

Barely a minute later—

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: do it. boss loves when you call him. says your voice makes you sound like you’re about to strangle someone. he’s into it.

“For fuck’s sake.” You shut off your datapad before you could throw it across the cubicle, and forced yourself back to the stack of work on your desk. Grabbing your desk comlink, you punched in the line for the Coruscant Guard’s admin desk to double-check incident filings before you even thought about finalising Delta’s compliance package.

Next to their ever-growing pile was Omega Squad’s, not much better, though at least Niner could string together coherent sentences. Beside that sat a smaller pile from Ordo and Mereel. All three groups had been tied up in the same underworld op, which meant triple-checking overlapping claims, reconciling their different reports, and trying to build one consistent narrative the Oversight Committee wouldn’t laugh you out of the chamber for.

In your inbox, another mountain waited for you. Wolfpack’s compliance from a joint sweep, plus a possible bundle from the 212th’s spec-op squad once they got back from their deployment in the neighbouring system. Which meant your week was about to dissolve into a carousel of “urgent” cross-checks and signatures from people who’d rather eat their expired rations than fill in a Form-62B.

You scrolled down the shared staff directory, debating who you could bother to make your life easier. Risk & Compliance was technically a division, not just you, but after the last round of budget cuts, most of the junior staff had been shuffled to other offices. You still had Leebee, your long-suffering data clerk, who could chase casualty records and fast-track other clearances if you bribed him with decent lunch. Ravi handled Policy and Procedures, half the time they answered your pings, half the time they ignored you until you showed up at their desk in person with that nice caf from Fabosi District. Investigation and Resolution had their own rep, a tired middle-aged officer named Colin, who was usually willing to fast-track your requests if you’re willing to sit and listen to him yap for two hours. For cross-system missions, you sometimes had to lean on Regional Oversight liaisons, poor bastards stuck parsing comms reports from across Mid Rim and Outer Rim. And when things got really bad, you had a list of rotating interns from the Administrative Office who could be worked into data entry shifts.

The quick call with the Corries confirmed it - no explosions, no secondary blasts, no panicked civvie complaints in their registry. Which was, frankly, a miracle. Great. Wonderful. That meant you could strike one nightmare off your list which was you didn’t have to draft a ten-page letter to the Ethics Office of the Republic and the Republic Oversight Committee explaining why a thermal detonator had been “operationally necessary”. No tedious citations of tactical plan, no rehearsed lines about “minimising civilian risk.” No having to attach a signed memo about why blowing a hole in a water main was actually essential to rooting out a Separatist cell. Stars, you could cry from relief.

Still, you had no idea how the other Safety and Compliance officers spread across the GAR handled their workloads. Were they all drowning in the same endless tide of half-assed reports, conflicting testimonies, and “oops, the building collapsed, but don’t worry, minimal casualties”? Or had you just been cursed by some cruel twist of fate to be assigned to every spec-ops lunatic in rotation? You had the pick of the litter: the 501st’s Torrent Company and their stray tookas; the 212th, who had a charming habit of “redecorating” entire sectors in pursuit of one droid nest; the 104th, steady but prone to sudden wolfpack rampages that left you reconciling insurance claims from an entire district; and, of course, the commandos. Delta, Omega, the strays that answered to Mandalorian handlers - all funneled their paperwork disasters directly into your inbox.

Some days you daydreamed about packing up, sneaking aboard the next supply shuttle headed for the Unknown Regions, and vanishing without a trace. No datapad, no flimsis, no reports stamped URGENT. Quiet. Stars, even a primitive outpost with no comms relay would be better than filing one more compliance memo defending the use of military-grade explosives inside city limits.

Later that evening, you packed up like it was any other bland Coruscant evening. Datapad powered down, flimsis stacked into a neat “tomorrow’s problem” pile, the office lights dimming to that corporate-sterile glow that meant the night shift droids were clocking in. You swiped your ID, rode the lift down, and did the exact same thing you did every night when the day finally let you go - stopped by the bodega tucked into the corner of the plaza. The clerk didn’t even look at you as you grabbed a pre-packaged dinner from the warmer, a sad excuse for bantha steak, an overly-salted protato mash, and a small chocolate brownie.

You trudged the familiar walk back to Tomkip Towers, the same old high-rise packed with other tired non-clone GAR employees pretending not to notice each other in the lift. In your flat, you tossed your bag on the counter, peeled off your jacket, and collapsed onto the couch. Holovision flickered to life with its usual cycle. The evening news showing the same war footage and Senate updates you already heard at work, followed by some aggressively stupid holo sitcom about smugglers running a café on Tatooine. You forked down the steak without tasting it, mind blissfully numbed out.

Then your comlink pinged with an unknown code plastered on the screen. You frowned, thumb hovering, before curiosity got the better of you.

Unknown: hey, i got some nice snacks from kal. i will bring it up for you on my next visit so you wont be such an angy officer

Your brow furrowed. 

You: Who is this?

The answer came almost instantly.

Unknown: it’s scorch dummy. before you ask, you had your number in your email signature. i’m not being creepy. yes something poofed again. can you believe that?”

You groaned. Of course. Of course he’d find a way to invade your off-hours. The comlink buzzed again before you even put it down.

Scorch: i’m injured and DID A KABOOM. ISN’T THAT BADASS?

You set the tray aside, threw your commlink on the sofa behind you, buried your face in your hands, and seriously considered whether flinging yourself out of Tomkip Towers’ thirty-second floor window would be less painful than dealing with this man.

Still, your fingers itched, because if you didn’t reply he’d probably spam your inbox until morning. You snatched the commlink back up with a sigh.

You: That will be your next visit’s problem. I’m trying to enjoy dinner now.

It was strange, really. No trooper ever texted you personally. Not unless it was a commanding officer chasing paperwork on behalf of his company. Jesse and Rex sometimes, Cody when he didn’t trust his lieutenants, Wolffe once or twice. They were the ones who had enough responsibility to care about compliance deadlines. The only real exception was Fox, the poor marshal commander of the Coruscant Guard, who had an alarming habit of messaging you at three in the morning with things like “please confirm: do demolitions count as collateral if the Corries did it to defend Republic’s sector in level 4781?” or “delta squad in your office again? tell me everything.” He never admitted it, but most of his messages were just gossip under the pretense of “coordination.” You always entertained them, partly because you needed the Guard on your side for smooth verification, and partly because you pitied the man. Fox worked twenty-four hours a day, five days a week. Sometimes you wondered if he even remembered what sleep felt like.

Your commlink buzzed again.

Scorch: snacks are worth texting abt. kal got some nice ones this week he’s such a nice dad. u like sweet or salty? You: I like compliance reports that don’t make me want to strangle someone.

Ping.

Scorch: salty then. also you ever notice how your texts read like email? “i like compliance reports” who even talks like that 🤓

You sank deeper into the couch.

You: This is harassment of a government employee. I can and will file a report. Scorch: oh please. you love it. if i didn’t text you’d be bored watching whatever garbage holo u got on right now

Your eyes turned guiltily to the holovision, where a laugh track blared over the sitcom that was, in fact, absolute garbage. 

You: I’d prefer garbage holos to your selfies, thanks. Scorch: liar. you saved that selfie didn’t u You: I DID NOT Scorch: liar again. bet it’s in your “important documents” folder 🤣

Setting your commlink down, you exhaled sharply through your mouth before picking your device up again, because you knew if you didn’t shut him down properly he’d keep going.

You: If you ever send me another selfie instead of an actual revised report, I will personally request the Ethics Office to draft a new policy banning you from GAR communications. Scorch: worth iiiiittttt

“I told you I’d bring snacks!” The demolition expert gave you a shit-eating grin as he dropped a cardboard box full of things you’d never seen before. Crisps in transparent no-brand bags, nuna jerkies, protato crips covered in cheesy dust and supposedly barbecue powder in questionable neon packaging. Most of them you vaguely remembered spotting in markets buried in the lower levels. “All salty! For the salty compliance officer,” he added smugly.

“You bleached your hair.” You squinted up at him. The roots were still dark, but the rest was uneven - some toned to a nice cool shade, the other half brassy yellow. 

“Why didn’t you reply to my last text?” He only grinned wider.

“Because you asked me how to bypass the reporting system if you hypothetically destroyed an entire city block in Sector C97, Southern Underground. Did you actually?”

“I would,” he shrugged as if it wasn’t worth the effort, “but of course I didn’t. That place is crawling with seppie hideouts. Southern Underground’s vile. I’d rather be stationed in the Outer Rim.” He said it so casually you almost missed the important part, which was the fact that he hadn’t denied considering it.

Sighing, you dragged the flimsi across your desk and pointed a stylus at the worst of it. “You actually wrote more than kaboom this time, so I’ll give you that. But I still need clarity here—” you tapped the line item, “Section 4B: Munition Type, Quantity, and Serial Registration. You put ‘two thermals, both compact.’”

The commando gasped.

You tapped your stylus lower. “And here, Section 5C: Collateral Damage Assessment. You wrote ‘building now has big window’ I need confirmation, was the wall load-bearing or not?”

“It was a load-bearing wall. But the seppies were behind it. So… better no wall than more clankers, right?” Scorch leaned over the desk. 

You closed your eyes and counted to three, imagining the Senate Oversight Committee tearing this flimsi apart line by line whilst the man in front of you popped open one of the mystery snack bags without asking, “See, you’re making it sound worse than it was.”

“Because you wrote it worse than it was,” you muttered and yanked the snack from his hand.

“Relax, angy officer.” He reached into a pouch that he had been carrying to pull out his datapad, and started swiping through his gallery with greasy cheesy fingers. “I got proof. Look—see? This one’s the wall before.”

He shoved the datapad across your desk. Grainy picture of a dingy underworld corridor, mouldy grey wall intact, and then he swiped to the next picture. “And this one’s after. See? Barely a boom. Clean breach. Load-bearing? Sure. Catastrophic collapse? Nah. Building’s still standing. Bit more… breezy, that’s all.” 

The corridor was now open-air rubble, at least that’s what you could see from your seat, with thick dust covering its surroundings. “Barely a boom? Scorch, that’s structural damage.”

“Destructive? Sure. But not catastrophic. That’s compliance-friendly, yeah?” He waved it off, digging another handful of chips.

“Just show me the damage report from the other site.”

Scorch simply chewed his crisps, and swiped his datapad. Suddenly, a picture of Sev deadpanning into the camera while Scorch himself posed behind him with two dead battle droids’ heads. Another swipe, Fixer, caught unflatteringly with his mouth wide open, datapad in hand. Another swipe, and it was a picture of Boss sleeping upright in a chair, helmet propped on top of his head like a hat.

“Compliance documentation, huh?”

His cheek flushed red, thumb fumbling as he swiped too fast. “Uh. Fun shots. Y’know. Internal use only.”

“Right.”

Grinning again, he finally landed back on the proper documentation. At least a metre tall pile of battle droid limbs, and the ‘barely a boom’ breach expanding wide behind them. “See? Totally minimal.”

“Minimal. Uh huh. I’ll be sure to phrase it exactly like that in my summary for the Senate Oversight Committee.”

“Oh, come on.”

You ignored him and quickly finished typing the last of the clarifications into your computer, cross-checking the photo against the flimsis until it was at least borderline acceptable. Scorch, meanwhile, was still munching happily, easily sweeping the crumbs collecting on the edge of your desk to the floor.

“You are dismissed. Why are you still here?” You hit the enter button with a force. 

“Dunno. Got nowhere to be right now.”

“You don’t have drills? Debriefs? A whole entire block of city to blow up, maybe?”

“Nah,” he said easily, kicking his boots up onto the corner of your desk. “Meeting with Skirata and his boys isn’t until Primeday. My brothers are busy running laps around the BlasTech Gikosphere.” He made a disgusted face. “I don’t like running. Prefer classic PT. Weights. Push-ups. Y’know, real exercise. Not chasing your own ass around a track like some fresh-off-Kamino cadet.”

You glared at his boots, nudged them off your desk with your stylus, and sighed. “This is an office, not your barracks. And not a gym. I’m not here to babysit you when you’re bored.”

“Eh, I didn’t ask.”

“So?” You shooed him towards the door.

“Umm. No thanks?” He popped another crisp into his mouth. “Oh stars, this is so good. Think it’s the spice powder. Whatever it is, fits me. Salty, addictive, bad for your health.”

“That’s the most accurate self-assessment you’ve ever made. Actually…” you gave him a look over your monitors“...probably the only accurate self-assessment you’ve ever made.”

“Whatever,” he said around another mouthful. “I’m starving. Could go for lunch right now, and no, not the mess hall.” He punctuated it with a sudden loud and unapologetic burp.

“Ugh. Then go, Scorch. No one’s keeping you here.” You wrinkled your nose. 

“Don’t pretend I didn’t hear your stomach growl back there,” he cackled. “Come on, it’s almost twelve.” 

“Are you serious?” You stared at him flatly.

“Duh,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. “Because you work too much, and because I know you’re dying for something better than whatever sad microwave slop you eat every night.”

“I don’t—”

“I know where you live.”

“That’s fucking creepy.” You blinked. 

“Well,” he said with a shrug, crumpling the crisp packaging into a ball and tossed it to the rubbish bin, “to be honest, Boss told me not to say that to you. But I promise it was strictly professional intel. We were investigating a GAR officer running double as a Separatist agent—” He paused, his grin faltering for a split second. “Oop. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“Scorch.”

“Forget I said it. Totally classified. You never heard it.” He held up both hands.

“Maker, give me strength.”

“Please just go for lunch,” he picked the clone trooper bobblehead and shoved it in your face. “I’m starving. And if I’m starved, technically you’d be responsible for starving a child cause I’m eleven.”

You gave him a long, dead-eyed look. “You’re eleven in clone years. You’re twenty four in natborn years.”

“Heh. Natborn,” he repeated, chuckling to himself. “You mean randomly ejected individuals?”

“I don’t care,” you said again.

“Well, tough luck. I’m not leaving until you get your ass up and eat lunch with me.” He leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, and crumbs dusting his fitted black undershirt.

With your head buried in your hands, you tried to go back to your flimsis, forcing your eyes onto Section 6A. You could almost make sense of the nonsense Scorch had scrawled there, something about “local criminals discouraged by intimidation (see attached doodle).” You silently told yourself if you ignored him long enough, he’d get bored and leave.

But no. Of course not. Every time you moved in your chair, you heard the obnoxious crunch of another crisp, the rustle of foil packaging, the occasional satisfied hum as if he was intentionally testing your patience. And when you risked a glance, he was still there, eating the snacks he had given to you happily, completely immovable. You realised, with a sinking feeling, that he wasn’t bluffing. He could sit here for hours, perfectly content to snack his way through your workday, derailing your schedule, driving you insane until you cracked.

“Okay, fine,” you groaned, kicking your chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. You stood, grabbed your jacket in one angry motion, and stomped towards the door.

Behind you, Scorch popped up immediately. “Knew you’d see reason.”

“This is not reason. This is giving up.”

“Eh, same difference.” He followed you out.

The walk didn’t take long, Scorch seemed to know every shortcut through the military district, cutting your route past uniformed officers, military barracks blocks, and supply depots until you ended up in a shadowed corner behind a supermarket. A literal hole carved into the duracrete wall of the parking structure, no signage, no tables, only a couple of greasy counters wedged in the wall, some plastic chairs, and a thin haze of steam curling out. A man stood behind it, ladling broth into white bowls with vintage nuna illustrations. A cluster of troopers loitered nearby with plates in one hand, eating like this was the finest dining Coruscant had to offer.

“This,” Scorch announced proudly as he grabbed his order, “is where the boys like to eat.” His eyes lit up as the vendor handed him a steaming bowl piled high with noodles and meatballs, which he dug in immediately. “So? What’d you order?” He glanced at you over the rim of the bowl.

You held up your plate when the server handed it over. Not noodles, not soup. Just a heaping plate of rice, doused in broth, with two slabs of fried soy-cakes stacked on top, a ladle of curried greens on the side, and some fried gluten crisps thrown in for good measure. Cheap, fast, greasy, exactly the kind of meal you’d lived on since moving to the capital of the Galaxy.

Scorch paused to gawk at your plate. “Heh. You know your stuff. Most Republic officers wander up and order noodles cause it looks safe. You went straight for the soy-cakes.”

“You know this place isn’t a novelty, right? There’s one under my apartment. Their soy-cakes taste better than this, spicier too. This one’s good,” you admitted, taking a bite, “but the one near mine? Heavenly. Proper kick that makes you sweat.”

“Heavenly soy-cakes, huh? Subtly offering to take me there, or am I supposed to show up under your apartment and guess which stall sells ‘em?” 

Rolling your eyes, you shoved a spoonful of rice into your mouth to avoid answering.

“Yeah, thought so.” He cackled as he pointed his chopsticks at your tray. “Still. Respect. You climbed about three ranks up the cool people hierarchy.”

Both of you ate in silence for a few moments, letting the grease and spice work their magic, watching the line of troopers in plain fatigues and various coloured armours filtering into the hidden corner. They clustered in twos and threes, laughing with their mouths full. The air was filled with the scent of the steaming broth, the clatter of cutlery, the background noise of a dozen conversations you weren’t supposed to overhear.

Scorch gestured with his chopsticks towards the little crowd. “This is why we eat here. Mess hall’s efficient, sure. Ration bars, protein cubes, vegetable soup, choice of carbohydrates, all very nutritionally balanced, but it tastes like kriffing plastoid. We feel more like people here. Nobody checks your portion, nobody times how fast you eat. You pay the guy a few credits, get your food, and sit or stand where you like. No saluting, no marching, no eyes up your ass.”

It was true. None of them looked like soldiers here, only a bunch of identical young men with different haircuts wolfing down cheap food in the middle of a long shift.

“Guess that explains why this place is packed.” You picked at your soy-cake, chewing thoughtfully. Before you could stop yourself, the question slipped out. “So why do you commandos always look… bigger? Broader? Everyone else is built lean, but you lot walk in like you’ve been hoarding growth serums.”

Scorch snorted into his broth, coughing before he could answer. “Hoarding growth serums… Hah, that’s a new one.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still chuckling. “We’re bigger cause they made us that way. Different program. Heavier PT, higher-calorie rations. They wanted us bulked up to carry twice the gear, smash through twice the doors, take twice the hits. Supposed to look scarier for ‘intimidation factor,’ too, I think that’s what Fi called it.” He jabbed a chopstick at his own chest. “Which basically means more food, more weights, more bruises. You should’ve seen our intake while the CTs and CCs were running obstacle courses, we were hauling massive cannons till our arms gave out. Push-ups till we puked, then another set because according to Vau, we should never give up even if our guts hate it.”

“That’s brutal.” You winced, setting your spoon down. 

“Eh,” he shrugged. “Built me into this fine specimen, didn’t it? Salty, addictive, bad for your health. Remember?”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t miss the way he was watching you as he said it. “Whatever. I have to finish this fast and be back in my office in less than thirty minutes. And you… You will go back to your pack.”

“No,” he immediately refused.

“No?”

“I will go back to your office too.”

“No, you will not.”

“Yes, I will.” He slurped another mouthful of noodles, finishing it. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do my job properly.”

You stared at him, waiting.

“Because my mission logs are in my datapad, which I, uh…” He waved his chopsticks vaguely. “…left in your office.”

“You what?” your face was a study in both offence and confusion. 

“Left it in your office,” he repeated. “See? I gotta come back. Can’t log a mission without my datapad.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You can’t get rid of me.”

And from then on, it became a habit. Somehow, Scorch decided he was the one who would deliver Delta Squad’s paperwork instead of Boss. At first you fought it, insisted the squad leader was supposed to handle formal submissions, and he could only be there to give clarity to his otherwise blank reports, but eventually you gave up because every time Scorch sauntered in, he carried not only the flimsi but the entire story of the mission in his mouth. Where Boss would’ve written “mission completed, minimal interference,” Scorch would yap with his mouth full of snack, describing exactly which stairwell they’d taken, which civilians ran screaming, how many times Sev acted like a smartass, how Fixer suddenly became a maniac in the field. He’d tell the story, and you’d take notes, piecing together actual compliance-friendly language from his rambling. 

Once the report was patched and filed, he’d drag you out to eat. Always. You stopped pretending you could say no. It was easier to let him talk you into whatever hidden stall or hole-in-the-wall he’d discovered than to fight him whilst he laughed like he knew you’d cave anyway. Lunch with Scorch became part of your calendar, sandwiched between audits and verification calls, an annoying interruption that you found yourself looking forward to in spite of yourself.

The routine bled wider than you meant it to. You learnt the ins and outs of Delta without ever trying. Who did what in the field, which ops went sideways, almost-confidential details about the infamous Triple Zero mission. He didn’t even realise how much he was giving away. He would just sit in your office chair, recounting how Walon Vau screamed at Kal Skirata for having different ways of raising the soldiers, or how Sev and Atin are in this perpetual beef. You weren’t supposed to know these things, but you did, and it felt oddly intimate.

And then came the texts. At first it was an extension of work, “kaboom happened again, i’ll bring proof” or “boss says send in a good example for form 98-A or he’ll strangle someone.” But soon it changed into absolute nonsense - from tooka memes pulled from the holonet, group selfies of Delta Squad crammed into a speeder, Fixer sleeping under his bunk, Sev flipping the camera off with dead eyes. Half the time the photos were useless, grainy, badly lit, but they made you laugh anyway. He’d double text, triple text, no shame whatsoever. Your commlink became a dumping ground for his stream-of-consciousness nonsense, and somehow, you didn’t mind.

Scorch: hey. Scorch: u awake? Scorch: [attached image: tooka with its face smashed against transparisteel] me waiting outside your office You: It’s 1am. I am not awake. Scorch: ooo. are your pants on fire? Scorch: [attached image: Fixer asleep at his datapad] this man has been talking abt hacking and encryption for 6 hrs Scorch: should i draw a dick on his helmet You: If you do, I’ll make you write a 40-page memo on vandalism of GAR equipment. Scorch: [attached image: Sev with both middle fingers raised] he loves me. You: Tell Sev I’ll approve his request to have you gagged during debriefs Scorch: wow betrayal Scorch: anyway just wanted to say your dumpling place recommendation near the republic mil base >>> the noodle place. i owe u. You: Finally, something we agree on. Now sleep. Scorch: k night salty ❤️

One fine morning you trudged into the office expecting your inbox to have at least 89 unread compliance updates, a red URGENT flag from Infrastructure, and a polite but passive-aggressive reminder from the Oversight Committee about “timely submission of finalised reports.” Business as usual.

You grabbed a mug of caf from the mess hall before clocking in, the bitter sludge enough to make your brain semi-functional. By the time you dropped into the chair, you were already scrolling through the day’s firestorm in your datapad when your commlink buzzed.

Scorch: [attached image: a bowl of stir fried soy-cakes drenched in chili oil] breakfast of champions. bet you can’t handle this heat

You snorted into your caf, almost spilling it on your desk. Another buzz.

Scorch: forget it, my stomach just gave up on me

That brought a laugh out of you, which you immediately stifled, but it was too late. Besany appeared out of nowhere with her caf in hand, and eyes narrowed in. “What,” she sank into the chair in front of you, “is making you smile before nine in the morning?”

“Nothing,” You said quickly, flipping the commlink face down on the desk. “Work.”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned over, sipping her caf, gaze locked on you. “Work doesn’t make you laugh like that. What was it? Another message from your favourite demolition expert?”

“Besany.” Heat crept up your neck.

Besany’s eyebrows shot up as she beamed. “Oh my stars. He’s already trained you to smile at your commlink like a lovesick shiny at 79’s.”

“I am not lovesick!” you snatched the commlink up to silence it. “I’m just managing him.”

“Mmhm.” She gave you a wicked smile. “Well, from where I’m sitting, it looks like he’s managing you.”

“Hey.” You rolled your eyes. “That’s more like what Ordo does to you.”

Her smirk faltered for a second. “That’s unfair. Besides, I’ve admitted to you that yes, Ordo and I have gone on a couple of dates. At least I admit it.”

“They’re wrapping up their missions here by the way. So that means your man is also leaving?” You leaned back in your chair, victorious for all of three seconds.

That wiped the smirk clean off her face. Besany glanced away, fiddling with the handle of her caf cup. “It’s not—he’s not—” She sighed, the bravado draining out of her. “Yeah. Probably. Soon.”

Tilting your head, you watched her carefully. It wasn’t often Besany Wennen went soft; usually she carried the hard edge of someone who’d survived years in the Republic Treasury Audit Division. Yeah, not Logistics like she let most people assume. A few days ago, as the Triple Zero mission wrapped up, you’d learned the truth, that she’d been posing as a Logistics officer all along to investigate Vinna Jiss. But now, for once, she looked more human. “…You’ll miss him,” you said.

“Maybe.” She said quietly before aiming her finger at you. “But don’t change the subject. You and Scorch. Admit it.”

“Literally nothing.” You pressed your datapad to your chest and stood up. “Lunch later?”

Besany smirked. “Only if a certain RC isn’t kidnapping you.”

You groaned, tugging your jacket straighter. “He doesn’t kidnap me. He… ambushes me.”

“Ambush or ambush?” She stretched her arms upwards before sipping her caf with infuriating calm. “Well, if you disappear around noon, I’ll know who dragged you into some back-alley food stall again.”

“Stars help me,” 

Behind you, Besany’s voice piped up the empty mess hall. “It’s a date, whether you admit it or not!”

“One, two, three. Gotcha—not a couple. I win again.” You pointed your spoon, triumphant even with your mouth still full of rice. Across the restaurant’s corner, two massive Nautolan men sat shoulder-to-shoulder, hunched over steaming bowls of curry, chatting animatedly with their head-tendrils moving in sync.

Scorch threw his hands up. “How the hell are you so good at this? They look like a couple. Beefy, cute, sitting close. If this was a holoseries, they’d be sharing noodles by now.”

“Nope. Brothers. Cousins, maybe. Look how they mirror each other when they eat? That’s family, not date, fraternal twins possibly. Pay attention.”

He squinted, following your line of sight. “Kriff. You’re right. They both sip at the same time.”

“Mmhm. Synchronised slurping, familial trait.” You shoveled another bite into your mouth.

Scorch slapped his chopsticks on the rims of his bowl. “Fine. But that one—” he pointed at a table by the far wall where a human woman was leaning across to fix her companion’s collar, “is definitely a couple. Look at that. Intimate grooming!”

“Intimate grooming? You make it sound like they’re tookas licking each other’s ears. That’s her coworker, Scorch. She’s fixing his uniform because he clearly can’t keep a proper fold.” A scoff escaped your lips.

“What kind of monster helps a coworker fix their collar if it’s not romantic?”

“The kind who cares enough so the other doesn’t get chewed out in inspection,” you shot back.

“AH HA!” His voice shot up loud enough that two nearby troopers looked over. “They kissed!” He slapped a hand over his own mouth so fast it was almost comical. “I knew I’d win one day,” he hissed through his fingers.

“Congratulations. You identified a couple in a food court. Would you like me to draft you a commendation?”

“Yes, please. Make it official. To whom it may concern, RC-1262 is an expert in guessing game, please promote him immediately.” He propped his elbows on the table, grinning like an idiot. 

“Right.” You checked your chrono and pushed your tray away. “I have a meeting at two, which means I have to sprint back. You good?”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug, still chewing on the last of his meal. “Oh, almost forgot. They’re shipping us out to the Chaykin Cluster. Some ghost ship thing. The briefing note said it’s an assault ship that went missing months ago and then just, poof, reappeared. We’re supposed to get the data core.”

Your eyebrows touched a stray fringe. “Sounds simple.”

“Simple, sure,” he gave a sheepish smile. “Except ships don’t just wander off into the void and stroll back on their own. So, naturally, they’re sending us.”

Filing away the mental note that if Delta came back in one piece, you’d be drowning in more illegible reports for safety and compliance. “And you’re telling me this because?”

“Because you’ll miss me,” he said immediately. “And also because when I get back, I expect deep fried soy-cakes with that umami batter. The spicy ones from your apartment block.”

“You’re not dragging me to lunch the minute you return from a mission,” you warned.

“Wrong,” he said cheerfully, standing to dump his tray. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Call it part of the routine.”

By the third day without a single ping from RC-1262, you told yourself it was peace. Your inbox was quiet, free of incoherent reports about accidental destruction of city infrastructures, no late-night memes, no interruptions at your desk. You had time to clear Omega’s tidy paperwork, process Wolfpack’s accident reports, and even file a full 212th compliance bundle without once being forced into a hole-in-the-wall lunch. The silence should have been a blessing.

By the fifth day, it started gnawing at you. Every time your datapad and commlink chimed you checked them too fast, and every time it wasn’t him you shoved it aside. 

By the seventh, you’d convinced yourself you didn’t think about it anymore until your inbox finally pinged with a message from [email protected]

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: still alive Message: hey salt, in case you miss me (you do), i’m still alive. turns out the Prosecutor is a real piece of work. we boarded fine, then all hell broke loose. comms cut, we had to split our way. boss went aft, fixer to the port, sev is retrieving the sensor logs. i ended up searching for the bio metric logs. haven’t linked back up yet. ship’s half alive and it's eating our signals on purpose. been living on ration bars and whatever the galley didn’t rot. fun times! datapad’s running low but figured i’d check in, cause i know if i don’t you’ll miss me! anyway, yell at me so i know you got this. – scorch

The message caught you off guard. You knew how these commandos were, you knew the risks, the endless dangers written into every deployment. Hell, you were the one filing safety and compliance reports based on their flimsi scribbles, the one measuring the damage they caused and the injuries they sustained. You knew, better than anyone, how dangerous the missions were that they were sent on. And never, not once, had you let yourself hesitate over them. They were just names on your desk, soldiers you worked with, nothing more.

So why was this different?

You typed slower than usual, forcing your brain to think of an appropriate reply.

Subject: Re: still alive Message: No need to report to me as no Republic-owned infrastructure is broken in this mission. Therefore, there is no compliance assessment required on my end.

You paused, staring at the blinking cursor. A single bead of sweat slid down your temple, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand. Another sigh escaped you, and before you could stop yourself, you added:

But feel free to send me your status update anyway.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath before finally hitting transmit.

The message left your outbox with a soft ping, and you closed your datapad shut, sighing long and heavy, already hating yourself for cracking first.

The reply didn’t take long. Your datapad buzzed with a new message.

Subject: re: still alive Message: ha! knew it. you said no need to report but then said i could anyway. don’t worry salt, i’ll keep u updated. better than yelling into the void. heading for the forward data core now. i’m pinging advisor and the boys too so everyone’s in the loop but comms still choppy as hell, lots of static. it’s kinda cool that my message found you! sev says the ship is haunted. fixer says i’m an idiot. boss says both of us are idiots. 

anyway. i’ll grab the logs, link back up, and send you something funny so you don’t look so grumpy at your desk.

p.s. miss me yet?

You stared at the screen, lips pressed tight, before giving him a quick ‘good luck’ reply. According to your services, it was sent, but not delivered.

And that was the last you heard.

No pings. No blurry selfies. No smug “kaboom” updates. Silence, for days.

Things like this happened often, the communications officers reminded you when you finally caved and asked. Signal traffic was their wheelhouse, not yours. Operations and Communications clerks in the command center, Signal Intelligence techs on the fleet side, even the Advisor staff who monitored spec ops comm channels. They were used to it. A mission went dark, signals dropped, sometimes for days. You knew the routine. You knew the systems. And you had never once worried before, because it wasn’t your business. Above your pay grade. Not your fight.

But curiosity clawed its way past your good sense. So you asked again, and this time, someone gave you the answer.

A Trandoshan dropship had been spotted squatting in one of the Prosecutor’s hangars, scavengers planning to sell the cruiser to the Separatists in exchange for battle droids. Delta Squad was ordered to destroy the dropship and eliminate the Trandoshan threat. Standard sweep-and-clear. Except somewhere along the line, Scorch had been cut off from the rest. You barely absorbed the rest of the briefing your colleague rattled off. Just fragments. Within moments of the Trandoshan ship’s destruction, a Droid Control Ship arrived to claim the Prosecutor. Advisor sent a distress signal. The Republic starship Arrestor is en route to assist.

The gnawing anxiety slowly consumed you, biting at the edges of your thoughts, disturbing your sleep. You told yourself it wasn’t about him, you disputed it every time the idea crept in. Your worry did not stem from growing care for what you used to call the most annoying clone in the galaxy. No, it was just the silence. The absence of noise in your inbox. That was all.

Days went by, and still no news. If there were updates, they were highly confidential. You knew your place in the Republic war machine - you weren’t Intelligence, you weren’t Operations Command, you weren’t even Fleet Comms. Who were you, really, in the grand scheme of a galactic war? Just a paper pusher.

A Safety and Compliance Officer. You took the reports others dashed off in frustration or exhaustion and rewrote them into neat, audit-ready documents that the Oversight Committee could parse without triggering a headache. You chased signatures, logged structural assessments, confirmed casualty numbers. And because the officer who handled Risk Assessment had quit to become some kind of holonet influencer, you covered that too. Which meant you also drafted impact statements, ran cost estimates for collateral damage, and flagged repeat safety violations for internal review. You were there to make sure the Republic’s own war didn’t bankrupt itself in insurance claims and repair bills.

It was unglamorous work. Necessary, but invisible.Your name never left the paperwork, and nobody thanked you for doing it right. The only time you got noticed was when you failed to catch something and the Senate committees were very good at noticing failures.

So no, you weren’t supposed to care whether an RC operator you’d threatened with disciplinary review every other day was alive or dead on some derelict assault ship in the Chaykin Cluster. It wasn’t your business. It wasn’t your responsibility. It wasn’t your place.

And yet, there he was, living rent-free in your head.

Days turned into weeks, and you shoved that gnawing curiosity deep down where it couldn’t eat you alive. Back to work, back to being the corporate slave you were. Wolfpack casualties to process, 212th spec-ops damage reports, Torrent Company once again doing something so reckless that left a crater in some backwater planet and a furious senator filing a complaint. You grumbled your way through it, quietly grateful you were only assigned to a handful of elite companies and special operations units. You couldn’t imagine handling an entire legion or battalion’s worth of damage reports. No wonder GAR had opened another vacancy for Safety and Compliance last week.

Usually, you barely left your wing in that massive Republic Military Base. Your cubicle, your files, your inbox. But lately, you’d caught yourself wandering farther than you needed to. Drifting towards the main buildings, the hangars, even the crowded main mess hall. Telling yourself it was just to avoid another sad canteen lunch, when really it was just… searching. Hoping to catch a glimpse of—

Knock. Knock.

Your head snapped up. “Come in,” you called.

“BET YOU THOUGHT YOU’D SEEN THE LAST OF ME!” That obnoxiously cheery voice filled your office, bouncing off the walls.

There he was. Helmet under one arm, armour still scuffed and battered, hair a mess and overgrown, grin wide as ever. RC-1262. Scorch.

You blinked at him, heart beating faster than you cared to admit, but you would never, never in a million years say that you—

“Why are you still alive?” you snapped, regaining composure, clinging to the only defense you had - sarcasm. You had to hold back the conflicting urge to punch him and hug him at the same time.

“Oh, you think you can get rid of me that easily?” the commando flashed his teeth. “The answer is no. Also, cool thing, after we finished that ghost ship mission, we answered a distress call!”

“Oh god,” you groaned, burying your face in your hand at the dangerous level of excitement in his voice. That tone only meant that he was about to yap for days. Stars, you’d missed it.

“Uh huh! A Red Zero distress signal, no less. Sent out by none other than Omega Squad!” He plunked his helmet on your desk, squeezing himself - armour and all - into the chair across from you until it squealed. “Of course, hah, they’d be helpless without us - the superior squad. So we grabbed a Neimoidian shuttle we’d found aboard the Prosecutor, flew it right into the mess, and pulled them out.” He mimed piloting with one hand as he relieved every moment.

You stared at him, equal parts exhausted and relieved. “And somehow, no one’s dead.”

“Exactly!” He beamed. “Anyway, hi!”

“So… no public infrastructure damage for me to explain to the Republic Oversight Committee this time, right?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, popping the p for emphasis. “Ghost ship, remember?”

You frowned. “Then why are you here?”

Scorch shrugged. “Dunno. Thought I’d stop by. Say hi. Annoy you. Keep you company while you do all that boring paper stuff.”

“So you’re wasting my time.” With arms folded, you groaned. 

“Exactly,” he grinned, utterly unrepentant.

You huffed, trying to summon your usual exasperation, but it came out softer than you meant. “…You’re insufferable.”

“And yet.” He propped his elbows on his knees. “You didn’t tell me to leave.”

The inbox pinged with another details of the compliance report you were working on, Foxtrot Group this time. They’d been newly assigned to you just last week, fresh from their posting on some Outer Rim campaign. Their captain, Gregor, had already managed to charm the entire office when he first dropped off their compliance report, all easy smiles, great hair and polite words, as if he hadn’t just survived a brutal frontline assignment. 

When you looked up again, Scorch was still there, in the chair across from you. Still beaming like he’d never left. His hands were busy toying with the handmade clone trooper bobblehead perched on your desk.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile of your own. “Fine. If you’re going to loiter, at least make yourself useful. Hand me that flimsi stack.”

Scorch picked it up obediently. “See? You would miss me.”

You ignored him but the warmth blooming in your chest betrayed the mask. The silence that had haunted you for weeks finally shuddered apart under his presence.

“Ooh, Foxtrot!” he blurted suddenly, pointing at the header of the flimsi you’d just opened. “They’ve got cool armour, you know? But a completely different function since they’re attached to battalions. Do you even know how that works?”

A content sigh came out of you as you braced yourself for the incoming lecture, but there was no hiding the small smile tugging at your mouth.

Scorch’s voice faltered for a moment. He tilted his head, watching you with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “…You’re smiling again.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” He grinned wider. “Maybe we should go for dinner later tonight.”

“Maybe.” You shrugged. 

“It’s a date then!” He smiled brightly, hands waving animatedly as he continued with his stories about armour upgrades, and way too many inside jokes you couldn’t follow. You let him yap, stylus scratching half-heartedly at your notes, listening more than you wrote. The inbox in your computer pinged again with another incoming report, and you didn’t bother to check it.

“Mhm, he's fine. Doctors decreasing the painkiller now that he's showing signs of skin regeneration.” You nod several times. “Bandages, yeah, still. Light. He can talk now. Wanna talk to him?” You were about to approach his bed but stopped, assuming that your Mom doesn't want to bother. You smile nonetheless. “Right. Love sent. Thanks for understanding. Although he asked about your pound cake the other day.”

At the mention of the cake, Scorch’s pupils widen like a cat being offered his favorite toy.

“Really?” you awe, mouthing cake before signaling okay at your husband, and he pumps his good fist into the air. You giggle quietly. “Thanks a lot, Mom. Right, see you Sunday! Yeah, bye.”

You hang up and toss your phone onto the couch. Scorch beams broadly at you, stretching his right arm your way and beckoning for you to grab his hand.

“Aw, you. Miss me?” you tease, lacing your fingers with his right hand.

“Always. Love that you're here.” Scorch lifts your knuckles to his lips. “How's Mom?”

“Alright,” you answer, affectionately brushing your thumb across his smooth right cheek. “Concerned. Asked how you're doing. Been asking a lot about you, and I mean a lot.”

“Yeah? What'd you tell her?”

You hum playfully. “Told her you're doing great. Healing, alive and kicking.” Scorch warms at your quiet giggle, your eyes twinkling with love, drawing nearer to his face so you can bump your nose with his. “And I told her that I would take care of my husband until he's fully healed.”

His insides turn into a puddle in an instant. “You really said that?”

“Mhm.” Your giggle fills the room, silenced only when you close the distance and claim his lips with yours. Scorch reciprocates gently, slowly, nearly unmoving so that he wouldn't pull more facial muscles than he's allowed to. The restrictions are killing him inside. Wishing that he could put more force into his movement so you'd know how much his gratitude is. You've always been there since the first day he got admitted, and never left his side since. You've even gone far moving your work from office to here so you could watch him all day, alert and aware and concerned at all times.

Yet so full of love, still. He's hideous now, he knows. The left side of his body is completely on recovery, so he minimizes movement and contact on that side. Scars, so many scars. Deformed skin, one deaf ear, and one eye transplant. It's expensive. From the amount of injuries he's got he should be sacked by now.

But being a fireman is his whole life. When he was asked about what he wanted to be when he grew up all those years ago, his answer had never changed.

Sev, his brother in the same institution, appealed for his case, bringing up about his 15 years of service, about how being a fireman is such a noble job to have. Quite poetic for a stick-up-his-ass guy like Sev, but it damn worked. He's given sick leave until he's ready to return to the job.

“Sweets.” Your voice beckons him back to the moment present. Scorch beholds you deeply, relishing how the tips of your fingers caressing his good cheek. “You’re putting your overthinking face on,” you say quietly, creating a bubble private for the two of you. “Tell me what's on your mind?”

A deep sigh tumbles off his lips. He leans into your touch. Cocomelon is still quietly playing in the background, but he pays no heed to it at the moment. Your presence in this room is… intense. Meaningful.

“It's a lot,” Scorch finally says, doubt settling into his tone, wishing he could shrug both shoulders without hurting himself—his muscles ache to. “I don't know.”

“Slowly. You can tell me if you want,” you offer gently, your sitting form contorting his favorite blanket, but Scorch craves your closeness that he doesn't mind.

“It’s just…” His chest is heavy with hesitance, feeling like someone put a whole watermelon on top of him. “You still love me, right?”

Your eyebrows knit upon instinct at the strange question. “What made you think otherwise? Of course I do, Scorch.”

“S-sorry. I just… I don't know.” He feels his voice begin to tremble. “I won't be the same… the same guy you married, y'know? Half of my face is melted, I've got a deaf ear and a friggin’ new eye. High probability that I'm gonna have repetitive nightmares about the incident…” Scorch blinks harshly. His eyes begin to sting. “I'd be a handful, babe. I'm recovering awfully slowly and I hate to be—”

“Hey,” you interrupt, your expression hardened, offended. But Scorch knows you're not truly mad, only giving him a gentle chide in the form of warning. “None of those words, okay?”

“Sorry,” Scorch sniffles. “It's just that now I'm different, you know?”

Your eyes soften at his somber state. A single tear rolls down his cheek, causing you to wipe it away with the hem of your sleeve, your touch soft and tender as always. It wasn't even a chore for you to do, even as his spouse. Your husband is saddened by his state, and your heart follows where he goes.

“Scorch,” you begin gently, caressing his cheek once again, and your husband with his physical touch cravings leans into your touch. “We're married. For years now. Okay?”

He nods. “Okay.”

“So,” you continue, “That means whatever happens to you, even if you become an Italian mob boss or a freaking werewolf ninja, you're still my husband who I married all those years ago.” Scorch huffs a laugh, followed by your chuckle. More tears brim in his eyes, pooling and glistening. You hold his gaze steadfastly, breaking only to address his bandages and wounds beneath. “Nothing—not this, and not even the damned world apocalypse—could put a thought in my head that I should wanna live separately from you.”

He sniffles again, tears falling along his smooth and bandaged cheeks. You hurry to wipe them, just as tenderly as before. “Okay,” he murmurs, almost whispering, overwhelmed with your love. “So… you'd still love me if I was a gummy bear?”

The sound you let out is a snort that fails to be covered as a scoff. Your eyes twinkle with jest, indulging him wholly, “I would put gummy bear you inside a bulletproof glass case inside a ring of water so no ants could tear your sugary body apart.”

“That's the most beautiful thing you've ever said to me,” he says, even half-sobbing for dramatic effect. If you want to know how much Scorch loves you, the answer lies within the amount of his effort to make everything lively and dramatic and as expressive as possible.

You replace your spoken words with another kiss to his lips. Scorch whines in surprise, his body relaxed from your reassurances and mostly, your constant presence. Your tireless efforts.

“God, I hate this hospital gown,” he suddenly says as you weave your hand along his greasy scalp. He can even feel how greasy it is, and it's as worse as sin. “Makes me stink. I miss my cologne and my hair gel.”

You scrunch your nose as you inspect his crown, shaved to buzz, now that only a millimeter long from his scalp for the sake of his recovery. It's like being thrown into a damn chemo session. Yeah, you miss his fluffy curls and his cheeky half-assed grown-out bleached hair. So damn much.

You hum. “We can wash today, if you want.”

“Will you wash my hair, too? I mean…” Scorch then rolls his eyes. “Barely-there hair, yeah, but it’s all greasy. I hate it when it's greasy.”

A sweet smile smears over your lips. “Wanna do it now?”

“God, heck yeah. Please?”

“‘Course, yeah.” You lean to place a brief kiss to his lips, to which he’s late to reciprocate as you're already rounding his bed to press for the call button. “I'll ask the nurse to give us a hand for a bit, okay?”

Man, he could actually cry right now. “Okay. Thanks,” he mutters quietly, his warm brown eyes not leaving you as you get occupied for him again. “I love you so much, you know?”

Your giggle fills the room again, meeting his gaze with warmth and the obvious. “I love you too, Scorch."

Thanks for reading! Taglist is moved to event masterlist.

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

The person had started to knock again, but you opened the door before they could do anything more than give a single, half-hearted tap. 

“What?” you demanded, speaking before the door panel had even slid far enough open for you to see the stranger’s face. 

“I-” 

“Scorch?” you gasped, wrenching at the door panel as if you could force it open any faster. 

His handsome face broke into the ghost of his old grin. It was slow and shadowed, but so achingly familiar that you knew beyond all doubt that your riduur had come home to you. 

You had dragged him inside before remembering to give him a choice, but it gave you more privacy to run your hands over every inch of his face and torso. You still weren’t fully convinced that you were awake, but your shaking fingers hadn’t found a single plane that was anything other than the way you remembered Scorch. 

“How are you back?” you asked, voice trembling as hard as your fingers. “I haven’t seen you since the end of the war. No one has.” 

“I wasn’t on Coruscant,” Scorch explained haltingly. “I didn’t have a choice - I would never have left you if I didn’t have to.” 

“But it wasn’t just you.” You searched Scorch’s eyes, cradling his face in your hands. “Every trooper I know left. Everyone I know who’s with a trooper said they disappeared just when you did. And all we could do was ask each other why.” 

You didn’t realize that you were crying until Scorch smoothed away the tears with his thumb, but you weren’t actually surprised. If anything, you were shocked that you hadn’t started before that point. 

“Cyare,” Scorch murmured, pressing his nose against the crown of your head as he held you a little tighter. “I’m so sorry. I failed as a partner. As a protector. I should have been there. I should have been able to…” 

When Scorch trailed off, you glanced up at him. “Where did you go, Scorch? You said you didn’t have a choice. What happened to you?”

Scorch took a shuddering breath and started explaining things to you. How the troopers had been notified that the Jedi had betrayed the Republic. How the GAR was responsible for wiping out the Jedi. How all of the vod’e Scorch spoke with seemed to be utterly different than he knew them to be. 

He told you about working with Kal Skirata - a familiar name, even if you had never met him personally - to gather intelligence on the new Empire. Scorch hesitated a little before describing a cruel scientist named Hemlock, but he told you about being headhunted by Hemlock to help with a highly classified project in a place called Tantiss. 

Shaken as you were by his explanation up to that point, you were most taken aback when tears began to track over Scorch’s cheeks. “I never thought I would see you again, cyare. I never thought I would get out of there.”

“But you did, Scorch,” you reminded him. “You’re safe. You’re free.” 

“I shouldn’t be,” he said, straightening. The utter certainty in his eyes chilled you to the bone. “I did the worst thing any trooper can do. I betrayed my brothers.” 

You tried to argue, but he wouldn’t hear any of it. “You don’t understand. I did. I betrayed them all. I turned away when they needed me. Even worse, I had to prove my loyalty to Hemlock every day. I… I did terrible things.”

“Why did you stay so long?” you asked, mind racing to find a new angle to argue. If Scorch wouldn’t let you comfort him, maybe you could think of a different way to convince him. 

“The comms were monitored, heavily.” You must have looked as lost at his explanation as you felt, because he explained, “I couldn’t find a way to get the coordinates to Skirata. If I sent them from Tantiss’s comms, Hemlock could have found the clan. I couldn’t risk them. I thought about stealing a ship, but that would have sent the whole place into lockdown and we could never have gotten the troopers out.” 

“How many of them were there?” 

“Dozens.” Scorch shook his head. “Hundreds, maybe. Too many for me to take with me. It would have taken a large-scale effort.” 

His use of past tense made your stomach curdle, but you did your best to look expressionless as he went on. 

“I had to look loyal to Hemlock, and any of the dozen troopers waiting to take my place,” he told you, starting to sound desperate. His fingers tightened around yours, as if he thought you would pull away from him. “If I didn’t, it all would have been for nothing. There would be no way to tell Skirata, no rescue, no hope-” 

“Shh, Scorch,” you soothed, massaging his hand. 

Scorch chanced a single glance at your face before he buried his head against your shoulder. He muttered something unintelligible against your skin, but you didn’t want to ask what it was. When Scorch was in a Mood, he tended to talk himself into a spiral if someone didn’t break him out of it. Sev had been the best at it, but you could do it well enough when he wasn’t around. 

“It sounds like you didn’t have a choice,” you reasoned. “It’s horrible that you had to do bad things, but you didn’t choose to do them. It was an impossible situation. There was no right answer, no way to get out of it with your hands clean. It will take time to come to terms with everything, no one would argue that, but-”

“You don’t understand,” Scorch interrupted, pulling away to reveal features twisted into an anguished expression. “There was a kid.”

That made you pause for the first time. “A kid? Whose kid?”

“She was a clone, somehow.” Scorch shook his head slowly, wonderingly. “I think she was a true Fett clone - a non-augmented one. No increased strength, no heightened metabolism, no accelerated aging. Hemlock made a big deal out of her. Everyone made a big deal out of her.” 

You frowned. “Weren’t the Kaminoans worried about the original Fett sample degrading in quality since his death? If she really is a true clone, could they want her for another genetic sample? Especially since they can’t find Jango’s son?” 

“I thought that at first, but not anymore.” Scorch sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. The motion accentuated the new stress lines carved into his face and the red tinge to his eyes. When you glanced up, you saw silver glinting in his hair. “They’re discontinuing the clones.” 

You were so preoccupied with the changes in Scorch’s appearance that his words took a moment to sink in. “They- what? What do you mean?” 

“The Galactic Empire has a new recruitment strategy.” Scorch’s explanation was dripping with sarcasm. The name of Palpatine’s new order has been especially soaked in it. “They’re taking in natties. The clones who are left act as instructors to the mongrels or muscle for the officers.”

It took some effort to fight back your wince. You hated when Scorch and his brothers used the term ‘mongrel’ to describe non-clones, but now didn’t seem like the right time to bring it up. 

“Is the girl okay?” you asked quietly, trying not to sound anything other than curious. 

“As far as I know,” he confirmed. “She was on the platform with the squad who shot me.” 

“Excuse me?” you demanded, shooting to your feet. You had been studying Scorch’s changed appearance since he had gotten into your apartment, but you shoved his dark cloak aside to run your fingers as well as your eyes over his face, neck, and torso. “You were shot?” 

“Easy, ner karta,” Scorch soothed, grabbing your hands and cradling them in his. “Yes, I was shot. By another commando, part of a squad who went AWOL after we were ordered to kill the jetii. I was protecting Hemlock, who was trying to take the girl away from Tantiss. It made sense to eliminate the threat I posed before stopping him.” 

“You’ll have to forgive me if I still hold that against him.” You ran a critical eye over Scorch. “He must have missed everything important if you’re here now.” 

“No, he hit where he was aiming, my heart. Three shots.” 

Scorch must have anticipated that you were going to chastise him again, because he tugged gently on your hands until you collapsed onto the couch beside him. “I know, but my armor protected me.” 

“But how?” you asked desperately, searching his eyes. “I heard the new armor is terrible. Protection against gas and concussive blows, but almost nothing against blaster bolts.” 

“How did you-?” 

You waved a dismissive hand. “When all of you disappeared, anyone left on Coruscant who had been involved with a trooper ended up in the same circle. We were all looking for information. That’s a lot of collective contacts in the GAR and Senate. We couldn’t find any of you, but we took all the information we could find and made sure to pass it along to anyone else in the circle.”

Scorch shook his head slowly. “Clever of you all. No, the armor isn’t any good against blaster bolts. But I wasn’t exactly going to give up my Katarn armor, was I? Not when I finally had it painted like I wanted it.” 

You reluctantly returned Scorch’s teasing grin with a small smile of your own. Scorch’s obsession with painting and repainting his armor had toed the line between endearing and irritating… much like everything else about him. 

“Of course, you’ll have to start over now,” you pointed out. 

Scorch’s face sobered. “In more ways than one.” 

You squeezed his hands comfortingly. “What happened when you were shot?” 

“I knew that I couldn’t stay there anymore.” Scorch glanced away. “They wouldn’t believe that I was on their side, not at that point, and Hemlock had a blaster aimed at the kid. I knew he wasn’t getting out of there alive, so I let the bolts knock me off the platform.” 

Despite your best efforts, you let out a strangled noise at that. Scorch’s lips curled up on one side in a pale reflection of his usual grin. He knew exactly how you felt about heights. 

“I caught myself on the way down,” he reassured you, rubbing gentle circles over the back of your hands. “Used my ascension cable to connect to a few different places until I could get back into the lab and download an extra copy of the lab’s work. Tarkin showed up a little later, so I snuck onboard his Star Destroyer to get back to a civilized system.” 

“So… the Empire thinks you’re dead?” you asked slowly. 

“As far as I can tell.” Scorch glanced away, admitting, “I haven’t gotten in touch with anyone on Kyrimorut yet. They would be able to find out for sure.” 

“Kyrimorut?” you repeated, stumbling over the unfamiliar word. “I’ve never heard of it.” 

Scorch rubbed at his tired eyes. “That’s the point. It’s a secret camp on Mandalore. Skirata and his Nulls have been hiding there since the fall of the Republic. They take in clone deserters, hide them from the Empire. That’s where they’ll want me to go. Where I’ll need to go, if I don’t want to be pressed back into the Empire’s service.” 

Your heart stopped for a moment, your hand clutching convulsively at Scorch’s. “You- you’re leaving? Again? You just got back-” 

“Shh, mesh’la, shh,” he soothed. “It’s too dangerous for me to stay here. It wouldn’t be safe for me or for you. I have to go. But… you don’t. You can stay here, keep living your life. You’re welcome to come with me to Mandalore, but I know that’s a lot to ask-” 

“I’m coming with you,” you announced, standing. “I need to pack. How much should I bring?” 

Scorch was staring blankly at you. 

“Scorch?” you prompted, already putting together a mental list. “Focus. Do I need to bring the basics, or will they have them already? I don’t want to take up space with blankets and stuff if we could just get them there.”

“You’re… you’re amazing, ner karta,” Scorch said eventually, pressing a kiss to the back of your knuckles. “The best riduur I could have chosen.”

“I missed you so much, riduur,” you murmured, letting him pull you closer. “Now, blankets?” 

Much later, you had managed to consolidate all the necessities into a few packs for each of you. Scorch had been the one to insist on bringing more things. He swore it was because he didn’t want you to go without, but you saw the way he cradled an old pair of sweat pants like they were a stuffed animal. 

You didn’t have the space for everything, of course. But you packed the sweat pants anyway. It didn’t surprise you that Scorch would need some comfort after everything he had been through. You’d help him find it where he could. 

When you had finished packing, you glanced around for final necessities that you might have missed. The important thing was to leave no sign that you didn’t intend to come back, so most of your stuff was still where it always was. For some reason, that made it much harder for you to feel the urgency that shadowed your every step. 

“Should we leave?” you asked, reaching for the front door panel. Scorch hand stopped you, wrapping around your arm just above the elbow.

“Hang on,” he said, dark gaze scanning around the space like you just had. “I spent so much time thinking about this place. I want to make sure I remember as much of it as possible.”

You let him look for a minute or two, but the tension ratcheted back up. “Scorch? How are we getting to Mandalore?” 

“One of the clan will come get us,” he explained, “but we need to get to the Industrial Sector first. That’s the easiest way to disguise a cargo vessel.” 

“When will they meet us there?” 

He shrugged. “They’ll probably need a couple of hours after my call. The trip is usually around 12 hours, with an extra hour or two to get into position.”

“And when did you call?” you asked, already checking the current time. 

“I- Uh, I haven’t yet,” Scorch hedged, raising his hands defensively when you rounded on him. “I will, though!” 

“Why did you wait?” you asked, dropping your packs by the front door. “You could have called while we were packing. Unless… Why haven’t you called yet?”

He sighed lightly, reaching into a hidden pocket. He pulled out a small data drive, holding it up with a guilty expression. “Because of this.”

“The research?” you guessed, confirmed by his nod.

“I don’t know if I want to hand it over to Skirata,” Scorch admitted, with the air of someone admitting their darkest, most shameful secret. 

You frowned. Delta Squad had never quite understood the hero worship Kal Skirata received from his men, but they had never given you any reason to think Skirata was untrustworthy. “Okay.”

Scorch did a double-take. “Okay?” 

With a shrug, you said, “I trust your judgement.  I’ve never met Skirata and I don’t know what’s on that drive. You do. If you don’t want to give anyone the data, I assume you know what you’re doing.”

“Just like that?” 

“Just like that,” you confirmed. “But I have to ask: This was why you were on Tantiss. You wanted to transmit information to Mandalore for so long. Why are you hesitating now?” 

Scorch was quiet for a long time. Silence was an odd state for him, and it lasted long enough that you thought he might be permanently broken. Eventually, he shook his head, the movement small enough that you weren’t sure whether you were really seeing it. 

“Skirata wants to give us longer lives. If there’s anything he can do to make sure that happens, he’ll do it.”

You were trying to think of a tactful way to admit that you wouldn’t think that was a bad thing, either, when Scorch caught your gaze. 

“He’ll do anything.” 

You let the words die on your tongue. 

“This research,” Scorch emphasized, holding up the data drive, “involved a lot of vode. Skirata has been known to keep an ex-Seppie scientist or two on the payroll. If I give him this copy, he’ll give it to his scientist to check if there’s anything useful for the cause. They might decide the experiment is worth a second round of testing.” 

Scorch sat back down on your couch, leg jiggling incessantly. You stared at the movement as you followed him back across the room. “Even if they don’t want to keep it going, this is an automatic pardon from old Palpatine. He bankrolled the research. I’m not sure how much he already knows, but I’m sure he would want to know more. And he’d be willing to pay every credit in the Imperial banks to get his hands on this. I don’t trust anyone to fight that kind of temptation.”

“Even Skirata?” you said, more of a summary than a question. 

“Skirata is… independently wealthy,” Scorch explained. You knew without asking that there was much more of a story there, but you didn’t need to hear it just then. “But he has a tendency to think the best of his people. Earn his trust once and he’ll cover your back while you burn down the galaxy.”

“So if just one of the people around him realizes what that information is worth…” you reasoned slowly. 

Scorch nodded. “It’ll end up right where it started: with the Empire.”

“It’s your data drive.” You smiled sadly at him. “If you don’t trust them with it, better that it never leaves here. We can destroy it before they pick us up.”

“And if they don’t believe that I didn’t get the information? That’s the whole reason I was there. And Vau’s boys don’t leave until a mission is done.” 

You snorted. “There are a thousand things that can go wrong with a data drive. The Empire embedded some kind of virus. The drive itself was corrupted and you didn’t know before you used it. It was exposed to an electric shock aboard Tarkin’s Star Destroyer. It got wet. You sat on it in the wrong way-” 

“Okay, I get it,” Scorch said, waving you away as you came up with sillier and sillier things that could have happened to the chip. The grin on his face eased a tightness you hadn’t noticed forming in your chest. 

“I’m just saying,” you finished, settling beside him on the couch again. He took your hand, still staring at the pile of bags by the door, and you settled against him with your head on his shoulder. “And if they still don’t believe you, what are they going to do? Turn you away? Then you and I will just go find a place of our own, away from the Empire and Kamort.” 

“Kyrimorut.” 

“That’s what I said.” 

Scorch chuckled, but the only reply he gave was to dial a frequency from memory into his wrist comm. “Ordo? I’m on Triple Zero. Can you arrange a ride for my riduur and I? Our ship’s in the shop and I hear the shuttles off-planet have gotten very stingy with their tickets.”

“Scorch,” a voice greeted, an edge of relief clearly present. “Welcome back to the civilized galaxy, vod. Lucky for you, we were about to head out on a grocery run. We’ll comm when we’re close. Ten hours. Ordo out.”

“Grocery run?” you repeated, tilting your head to glance up at Scorch. 

“There are some supplies you can’t get on Mandalore,” he explained. “Not without attracting the wrong kind of attention. They make regular trips to the Inner Rim for anything that can’t be grown on the farm.” 

“Farm,” you sighed dreamily. “We’re going to live on a farm.” 

Scorch openly laughed at you. “I’ll remind you how excited you were when we have to butcher our first animal or fix a hole in a sock.” 

You made a face at him. “I’ve lived on Coruscant for a decade, Scorch. I’m so excited about the idea of seeing a plant that I could fly. Don’t ruin this for me.” 

He kissed your temple. “Okay, fine. Enjoy your fantasy. Just don’t be too upset with me when it’s different than you expected. Let’s get some sleep before they get here. If Ordo said ten hours, he meant it.” 

“I wish we’d known that before we packed the big blanket,” you grumbled half-heartedly, grabbing some throw blankets from the basket in your living room. 

Scorch made the bed for you both, using far too many blankets to make some kind of nest he insisted would be more comfortable than the comforter had ever been. 

You watched him, a soft smile on your face as he demonstrated all the benefits of a blanket nest. It would be nice to live on a farm, you thought. You never had before, so it would be new. But what you hadn’t told Scorch was how excited you were to be with him, without secrecy or worrying about who might be watching. You would be able to hold his hand in the open, tease him for telling one of his ridiculous jokes, kiss him when he did something sweet.

When you left the apartment eight hours later, the data chip was destroyed beyond all saving and ready to be quietly ejected while the ship was in hyperspace. The tight set to Scorch’s shoulders had disappeared and his smile matched yours. Even the tension of sneaking down to the Industrial Sector couldn’t lower the quiet happiness you shared.

Kyrimorut could end up being the worst place in the universe and you would cheerfully live there if it meant being with Scorch. Wherever you ended up would be perfect.

---

Author's Note - According to AO3, this is the 66th chapter of my soft clone trooper fics. A deeply cursed number for us prequel fans, but I like how this turned out!

I am still a little in denial that the clone trooper in The Bad Batch is Scorch at all, but I'm in FULL denial that Scorch is dead. I refuse to believe that. Anyway, this was requested almost a year ago, so… I am not fast.

For the record, you never signed up for this.

“You’re not supposed to write kaboom,” you slammed the flimsi back on your desk. The little clone trooper bobblehead one of the shinies had left you bobbled its ridiculously big head in silent mockery. “How the hell am I supposed to explain to the Republic Oversight Committee that Sector G6, Level 3761 was partly demolished because one commando decided ‘kaboom’ was a sufficient justification? That was messy.”

RC-1262 stretched in the chair he’d dragged into your cubicle, helmet propped on his knee, grin plastered across his heavily scarred face, a fresh cut slicing the left corner of his mouth. “Well, it was accurate, wasn’t it?”

You pressed your fingers into your temples, picturing Senate auditors tearing into your unit’s quarterly report. The reparations bill for G6 would be astronomical. Worse, it was in the underworld - meaning months of subcontractor corruption, workers bribed or bullied into silence, citizens filing claims that the Republic would drag its feet on settling. Not that Coruscant’s lower levels ever believed the Republic gave a damn about them anyway. Well, that part was true, the Republic gives no shit, but that was beside the point.

“Accurate isn’t the same as professional,” you bit out. “There’s a reason the template asks for structural damage estimates, blast radius, munition type—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scorch twirled a stylus between his trigger fingers. “But you’d rather I wrote a novel? ‘Dear bureaucrats, today’s fireworks were brought to you by one well-placed thermal detonator and my sparkling personality.’”

You leveled a flat stare at him. “Honestly? That would’ve been better than ‘kaboom.’ At least then I’d have a word count.”

He barked a laugh, leaning forward onto your desk so abruptly the bobblehead toppled over. “Careful, sweetheart, I might just drag you on our next underworld op so you can see for yourself how fantastic my explosion is. Soooooo good it doesn’t need justification.” He shoved the flimsi back towards you with one finger. “Next one’s Benduday. Like Skirata says, we’re not stopping until every last seppie cell is dust.”

“Sweetheart?” you scoffed, jabbing a finger at the flimsi. “The only thing you’re getting from me is a rewritten report that won’t have the Oversight Committee slashing our budget in half.”

“Oh, come on,” he drawled. “You’d miss me if I stopped turning them in like this. Admit it. Gives you something to yell about.”

Before you could retort, a head appeared around the cubicle wall. Fixer. Somehow the only reasonable man in that squad. The one who didn’t act like (1) an edgelord sociopath, (2) a hyperactive kid high on detonator fumes, or (3) an unhinged trash-talking sergeant whose only contribution during his rare visits to your office was to stand stiffly in the corner and mutter “fuck me, not again.” Not what again? You’d never know.

Fixer looked between you and Scorch with a pair of dead bored eyes. “Scorch,” he said flatly. “Stop flirting with the officer and finish your paperwork. Boss wanted us to be done with it yesterday.”

“We’re not flirting,” you and Scorch said in unison.

Fixer sighed, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “kill me now,” and disappeared behind the manual sliding door that separated your cubicle from the rest of the office. Not that you’d ever demanded exclusivity, but apparently being the Safety and Compliance Officer (temporarily covering Risk Assessment too, since the sleemo who held the post resigned last quarter to become a holonet fashion influencer) meant your desk had turned into a revolving door of frontline troopers and spec-ops. It had gotten bad enough that upper management finally decided your constant parade of armour-plated visitors was “disruptive to the peace and productivity of the workplace.” Their solution was to wall you off and install a door. A flimsy little thing, manual slide, but it did the job. Honestly? You were grateful for the privacy.

“Fine,” you sighed. “Twenty-four hours. I want it in my inbox. Written in your own words. Not churned out by those automated generators you troopers love so much. They strip context, blur accountability, and interfere with transparency. The Senate committee will gut us if they think frontline reports are being fabricated by software instead of actual operators.”

“Last time I checked,” Scorch scoffed, “I’m not one of the GAR’s comm officers. So if I want to use those automated tools, I will. Not a part of my job des—”

“Or I’ll personally call your Mandalorian handler and get you disciplined.”

That shut him up for a second before he leaned in and hissed through a grin, “Oh, you would never. Because if you did, I’d call your—”

“SCORCH.” The bark came from behind your door. You both turned to see another figure behind the frosted transparisteel window in orange-and-white armour, and a standard regulation cut. “We were supposed to be at Qibbu’s an hour ago,” Boss snapped.

Scorch winced as he rose, helmet under his arm. “Guess I’ll have to finish threatening you later, sweetheart.”

You groaned and immediately grabbed the little bottle of overpriced “relaxing” room spray you’d panic-bought from some wellness shop at the Embassy Mall. One quick spritz, two, three - still not enough to kill the smell of armour, sweat, and whatever seppie-fueled hell Delta Squad had just crawled out of. When was the last time they showered? You didn’t even want to know.

Sinking back into your chair, you pulled the flimsi towards you and forced yourself to reread the report.

GAR Incident Report  Filed by: RC-1262, “Scorch” Mission Code: [Redacted] Sector: G6, Level 3761 Objective: Root out separatist cell. Blow stuff up. Actions Taken: Kaboom. Threw thermal (bigger boom). Collateral Damage: Approx. 1/3 of the block is now “modern open-plan design.” G6 train station maybe offline. Check with locals? Civilian casualties: none witnessed. Notes: Explosion was fantastic. Recommend giving me more thermals for future ops. Blast radius: “big enough.” Structural damage: “see attached doodle.” 

You pulled out an attachment with a crude sketch of a building with little “boom” clouds drawn in, and a stick figure (labeled “ME”) holding what looked like a thermal detonator.

Conclusion: Kaboom. 🎉

The flimsi fluttered as you let it drop back onto your desk. You stared at the stick figure drawing hoping it might spontaneously combust and put you out of your misery. Somewhere out in the office, someone’s caf machine hissed. You pressed your forehead to the desk.

“I’ve told you to ask for a transfer if this job frustrates you so much,” Besany from the Logistics Center said as she slid a tray across to you, steam rising from the white ceramic bowl of dumpling soup and a rice noodle on the side. She’d been your only semi-sane friend in the building since last year, which meant she’d appointed herself your unofficial career counselor. 

“Go apply to the Republic Science and Technical Center,” she continued, unwrapping her burger and squeezed out a sachet of spicy condiment. “I heard they’ve got a compliance officer vacancy. And you know how those scientists are, they’ll happily push a prototype into testing without documenting blast limits or failure contingencies. Someone has to babysit their ‘brilliant’ ideas before they vaporise half a lab.”

“Eh. I’m good here.” You shrugged, picking up your spoon. “Besides, the pay’s decent. I’m on a permanent contract now. Don’t feel like starting over in a quarterly contract at the Science and Tech Center. Yes, I saw the ad.”

“I mean, you always complain about troopers, especially commandos, not giving you a proper compliance report after finishing high-stakes missions.” She bit into her burger, muffling her next words. “Funny. Guess these lot are better as friends, not colleagues.”

“To be fair,” you stirred your soup, “maybe a select few would make good colleagues. I’ve never heard Zita complain. That guy works with the Corries at the Senate Building, and apparently his desk is blissfully quiet. No commandos barging in, no stick-figure doodles attached to reports.”

“Is this about Scorch again?” Besany perked up immediately. “I swear to whoever created this wretched galaxy, you always have a problem with that one! I thought the edgy one would be trouble.” She barked a laugh. “You know, I saw him zoning out in one of the hangar lifts once. I asked him what was wrong, and he simply said, ‘Oh right, forgot to push the buttons,’ and walked straight out. Didn’t even look embarrassed.” She cackled, shaking her head. “Those commandos are such a riot.”

“Oh, of course,” you murmured. “You’re biased. You’re dating one of them.” Chuckling quietly, you kept your volume low so the analysts at the next table wouldn’t overhear.

Besany almost choked on her nerf burger. “Excuse me? There is nothing between me and Ordo.”

“Nobody said anything about Ordo,” you laughed, pointing at her with your spoon. “Oooooh—unless…”

Her cheeks flushed the faintest pink, and she jabbed her straw into her drink. “Don’t start,” 

“Maker, I knew it. All this time you’ve been lecturing me about my so-called commando problem, and you’ve been sneaking off for caf with ‘one of the most esteemed ARCs’ himself.”

“It was one time,” she whispered fiercely. “One caf. For work.”

“Uh huh. Sure. Totally professional. Just like my office smells totally professional after Scorch drags in half the underworld with him.”

Besany groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “Stars, you’re insufferable.”

“I better see Scorch’s revision in my inbox before sunrise tomorrow. Otherwise it’s over for him and his—ooh, wait.” Your datapad pinged, cutting you off. “It’s only been six hours?”

The sender glowed in bold blue text: [email protected]

“That was… surprisingly fast.”

You opened the mail. No attachment. Only a single line in the body text:

Subject: (no subject) Message: kaboom

Underneath, he’d slapped in a blurry photograph of himself giving a thumbs-up with a half-eaten ration bar hanging out of his mouth. Behind him was Sector G6, judging from the cracked street sign hanging at an angle,a blast site he was supposed to report properly.

You unceremoniously flipped your datapad to Besany.

Across the table, Besany nearly spat her drink. “Oh my stars, is that what counts as work correspondence with him?”

“I… hate him. I really do.” You stared at the screen, equal parts furious and begrudgingly amused. 

Your datapad pinged again.

Second message from [email protected]

Subject: addendum Message: pls tell the oversight committee the blast radius was ‘yay big’ (see attached) and literally zero casualties.

You opened the attachment and groaned. A photo of Boss and Sev, standing at the centre of the blast site, both pointing vaguely at the background. Nothing in the frame except scorched duracrete, shattered piping, and a blackened transit sign. The entire sector was scorched, pun fully intended.

Sighing, you turned back to Besany. “He says ‘literally zero casualties.’ Which means I now need to triple-check it with Civilian Affairs for property claims, Health and Welfare for casualty cross-reference, and the bloody Coruscant Guard Incident Registry in case the CSF down there already filed complaints. And then I have to do the Risk Assessment report with all three reconciled before I can even draft my compliance note for the Oversight Committee.”

Besany winced. “That’s like… five offices.”

“Six if Infrastructure and Utilities decides to scream about the train station.” You jabbed your spoon into your soup. “Scorch gets to write ‘kaboom,’ and I get to chase down hundreds of divisions and a thousand subcommittees for the next two weeks.”

“If I were you, I’d just take him out for a caf and ask him nicely.” Besany finished the last of her meal. “Sometimes it’s the only way to get through to them. You know how the Republic treats them. Their BAS is abysmal, their rations are worse, and on top of that, they’re expected to blow things up and do paperwork afterward? I understand compliance is important, but stars, it must be exhausting for them.” She sighed, softening for a moment.

You rolled your eyes as you chug down your soup. “Boss and Fixer never complained. Sev either, oh especially Sev, he gets very descriptive. It’s scary how detailed his reports are sometimes. He once wrote two pages on what a body looked like after a flamethrower exposure.” You shuddered. “The Omega Squad’s been compliant too, and they’re deployed out of system most cycles. So no, I don’t think this is about exhaustion.”

“Mm.” Besany chewed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing. “So it’s just him.”

“No. Don’t.” You pointed your spoon in her direction. “Hardcase from the 501st also behaves the same way, but—”

“But he’s not like Scorch?” Besany’s smile curved.

You ignored it, plowing on. “But his captain and lieutenant actually review everything before submitting in bulk to me.”

“Really? An entire legion? Rex and Jesse do that?”

“No, just Torrent Company,” you muttered. “Anyway, that’s beside—”

“I still think a caf is on the table,” Besany interrupted smoothly, leaning back with that maddeningly smug look.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” You groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

“I am,” she said sweetly. “And my side says, stop drowning in subcommittees and bribe him with caf.”

To his credit, Scorch did eventually submit a revised report before the deadline. It wasn’t good, but it was legible. Well, legible enough that you could scrape together actual data points and build a compliance file that wouldn’t get shredded by the Oversight Committee. Of course, that meant you had to spend the next few days chasing down Civilian Affairs for casualty verification, cross-referencing the Coruscant Guard’s incident logs, and pulling in Infrastructure and Utilities to sign off that the transit lines were “structurally compromised but not a total write-off.” By the time you packaged the whole thing into a neat document, you were running on two hours of sleep, three cups of strong black caf, and the faint hope that your inbox wouldn’t ping with another disaster before noon.

So when Delta Squad’s next mission file hit your desk, you braced for more flames, rubble, and the usual stick-figure doodles. Instead, you got Boss himself dropping a stack of flimsi on your desk.

“No detonation this time?” you asked warily, flipping through the report. “No broken infrastructure?”

Boss scratched his jaw. “Well… our sniper shot down two speeders when they started tailing him. Had to, or we’d be fucking toast.” He pointed a finger at the report. “Double-check with Jusik if you don’t believe me. Fi was there too. Recon mission was ass. Boring as fuck.”

“Boss.”

“Minimal damage,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “Couple engines slagged, one karking crash into a kriffing wall. Building didn’t fall down, so that’s a fucking win in my book.” He scowled. “Do you know how fucking hard it is to haul a team of commandos through the underworld without blowing the place sky-high? It’s like sneaking a herd of rancors into a civilian speeder. Filthy, heavy, smells like shit. And the higher ups still expect us to write a polite little fucking compliance report about it?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Boss—”

“Look,” he huffed, planting his hands on your desk, “you’ll get your compliance forms, love, but don’t you dare tell me we didn’t do the galaxy a favour by not turning half the district into scrap metal. That’s me behaving, in case you missed it. So stamp it, sign it, send it, whatever the fuck you do back here, and let me get the hell out before my boys throw a house party at Qibbu's.”

He turned towards the door before he paused to look over his shoulder. “Oh, and Scorch said something about sending you proof there were no explosions this mission. Expect it by noon. Kid’s floating in bacta right now, pulled a couple muscles. Fucking hilarious. Let him loose with a satchel of thermals and he’s skipping like a fucking cadet, but tell him to sneak around quietly and he injured himself.”

You spent the better part of the morning scanning the paperwork Boss had submitted, and filed them one by one to the laggy GAR intranet system. It was the kind of thing that made you want to file another report directed at the HR division for subjecting you to psychological torture. Every line had to be combed over at least three times. For instance, Boss had written “minimal damage” in three separate places, but in one section he also admitted that “a rowdy speeder chase was happening in the Entertainment District.” He’d called it “on-site improv,” which you had to rewrite into “counter-surveillance measures taken to prevent compromise of mission objectives.” Then there was the line where he described the local gang who’d been doing some intel work for the Separatists as “shit-for-brains street scum.” That one, you spent an entire ten minutes debating how to sanitise into acceptable language before finally settling on “local non-state actors engaged in obstructive activities.” By the time you reached the conclusion section, where Boss had simply written ‘job’s done, fuck off,’ you had your head in your hands and the beginnings of a headache behind your eyes.

So when your datapad pinged again with a message from [email protected], you knew, deep in your bones, that you were about to regret opening it.

Subject: proof no kaboom Message: told ya. zero explosions. all stealth. 10/10 would do it again.

Attached was not, as you desperately hoped, a proper incident log or even a schematic showing zero detonation evidence. It was another blurry bacta tank selfie of himself, submerged up to his neck in bacta fluid, giving a smug thumbs-up with one hand whilst the other floated limp in its waterproof sling. Behind him, Sev peeked behind the tub with his sniper rifle, and Boss’ and Fixer’s reflection could be seen in the mirror behind Sev with their middle fingers raised directly at the camera.

You stared at it in silence for a long moment before you locked your datapad and let your forehead rest against your cold metal desk.

The datapad pinged again, and you lifted it lazily to see a follow-up message.

Subject: addendum Message: see?? no kaboom but my body’s cracked (because no kaboom).  

You closed your eyes, and prayed for patience. Sitting up straighter, you cracked your knuckles before typing the driest, most by-the-book soul-sucking response you could muster.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Dear RC-1262, Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, the attachment provided does not constitute acceptable compliance documentation under Republic Oversight Committee standards. As per GAR Compliance Directive 14-C, missions where no detonations are used must still include proof of compliance. Minimum documentation required: - Ordnance Inventory Log signed by your squad’s quartermaster (to confirm no issued explosives were deployed). - Weapons Discharge Record (to verify engagements were limited to small arms/sniper fire as reported). - Structural Integrity Clearance from the local Infrastructure and Utilities division (to confirm no damage to public works). - Civilian Casualty Cross-Check with Civilian Affairs/Coruscant Guard (to verify zero civilian injuries or fatalities). - After-Action Statement from your squad leader, in full sentences, detailing operational measures taken in place of demolition. Please revise and resubmit within 12 standard hours. A photo of yourself in a bacta tank does not qualify as acceptable evidence. Regards, Safety & Compliance Officer 894 GAR Risk and Compliance Division Commlink Code: 990808

You sent it off, satisfied at the blunt professionalism. For all of thirty seconds.

Your datapad pinged again.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: rude. that bacta selfie took effort. had to hold my breath so the bubbles wouldn’t ruin it.

You let out the longest sigh of the week as you massaged your temples. You told yourself not to reply, though your fingers had brains on their own.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: Effort would have been filling out the form correctly the first time. Best.

Ping.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: i’m injured, you know. you’re bullying a wounded soldier.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt and hammered back a reply.

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: I will gladly call your CO and ask him to discipline you if you keep misusing government email.

Barely a minute later—

Subject: Re: proof no kaboom Message: do it. boss loves when you call him. says your voice makes you sound like you’re about to strangle someone. he’s into it.

“For fuck’s sake.” You shut off your datapad before you could throw it across the cubicle, and forced yourself back to the stack of work on your desk. Grabbing your desk comlink, you punched in the line for the Coruscant Guard’s admin desk to double-check incident filings before you even thought about finalising Delta’s compliance package.

Next to their ever-growing pile was Omega Squad’s, not much better, though at least Niner could string together coherent sentences. Beside that sat a smaller pile from Ordo and Mereel. All three groups had been tied up in the same underworld op, which meant triple-checking overlapping claims, reconciling their different reports, and trying to build one consistent narrative the Oversight Committee wouldn’t laugh you out of the chamber for.

In your inbox, another mountain waited for you. Wolfpack’s compliance from a joint sweep, plus a possible bundle from the 212th’s spec-op squad once they got back from their deployment in the neighbouring system. Which meant your week was about to dissolve into a carousel of “urgent” cross-checks and signatures from people who’d rather eat their expired rations than fill in a Form-62B.

You scrolled down the shared staff directory, debating who you could bother to make your life easier. Risk & Compliance was technically a division, not just you, but after the last round of budget cuts, most of the junior staff had been shuffled to other offices. You still had Leebee, your long-suffering data clerk, who could chase casualty records and fast-track other clearances if you bribed him with decent lunch. Ravi handled Policy and Procedures, half the time they answered your pings, half the time they ignored you until you showed up at their desk in person with that nice caf from Fabosi District. Investigation and Resolution had their own rep, a tired middle-aged officer named Colin, who was usually willing to fast-track your requests if you’re willing to sit and listen to him yap for two hours. For cross-system missions, you sometimes had to lean on Regional Oversight liaisons, poor bastards stuck parsing comms reports from across Mid Rim and Outer Rim. And when things got really bad, you had a list of rotating interns from the Administrative Office who could be worked into data entry shifts.

The quick call with the Corries confirmed it - no explosions, no secondary blasts, no panicked civvie complaints in their registry. Which was, frankly, a miracle. Great. Wonderful. That meant you could strike one nightmare off your list which was you didn’t have to draft a ten-page letter to the Ethics Office of the Republic and the Republic Oversight Committee explaining why a thermal detonator had been “operationally necessary”. No tedious citations of tactical plan, no rehearsed lines about “minimising civilian risk.” No having to attach a signed memo about why blowing a hole in a water main was actually essential to rooting out a Separatist cell. Stars, you could cry from relief.

Still, you had no idea how the other Safety and Compliance officers spread across the GAR handled their workloads. Were they all drowning in the same endless tide of half-assed reports, conflicting testimonies, and “oops, the building collapsed, but don’t worry, minimal casualties”? Or had you just been cursed by some cruel twist of fate to be assigned to every spec-ops lunatic in rotation? You had the pick of the litter: the 501st’s Torrent Company and their stray tookas; the 212th, who had a charming habit of “redecorating” entire sectors in pursuit of one droid nest; the 104th, steady but prone to sudden wolfpack rampages that left you reconciling insurance claims from an entire district; and, of course, the commandos. Delta, Omega, the strays that answered to Mandalorian handlers - all funneled their paperwork disasters directly into your inbox.

Some days you daydreamed about packing up, sneaking aboard the next supply shuttle headed for the Unknown Regions, and vanishing without a trace. No datapad, no flimsis, no reports stamped URGENT. Quiet. Stars, even a primitive outpost with no comms relay would be better than filing one more compliance memo defending the use of military-grade explosives inside city limits.

Later that evening, you packed up like it was any other bland Coruscant evening. Datapad powered down, flimsis stacked into a neat “tomorrow’s problem” pile, the office lights dimming to that corporate-sterile glow that meant the night shift droids were clocking in. You swiped your ID, rode the lift down, and did the exact same thing you did every night when the day finally let you go - stopped by the bodega tucked into the corner of the plaza. The clerk didn’t even look at you as you grabbed a pre-packaged dinner from the warmer, a sad excuse for bantha steak, an overly-salted protato mash, and a small chocolate brownie.

You trudged the familiar walk back to Tomkip Towers, the same old high-rise packed with other tired non-clone GAR employees pretending not to notice each other in the lift. In your flat, you tossed your bag on the counter, peeled off your jacket, and collapsed onto the couch. Holovision flickered to life with its usual cycle. The evening news showing the same war footage and Senate updates you already heard at work, followed by some aggressively stupid holo sitcom about smugglers running a café on Tatooine. You forked down the steak without tasting it, mind blissfully numbed out.

Then your comlink pinged with an unknown code plastered on the screen. You frowned, thumb hovering, before curiosity got the better of you.

Unknown: hey, i got some nice snacks from kal. i will bring it up for you on my next visit so you wont be such an angy officer

Your brow furrowed. 

You: Who is this?

The answer came almost instantly.

Unknown: it’s scorch dummy. before you ask, you had your number in your email signature. i’m not being creepy. yes something poofed again. can you believe that?”

You groaned. Of course. Of course he’d find a way to invade your off-hours. The comlink buzzed again before you even put it down.

Scorch: i’m injured and DID A KABOOM. ISN’T THAT BADASS?

You set the tray aside, threw your commlink on the sofa behind you, buried your face in your hands, and seriously considered whether flinging yourself out of Tomkip Towers’ thirty-second floor window would be less painful than dealing with this man.

Still, your fingers itched, because if you didn’t reply he’d probably spam your inbox until morning. You snatched the commlink back up with a sigh.

You: That will be your next visit’s problem. I’m trying to enjoy dinner now.

It was strange, really. No trooper ever texted you personally. Not unless it was a commanding officer chasing paperwork on behalf of his company. Jesse and Rex sometimes, Cody when he didn’t trust his lieutenants, Wolffe once or twice. They were the ones who had enough responsibility to care about compliance deadlines. The only real exception was Fox, the poor marshal commander of the Coruscant Guard, who had an alarming habit of messaging you at three in the morning with things like “please confirm: do demolitions count as collateral if the Corries did it to defend Republic’s sector in level 4781?” or “delta squad in your office again? tell me everything.” He never admitted it, but most of his messages were just gossip under the pretense of “coordination.” You always entertained them, partly because you needed the Guard on your side for smooth verification, and partly because you pitied the man. Fox worked twenty-four hours a day, five days a week. Sometimes you wondered if he even remembered what sleep felt like.

Your commlink buzzed again.

Scorch: snacks are worth texting abt. kal got some nice ones this week he’s such a nice dad. u like sweet or salty? You: I like compliance reports that don’t make me want to strangle someone.

Ping.

Scorch: salty then. also you ever notice how your texts read like email? “i like compliance reports” who even talks like that 🤓

You sank deeper into the couch.

You: This is harassment of a government employee. I can and will file a report. Scorch: oh please. you love it. if i didn’t text you’d be bored watching whatever garbage holo u got on right now

Your eyes turned guiltily to the holovision, where a laugh track blared over the sitcom that was, in fact, absolute garbage. 

You: I’d prefer garbage holos to your selfies, thanks. Scorch: liar. you saved that selfie didn’t u You: I DID NOT Scorch: liar again. bet it’s in your “important documents” folder 🤣

Setting your commlink down, you exhaled sharply through your mouth before picking your device up again, because you knew if you didn’t shut him down properly he’d keep going.

You: If you ever send me another selfie instead of an actual revised report, I will personally request the Ethics Office to draft a new policy banning you from GAR communications. Scorch: worth iiiiittttt

“I told you I’d bring snacks!” The demolition expert gave you a shit-eating grin as he dropped a cardboard box full of things you’d never seen before. Crisps in transparent no-brand bags, nuna jerkies, protato crips covered in cheesy dust and supposedly barbecue powder in questionable neon packaging. Most of them you vaguely remembered spotting in markets buried in the lower levels. “All salty! For the salty compliance officer,” he added smugly.

“You bleached your hair.” You squinted up at him. The roots were still dark, but the rest was uneven - some toned to a nice cool shade, the other half brassy yellow. 

“Why didn’t you reply to my last text?” He only grinned wider.

“Because you asked me how to bypass the reporting system if you hypothetically destroyed an entire city block in Sector C97, Southern Underground. Did you actually?”

“I would,” he shrugged as if it wasn’t worth the effort, “but of course I didn’t. That place is crawling with seppie hideouts. Southern Underground’s vile. I’d rather be stationed in the Outer Rim.” He said it so casually you almost missed the important part, which was the fact that he hadn’t denied considering it.

Sighing, you dragged the flimsi across your desk and pointed a stylus at the worst of it. “You actually wrote more than kaboom this time, so I’ll give you that. But I still need clarity here—” you tapped the line item, “Section 4B: Munition Type, Quantity, and Serial Registration. You put ‘two thermals, both compact.’”

The commando gasped.

You tapped your stylus lower. “And here, Section 5C: Collateral Damage Assessment. You wrote ‘building now has big window’ I need confirmation, was the wall load-bearing or not?”

“It was a load-bearing wall. But the seppies were behind it. So… better no wall than more clankers, right?” Scorch leaned over the desk. 

You closed your eyes and counted to three, imagining the Senate Oversight Committee tearing this flimsi apart line by line whilst the man in front of you popped open one of the mystery snack bags without asking, “See, you’re making it sound worse than it was.”

“Because you wrote it worse than it was,” you muttered and yanked the snack from his hand.

“Relax, angy officer.” He reached into a pouch that he had been carrying to pull out his datapad, and started swiping through his gallery with greasy cheesy fingers. “I got proof. Look—see? This one’s the wall before.”

He shoved the datapad across your desk. Grainy picture of a dingy underworld corridor, mouldy grey wall intact, and then he swiped to the next picture. “And this one’s after. See? Barely a boom. Clean breach. Load-bearing? Sure. Catastrophic collapse? Nah. Building’s still standing. Bit more… breezy, that’s all.” 

The corridor was now open-air rubble, at least that’s what you could see from your seat, with thick dust covering its surroundings. “Barely a boom? Scorch, that’s structural damage.”

“Destructive? Sure. But not catastrophic. That’s compliance-friendly, yeah?” He waved it off, digging another handful of chips.

“Just show me the damage report from the other site.”

Scorch simply chewed his crisps, and swiped his datapad. Suddenly, a picture of Sev deadpanning into the camera while Scorch himself posed behind him with two dead battle droids’ heads. Another swipe, Fixer, caught unflatteringly with his mouth wide open, datapad in hand. Another swipe, and it was a picture of Boss sleeping upright in a chair, helmet propped on top of his head like a hat.

“Compliance documentation, huh?”

His cheek flushed red, thumb fumbling as he swiped too fast. “Uh. Fun shots. Y’know. Internal use only.”

“Right.”

Grinning again, he finally landed back on the proper documentation. At least a metre tall pile of battle droid limbs, and the ‘barely a boom’ breach expanding wide behind them. “See? Totally minimal.”

“Minimal. Uh huh. I’ll be sure to phrase it exactly like that in my summary for the Senate Oversight Committee.”

“Oh, come on.”

You ignored him and quickly finished typing the last of the clarifications into your computer, cross-checking the photo against the flimsis until it was at least borderline acceptable. Scorch, meanwhile, was still munching happily, easily sweeping the crumbs collecting on the edge of your desk to the floor.

“You are dismissed. Why are you still here?” You hit the enter button with a force. 

“Dunno. Got nowhere to be right now.”

“You don’t have drills? Debriefs? A whole entire block of city to blow up, maybe?”

“Nah,” he said easily, kicking his boots up onto the corner of your desk. “Meeting with Skirata and his boys isn’t until Primeday. My brothers are busy running laps around the BlasTech Gikosphere.” He made a disgusted face. “I don’t like running. Prefer classic PT. Weights. Push-ups. Y’know, real exercise. Not chasing your own ass around a track like some fresh-off-Kamino cadet.”

You glared at his boots, nudged them off your desk with your stylus, and sighed. “This is an office, not your barracks. And not a gym. I’m not here to babysit you when you’re bored.”

“Eh, I didn’t ask.”

“So?” You shooed him towards the door.

“Umm. No thanks?” He popped another crisp into his mouth. “Oh stars, this is so good. Think it’s the spice powder. Whatever it is, fits me. Salty, addictive, bad for your health.”

“That’s the most accurate self-assessment you’ve ever made. Actually…” you gave him a look over your monitors“...probably the only accurate self-assessment you’ve ever made.”

“Whatever,” he said around another mouthful. “I’m starving. Could go for lunch right now, and no, not the mess hall.” He punctuated it with a sudden loud and unapologetic burp.

“Ugh. Then go, Scorch. No one’s keeping you here.” You wrinkled your nose. 

“Don’t pretend I didn’t hear your stomach growl back there,” he cackled. “Come on, it’s almost twelve.” 

“Are you serious?” You stared at him flatly.

“Duh,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. “Because you work too much, and because I know you’re dying for something better than whatever sad microwave slop you eat every night.”

“I don’t—”

“I know where you live.”

“That’s fucking creepy.” You blinked. 

“Well,” he said with a shrug, crumpling the crisp packaging into a ball and tossed it to the rubbish bin, “to be honest, Boss told me not to say that to you. But I promise it was strictly professional intel. We were investigating a GAR officer running double as a Separatist agent—” He paused, his grin faltering for a split second. “Oop. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“Scorch.”

“Forget I said it. Totally classified. You never heard it.” He held up both hands.

“Maker, give me strength.”

“Please just go for lunch,” he picked the clone trooper bobblehead and shoved it in your face. “I’m starving. And if I’m starved, technically you’d be responsible for starving a child cause I’m eleven.”

You gave him a long, dead-eyed look. “You’re eleven in clone years. You’re twenty four in natborn years.”

“Heh. Natborn,” he repeated, chuckling to himself. “You mean randomly ejected individuals?”

“I don’t care,” you said again.

“Well, tough luck. I’m not leaving until you get your ass up and eat lunch with me.” He leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, and crumbs dusting his fitted black undershirt.

With your head buried in your hands, you tried to go back to your flimsis, forcing your eyes onto Section 6A. You could almost make sense of the nonsense Scorch had scrawled there, something about “local criminals discouraged by intimidation (see attached doodle).” You silently told yourself if you ignored him long enough, he’d get bored and leave.

But no. Of course not. Every time you moved in your chair, you heard the obnoxious crunch of another crisp, the rustle of foil packaging, the occasional satisfied hum as if he was intentionally testing your patience. And when you risked a glance, he was still there, eating the snacks he had given to you happily, completely immovable. You realised, with a sinking feeling, that he wasn’t bluffing. He could sit here for hours, perfectly content to snack his way through your workday, derailing your schedule, driving you insane until you cracked.

“Okay, fine,” you groaned, kicking your chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. You stood, grabbed your jacket in one angry motion, and stomped towards the door.

Behind you, Scorch popped up immediately. “Knew you’d see reason.”

“This is not reason. This is giving up.”

“Eh, same difference.” He followed you out.

The walk didn’t take long, Scorch seemed to know every shortcut through the military district, cutting your route past uniformed officers, military barracks blocks, and supply depots until you ended up in a shadowed corner behind a supermarket. A literal hole carved into the duracrete wall of the parking structure, no signage, no tables, only a couple of greasy counters wedged in the wall, some plastic chairs, and a thin haze of steam curling out. A man stood behind it, ladling broth into white bowls with vintage nuna illustrations. A cluster of troopers loitered nearby with plates in one hand, eating like this was the finest dining Coruscant had to offer.

“This,” Scorch announced proudly as he grabbed his order, “is where the boys like to eat.” His eyes lit up as the vendor handed him a steaming bowl piled high with noodles and meatballs, which he dug in immediately. “So? What’d you order?” He glanced at you over the rim of the bowl.

You held up your plate when the server handed it over. Not noodles, not soup. Just a heaping plate of rice, doused in broth, with two slabs of fried soy-cakes stacked on top, a ladle of curried greens on the side, and some fried gluten crisps thrown in for good measure. Cheap, fast, greasy, exactly the kind of meal you’d lived on since moving to the capital of the Galaxy.

Scorch paused to gawk at your plate. “Heh. You know your stuff. Most Republic officers wander up and order noodles cause it looks safe. You went straight for the soy-cakes.”

“You know this place isn’t a novelty, right? There’s one under my apartment. Their soy-cakes taste better than this, spicier too. This one’s good,” you admitted, taking a bite, “but the one near mine? Heavenly. Proper kick that makes you sweat.”

“Heavenly soy-cakes, huh? Subtly offering to take me there, or am I supposed to show up under your apartment and guess which stall sells ‘em?” 

Rolling your eyes, you shoved a spoonful of rice into your mouth to avoid answering.

“Yeah, thought so.” He cackled as he pointed his chopsticks at your tray. “Still. Respect. You climbed about three ranks up the cool people hierarchy.”

Both of you ate in silence for a few moments, letting the grease and spice work their magic, watching the line of troopers in plain fatigues and various coloured armours filtering into the hidden corner. They clustered in twos and threes, laughing with their mouths full. The air was filled with the scent of the steaming broth, the clatter of cutlery, the background noise of a dozen conversations you weren’t supposed to overhear.

Scorch gestured with his chopsticks towards the little crowd. “This is why we eat here. Mess hall’s efficient, sure. Ration bars, protein cubes, vegetable soup, choice of carbohydrates, all very nutritionally balanced, but it tastes like kriffing plastoid. We feel more like people here. Nobody checks your portion, nobody times how fast you eat. You pay the guy a few credits, get your food, and sit or stand where you like. No saluting, no marching, no eyes up your ass.”

It was true. None of them looked like soldiers here, only a bunch of identical young men with different haircuts wolfing down cheap food in the middle of a long shift.

“Guess that explains why this place is packed.” You picked at your soy-cake, chewing thoughtfully. Before you could stop yourself, the question slipped out. “So why do you commandos always look… bigger? Broader? Everyone else is built lean, but you lot walk in like you’ve been hoarding growth serums.”

Scorch snorted into his broth, coughing before he could answer. “Hoarding growth serums… Hah, that’s a new one.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still chuckling. “We’re bigger cause they made us that way. Different program. Heavier PT, higher-calorie rations. They wanted us bulked up to carry twice the gear, smash through twice the doors, take twice the hits. Supposed to look scarier for ‘intimidation factor,’ too, I think that’s what Fi called it.” He jabbed a chopstick at his own chest. “Which basically means more food, more weights, more bruises. You should’ve seen our intake while the CTs and CCs were running obstacle courses, we were hauling massive cannons till our arms gave out. Push-ups till we puked, then another set because according to Vau, we should never give up even if our guts hate it.”

“That’s brutal.” You winced, setting your spoon down. 

“Eh,” he shrugged. “Built me into this fine specimen, didn’t it? Salty, addictive, bad for your health. Remember?”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t miss the way he was watching you as he said it. “Whatever. I have to finish this fast and be back in my office in less than thirty minutes. And you… You will go back to your pack.”

“No,” he immediately refused.

“No?”

“I will go back to your office too.”

“No, you will not.”

“Yes, I will.” He slurped another mouthful of noodles, finishing it. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do my job properly.”

You stared at him, waiting.

“Because my mission logs are in my datapad, which I, uh…” He waved his chopsticks vaguely. “…left in your office.”

“You what?” your face was a study in both offence and confusion. 

“Left it in your office,” he repeated. “See? I gotta come back. Can’t log a mission without my datapad.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You can’t get rid of me.”

And from then on, it became a habit. Somehow, Scorch decided he was the one who would deliver Delta Squad’s paperwork instead of Boss. At first you fought it, insisted the squad leader was supposed to handle formal submissions, and he could only be there to give clarity to his otherwise blank reports, but eventually you gave up because every time Scorch sauntered in, he carried not only the flimsi but the entire story of the mission in his mouth. Where Boss would’ve written “mission completed, minimal interference,” Scorch would yap with his mouth full of snack, describing exactly which stairwell they’d taken, which civilians ran screaming, how many times Sev acted like a smartass, how Fixer suddenly became a maniac in the field. He’d tell the story, and you’d take notes, piecing together actual compliance-friendly language from his rambling. 

Once the report was patched and filed, he’d drag you out to eat. Always. You stopped pretending you could say no. It was easier to let him talk you into whatever hidden stall or hole-in-the-wall he’d discovered than to fight him whilst he laughed like he knew you’d cave anyway. Lunch with Scorch became part of your calendar, sandwiched between audits and verification calls, an annoying interruption that you found yourself looking forward to in spite of yourself.

The routine bled wider than you meant it to. You learnt the ins and outs of Delta without ever trying. Who did what in the field, which ops went sideways, almost-confidential details about the infamous Triple Zero mission. He didn’t even realise how much he was giving away. He would just sit in your office chair, recounting how Walon Vau screamed at Kal Skirata for having different ways of raising the soldiers, or how Sev and Atin are in this perpetual beef. You weren’t supposed to know these things, but you did, and it felt oddly intimate.

And then came the texts. At first it was an extension of work, “kaboom happened again, i’ll bring proof” or “boss says send in a good example for form 98-A or he’ll strangle someone.” But soon it changed into absolute nonsense - from tooka memes pulled from the holonet, group selfies of Delta Squad crammed into a speeder, Fixer sleeping under his bunk, Sev flipping the camera off with dead eyes. Half the time the photos were useless, grainy, badly lit, but they made you laugh anyway. He’d double text, triple text, no shame whatsoever. Your commlink became a dumping ground for his stream-of-consciousness nonsense, and somehow, you didn’t mind.

Scorch: hey. Scorch: u awake? Scorch: [attached image: tooka with its face smashed against transparisteel] me waiting outside your office You: It’s 1am. I am not awake. Scorch: ooo. are your pants on fire? Scorch: [attached image: Fixer asleep at his datapad] this man has been talking abt hacking and encryption for 6 hrs Scorch: should i draw a dick on his helmet You: If you do, I’ll make you write a 40-page memo on vandalism of GAR equipment. Scorch: [attached image: Sev with both middle fingers raised] he loves me. You: Tell Sev I’ll approve his request to have you gagged during debriefs Scorch: wow betrayal Scorch: anyway just wanted to say your dumpling place recommendation near the republic mil base >>> the noodle place. i owe u. You: Finally, something we agree on. Now sleep. Scorch: k night salty ❤️

One fine morning you trudged into the office expecting your inbox to have at least 89 unread compliance updates, a red URGENT flag from Infrastructure, and a polite but passive-aggressive reminder from the Oversight Committee about “timely submission of finalised reports.” Business as usual.

You grabbed a mug of caf from the mess hall before clocking in, the bitter sludge enough to make your brain semi-functional. By the time you dropped into the chair, you were already scrolling through the day’s firestorm in your datapad when your commlink buzzed.

Scorch: [attached image: a bowl of stir fried soy-cakes drenched in chili oil] breakfast of champions. bet you can’t handle this heat

You snorted into your caf, almost spilling it on your desk. Another buzz.

Scorch: forget it, my stomach just gave up on me

That brought a laugh out of you, which you immediately stifled, but it was too late. Besany appeared out of nowhere with her caf in hand, and eyes narrowed in. “What,” she sank into the chair in front of you, “is making you smile before nine in the morning?”

“Nothing,” You said quickly, flipping the commlink face down on the desk. “Work.”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned over, sipping her caf, gaze locked on you. “Work doesn’t make you laugh like that. What was it? Another message from your favourite demolition expert?”

“Besany.” Heat crept up your neck.

Besany’s eyebrows shot up as she beamed. “Oh my stars. He’s already trained you to smile at your commlink like a lovesick shiny at 79’s.”

“I am not lovesick!” you snatched the commlink up to silence it. “I’m just managing him.”

“Mmhm.” She gave you a wicked smile. “Well, from where I’m sitting, it looks like he’s managing you.”

“Hey.” You rolled your eyes. “That’s more like what Ordo does to you.”

Her smirk faltered for a second. “That’s unfair. Besides, I’ve admitted to you that yes, Ordo and I have gone on a couple of dates. At least I admit it.”

“They’re wrapping up their missions here by the way. So that means your man is also leaving?” You leaned back in your chair, victorious for all of three seconds.

That wiped the smirk clean off her face. Besany glanced away, fiddling with the handle of her caf cup. “It’s not—he’s not—” She sighed, the bravado draining out of her. “Yeah. Probably. Soon.”

Tilting your head, you watched her carefully. It wasn’t often Besany Wennen went soft; usually she carried the hard edge of someone who’d survived years in the Republic Treasury Audit Division. Yeah, not Logistics like she let most people assume. A few days ago, as the Triple Zero mission wrapped up, you’d learned the truth, that she’d been posing as a Logistics officer all along to investigate Vinna Jiss. But now, for once, she looked more human. “…You’ll miss him,” you said.

“Maybe.” She said quietly before aiming her finger at you. “But don’t change the subject. You and Scorch. Admit it.”

“Literally nothing.” You pressed your datapad to your chest and stood up. “Lunch later?”

Besany smirked. “Only if a certain RC isn’t kidnapping you.”

You groaned, tugging your jacket straighter. “He doesn’t kidnap me. He… ambushes me.”

“Ambush or ambush?” She stretched her arms upwards before sipping her caf with infuriating calm. “Well, if you disappear around noon, I’ll know who dragged you into some back-alley food stall again.”

“Stars help me,” 

Behind you, Besany’s voice piped up the empty mess hall. “It’s a date, whether you admit it or not!”

“One, two, three. Gotcha—not a couple. I win again.” You pointed your spoon, triumphant even with your mouth still full of rice. Across the restaurant’s corner, two massive Nautolan men sat shoulder-to-shoulder, hunched over steaming bowls of curry, chatting animatedly with their head-tendrils moving in sync.

Scorch threw his hands up. “How the hell are you so good at this? They look like a couple. Beefy, cute, sitting close. If this was a holoseries, they’d be sharing noodles by now.”

“Nope. Brothers. Cousins, maybe. Look how they mirror each other when they eat? That’s family, not date, fraternal twins possibly. Pay attention.”

He squinted, following your line of sight. “Kriff. You’re right. They both sip at the same time.”

“Mmhm. Synchronised slurping, familial trait.” You shoveled another bite into your mouth.

Scorch slapped his chopsticks on the rims of his bowl. “Fine. But that one—” he pointed at a table by the far wall where a human woman was leaning across to fix her companion’s collar, “is definitely a couple. Look at that. Intimate grooming!”

“Intimate grooming? You make it sound like they’re tookas licking each other’s ears. That’s her coworker, Scorch. She’s fixing his uniform because he clearly can’t keep a proper fold.” A scoff escaped your lips.

“What kind of monster helps a coworker fix their collar if it’s not romantic?”

“The kind who cares enough so the other doesn’t get chewed out in inspection,” you shot back.

“AH HA!” His voice shot up loud enough that two nearby troopers looked over. “They kissed!” He slapped a hand over his own mouth so fast it was almost comical. “I knew I’d win one day,” he hissed through his fingers.

“Congratulations. You identified a couple in a food court. Would you like me to draft you a commendation?”

“Yes, please. Make it official. To whom it may concern, RC-1262 is an expert in guessing game, please promote him immediately.” He propped his elbows on the table, grinning like an idiot. 

“Right.” You checked your chrono and pushed your tray away. “I have a meeting at two, which means I have to sprint back. You good?”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug, still chewing on the last of his meal. “Oh, almost forgot. They’re shipping us out to the Chaykin Cluster. Some ghost ship thing. The briefing note said it’s an assault ship that went missing months ago and then just, poof, reappeared. We’re supposed to get the data core.”

Your eyebrows touched a stray fringe. “Sounds simple.”

“Simple, sure,” he gave a sheepish smile. “Except ships don’t just wander off into the void and stroll back on their own. So, naturally, they’re sending us.”

Filing away the mental note that if Delta came back in one piece, you’d be drowning in more illegible reports for safety and compliance. “And you’re telling me this because?”

“Because you’ll miss me,” he said immediately. “And also because when I get back, I expect deep fried soy-cakes with that umami batter. The spicy ones from your apartment block.”

“You’re not dragging me to lunch the minute you return from a mission,” you warned.

“Wrong,” he said cheerfully, standing to dump his tray. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Call it part of the routine.”

By the third day without a single ping from RC-1262, you told yourself it was peace. Your inbox was quiet, free of incoherent reports about accidental destruction of city infrastructures, no late-night memes, no interruptions at your desk. You had time to clear Omega’s tidy paperwork, process Wolfpack’s accident reports, and even file a full 212th compliance bundle without once being forced into a hole-in-the-wall lunch. The silence should have been a blessing.

By the fifth day, it started gnawing at you. Every time your datapad and commlink chimed you checked them too fast, and every time it wasn’t him you shoved it aside. 

By the seventh, you’d convinced yourself you didn’t think about it anymore until your inbox finally pinged with a message from [email protected]

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: still alive Message: hey salt, in case you miss me (you do), i’m still alive. turns out the Prosecutor is a real piece of work. we boarded fine, then all hell broke loose. comms cut, we had to split our way. boss went aft, fixer to the port, sev is retrieving the sensor logs. i ended up searching for the bio metric logs. haven’t linked back up yet. ship’s half alive and it's eating our signals on purpose. been living on ration bars and whatever the galley didn’t rot. fun times! datapad’s running low but figured i’d check in, cause i know if i don’t you’ll miss me! anyway, yell at me so i know you got this. – scorch

The message caught you off guard. You knew how these commandos were, you knew the risks, the endless dangers written into every deployment. Hell, you were the one filing safety and compliance reports based on their flimsi scribbles, the one measuring the damage they caused and the injuries they sustained. You knew, better than anyone, how dangerous the missions were that they were sent on. And never, not once, had you let yourself hesitate over them. They were just names on your desk, soldiers you worked with, nothing more.

So why was this different?

You typed slower than usual, forcing your brain to think of an appropriate reply.

Subject: Re: still alive Message: No need to report to me as no Republic-owned infrastructure is broken in this mission. Therefore, there is no compliance assessment required on my end.

You paused, staring at the blinking cursor. A single bead of sweat slid down your temple, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand. Another sigh escaped you, and before you could stop yourself, you added:

But feel free to send me your status update anyway.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath before finally hitting transmit.

The message left your outbox with a soft ping, and you closed your datapad shut, sighing long and heavy, already hating yourself for cracking first.

The reply didn’t take long. Your datapad buzzed with a new message.

Subject: re: still alive Message: ha! knew it. you said no need to report but then said i could anyway. don’t worry salt, i’ll keep u updated. better than yelling into the void. heading for the forward data core now. i’m pinging advisor and the boys too so everyone’s in the loop but comms still choppy as hell, lots of static. it’s kinda cool that my message found you! sev says the ship is haunted. fixer says i’m an idiot. boss says both of us are idiots. 

anyway. i’ll grab the logs, link back up, and send you something funny so you don’t look so grumpy at your desk.

p.s. miss me yet?

You stared at the screen, lips pressed tight, before giving him a quick ‘good luck’ reply. According to your services, it was sent, but not delivered.

And that was the last you heard.

No pings. No blurry selfies. No smug “kaboom” updates. Silence, for days.

Things like this happened often, the communications officers reminded you when you finally caved and asked. Signal traffic was their wheelhouse, not yours. Operations and Communications clerks in the command center, Signal Intelligence techs on the fleet side, even the Advisor staff who monitored spec ops comm channels. They were used to it. A mission went dark, signals dropped, sometimes for days. You knew the routine. You knew the systems. And you had never once worried before, because it wasn’t your business. Above your pay grade. Not your fight.

But curiosity clawed its way past your good sense. So you asked again, and this time, someone gave you the answer.

A Trandoshan dropship had been spotted squatting in one of the Prosecutor’s hangars, scavengers planning to sell the cruiser to the Separatists in exchange for battle droids. Delta Squad was ordered to destroy the dropship and eliminate the Trandoshan threat. Standard sweep-and-clear. Except somewhere along the line, Scorch had been cut off from the rest. You barely absorbed the rest of the briefing your colleague rattled off. Just fragments. Within moments of the Trandoshan ship’s destruction, a Droid Control Ship arrived to claim the Prosecutor. Advisor sent a distress signal. The Republic starship Arrestor is en route to assist.

The gnawing anxiety slowly consumed you, biting at the edges of your thoughts, disturbing your sleep. You told yourself it wasn’t about him, you disputed it every time the idea crept in. Your worry did not stem from growing care for what you used to call the most annoying clone in the galaxy. No, it was just the silence. The absence of noise in your inbox. That was all.

Days went by, and still no news. If there were updates, they were highly confidential. You knew your place in the Republic war machine - you weren’t Intelligence, you weren’t Operations Command, you weren’t even Fleet Comms. Who were you, really, in the grand scheme of a galactic war? Just a paper pusher.

A Safety and Compliance Officer. You took the reports others dashed off in frustration or exhaustion and rewrote them into neat, audit-ready documents that the Oversight Committee could parse without triggering a headache. You chased signatures, logged structural assessments, confirmed casualty numbers. And because the officer who handled Risk Assessment had quit to become some kind of holonet influencer, you covered that too. Which meant you also drafted impact statements, ran cost estimates for collateral damage, and flagged repeat safety violations for internal review. You were there to make sure the Republic’s own war didn’t bankrupt itself in insurance claims and repair bills.

It was unglamorous work. Necessary, but invisible.Your name never left the paperwork, and nobody thanked you for doing it right. The only time you got noticed was when you failed to catch something and the Senate committees were very good at noticing failures.

So no, you weren’t supposed to care whether an RC operator you’d threatened with disciplinary review every other day was alive or dead on some derelict assault ship in the Chaykin Cluster. It wasn’t your business. It wasn’t your responsibility. It wasn’t your place.

And yet, there he was, living rent-free in your head.

Days turned into weeks, and you shoved that gnawing curiosity deep down where it couldn’t eat you alive. Back to work, back to being the corporate slave you were. Wolfpack casualties to process, 212th spec-ops damage reports, Torrent Company once again doing something so reckless that left a crater in some backwater planet and a furious senator filing a complaint. You grumbled your way through it, quietly grateful you were only assigned to a handful of elite companies and special operations units. You couldn’t imagine handling an entire legion or battalion’s worth of damage reports. No wonder GAR had opened another vacancy for Safety and Compliance last week.

Usually, you barely left your wing in that massive Republic Military Base. Your cubicle, your files, your inbox. But lately, you’d caught yourself wandering farther than you needed to. Drifting towards the main buildings, the hangars, even the crowded main mess hall. Telling yourself it was just to avoid another sad canteen lunch, when really it was just… searching. Hoping to catch a glimpse of—

Knock. Knock.

Your head snapped up. “Come in,” you called.

“BET YOU THOUGHT YOU’D SEEN THE LAST OF ME!” That obnoxiously cheery voice filled your office, bouncing off the walls.

There he was. Helmet under one arm, armour still scuffed and battered, hair a mess and overgrown, grin wide as ever. RC-1262. Scorch.

You blinked at him, heart beating faster than you cared to admit, but you would never, never in a million years say that you—

“Why are you still alive?” you snapped, regaining composure, clinging to the only defense you had - sarcasm. You had to hold back the conflicting urge to punch him and hug him at the same time.

“Oh, you think you can get rid of me that easily?” the commando flashed his teeth. “The answer is no. Also, cool thing, after we finished that ghost ship mission, we answered a distress call!”

“Oh god,” you groaned, burying your face in your hand at the dangerous level of excitement in his voice. That tone only meant that he was about to yap for days. Stars, you’d missed it.

“Uh huh! A Red Zero distress signal, no less. Sent out by none other than Omega Squad!” He plunked his helmet on your desk, squeezing himself - armour and all - into the chair across from you until it squealed. “Of course, hah, they’d be helpless without us - the superior squad. So we grabbed a Neimoidian shuttle we’d found aboard the Prosecutor, flew it right into the mess, and pulled them out.” He mimed piloting with one hand as he relieved every moment.

You stared at him, equal parts exhausted and relieved. “And somehow, no one’s dead.”

“Exactly!” He beamed. “Anyway, hi!”

“So… no public infrastructure damage for me to explain to the Republic Oversight Committee this time, right?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, popping the p for emphasis. “Ghost ship, remember?”

You frowned. “Then why are you here?”

Scorch shrugged. “Dunno. Thought I’d stop by. Say hi. Annoy you. Keep you company while you do all that boring paper stuff.”

“So you’re wasting my time.” With arms folded, you groaned. 

“Exactly,” he grinned, utterly unrepentant.

You huffed, trying to summon your usual exasperation, but it came out softer than you meant. “…You’re insufferable.”

“And yet.” He propped his elbows on his knees. “You didn’t tell me to leave.”

The inbox pinged with another details of the compliance report you were working on, Foxtrot Group this time. They’d been newly assigned to you just last week, fresh from their posting on some Outer Rim campaign. Their captain, Gregor, had already managed to charm the entire office when he first dropped off their compliance report, all easy smiles, great hair and polite words, as if he hadn’t just survived a brutal frontline assignment. 

When you looked up again, Scorch was still there, in the chair across from you. Still beaming like he’d never left. His hands were busy toying with the handmade clone trooper bobblehead perched on your desk.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile of your own. “Fine. If you’re going to loiter, at least make yourself useful. Hand me that flimsi stack.”

Scorch picked it up obediently. “See? You would miss me.”

You ignored him but the warmth blooming in your chest betrayed the mask. The silence that had haunted you for weeks finally shuddered apart under his presence.

“Ooh, Foxtrot!” he blurted suddenly, pointing at the header of the flimsi you’d just opened. “They’ve got cool armour, you know? But a completely different function since they’re attached to battalions. Do you even know how that works?”

A content sigh came out of you as you braced yourself for the incoming lecture, but there was no hiding the small smile tugging at your mouth.

Scorch’s voice faltered for a moment. He tilted his head, watching you with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “…You’re smiling again.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” He grinned wider. “Maybe we should go for dinner later tonight.”

“Maybe.” You shrugged. 

“It’s a date then!” He smiled brightly, hands waving animatedly as he continued with his stories about armour upgrades, and way too many inside jokes you couldn’t follow. You let him yap, stylus scratching half-heartedly at your notes, listening more than you wrote. The inbox in your computer pinged again with another incoming report, and you didn’t bother to check it.