#filamentlights

She looked at Anakin. A small, lithe frame, a good head shorter than the Jedi. Wolffe recalled her name was Mirjala, when she’d introduced herself to them walking off a ship ramp with flashy, glittery eye makeup. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Wolffe noted, with some unease, that she seemed unsure how to react. Almost frightened. He couldn’t blame her—the General was quite a bit taller and definitely broader, with an accusing stance that was anything but friendly. If it were one of his brothers, he’d smack the dumb kriffer up the back of his head for being so imposing on a being so clearly smaller and weaker. He exchanged a small glance with Rex. She breathed in.

“Do you…. do you know why this troupe exists, Knight Skywalker?” Mirjala asked politely, fiddling with her fingerless gloves—plucking at the woolen fibers. Around them, people bustled around moving boxes and setting up the large stage.

“No,” General Skywalker replied tersely. General Koon made to intervene but Skywalker plowed on. “How does this relate?”

“Humor me.”

Wolffe watched Skywalker twitch, half amused at the man’s clearly volcanic temper and half wanting to tell him to sit the kark down.

“Fine.” Skywalker bit out, giving Wolffe another reason to want to put his face to a cheese grater. Fucking bantha balls, how could they let this man have a child. “Tell us why.”

She bit her bottom lip. Still pulling at fibers, but looking unperturbed, oddly enough.

“Twenty years ago, you could find our dances anywhere on Alshaka.” Her face turned distant. Not so much looking at them as she was looking past. “My people have always loved art. Our greatest achievements were our monuments. Every child learned the steps to the Geshan in their afterschool hours. Our most popular places were our museums, our theaters, our studios.”

The small woman exhaled shakily.

“And then, ten years ago—I was only nine at the time—there was an uprising. A civil war, of sorts. It had started as a small band of extremists, who claimed that we were being kept docile and happy with our arts because it made us easier to control. A laughable sentiment, really, as our arts were our greatest export in the sector and it made us loved. But slowly, the small band grew larger. Louder. But it all changed when a private military group, an off-world PMC, decided to throw their lot in with the extremists. And suddenly it wasn’t so much a small band of malcontents as it was a makeshift army.”

Mirjala closed her eyes. Glitzy blue paint covered her eyelids, lined with rhinestones.

“I’m sure you can infer what happened next. They destroyed everything. Eight thousand years of history. Burned.” Mirjala murmured. Her voice, however soft, commanded their attention entirely. “We begged the Republic for aid and, to their credit, they did give it to us. They got rid of the extremists, stopped the riots and the lootings and the burnings, on only one condition.”

She opened her eyes. Staring straight at Wolffe, he suddenly felt naked. Perceived.

“May I see your vambrace, Commander?” She inquired politely.

He looked around. Skywalker’s face was unreadable, but General Koon gave a weary nod. He unclipped his right vambrace that didn’t have his comms, and handed it to her. She took it gently.

Handling the piece of armor with care, she turned it over in her bird-like hands. Wolffe almost wanted to snort. That thing had been through shitty mud-filled sinkholes and Seppie-made acid rain; it could survive more than a little rough handling.

“How long have you had this for, sir?”

He wanted to laugh. She definitely shouldn’t be calling him sir.

“A year and ah half ma’am. Lost my first in a downed ship.” He said crisply. She nodded.

“It’s served you well.” Wolffe thought she was looking at his banged up vambrace with a little too much reverence. Everything on him was standard issue stuff. Still, she handled it carefully.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She ran her thumb over the strip of gray paint, and traced the edges where the polish chipped. “You’ve taken great care for it. The plastoid is holding up remarkably for its age. ”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She handed the vambrace back to him with a soft smile. Downturned eyes.

“They gave us humanitarian aid and representation in the Senate as a system on the condition that we allow the Republic to mine our lands for peraleum. Plastoid is produced from peraleum.”

“My people were left scarred from the uprising. The streets were quiet. There was nothing to celebrate when we were burying by the masses. Our grief was too great. There was too much damage. The surface of Alshaka is tough, and it takes great time to create proper burial sites. Many families, mine included, had to burn their dead because it would take too long to properly bury them, and the bodies would rot. My brother now sleeps with the wind, instead of in the earth with our ancestors.” Wolffe watched her eyes follow his vambrace as he gently clicked it back in place, feeling a bit like he should apologize for even wearing the armor.

“I’m sorry,” Skywalker offered. It was mournful, something also on the tip of Wolffe’s own tongue, but it sounded too pathetic for what she was saying. “Your people have suffered greatly. But that has nothing to do with the Chancellor.”

You also haven’t told us about why this troupe exists, Wolffe mentally added.

He stayed silent.

“My people have recovered much faster than was thought possible thanks to the economical boon that is the peraleum mining industry. But it’s left our land barren and poisoned our air from the fumes that come from processing plants. In turn, we have fueled the Grand Army of the Republic by supplying its soldiers with armor.” Mirjala nodded towards where Wolffe and Rex stood. “But sometimes I wonder whether this would have happened had that period of instability not granted the Republic foothold in our land. The same PMC that nearly destroyed us would later dissolve and find work as trainers on Kamino. To train soldiers. Sanctioned by Chancellor Palpatine’s administration.”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence she left, Wolffe thought. One look at Rex’s stiff shoulders told him he was as tense as Wolffe.

“We dance on the stages of Coruscant, stomach the degradation of our art for your ignoble elites who view us as exotic puppets, for charity. For the children back home.”

She inhaled sharply. She bowed.

“Thank you for inviting us here to perform for your brave soldiers, we are honored. We will dance here. However tell your Chancellor we will not perform for his private gala, as we are a charity organization of prestigious dancers, not circus monkeys at his beck and call.” And with that, she disappeared into the throng of people.

Wolffe stood by the edge of the stage, tapping his foot impatiently. Dancers in colorful, cascading costumes passed by. There was going to be a dance performance meant to boost morale for the men. They were an elite core-world troupe that people in the upper echelons of Coruscant would apparently sell their left kidneys to get tickets to see. Elite, artistic, and so far up above his pay grade. Ha.

He noted that they seemed to move in flocks, tittering with bird-like hands and gliding across the floors like clouds. In contrast, his and the 501st men looked worn. Dirty. Clusters of men slumped over, finding busywork for their hands cleaning blasters and such. And each time the two groups met, it was like watching water roll off stones. Dancers flowing gracefully past clumps of walled-off, weary men.

“Commander,” a soft voice greeted him. He looked up to see Mirjala. She had on a long royal blue skirt lined with fur and a fitted yellow top the color of wheat. Without the fingerless gloves on, he could truly see how delicate her fine-boned hands were, connected to slim but well-defined arms. Her hair fell in two braids woven with silky blue ribbons. She smiled kindly. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me. I am sure you are quite busy.”

Truth be told, he could be using this time to catch up on reports. Still, he afforded her a small shrug. There was something in the fact that this curious woman, dressed like a folklore, had called him over that pushed away his irritation. “What do you need?”

She smiled prettily, this time with teeth, giving Wolffe a somewhat foreboding feeling.

“No.”

Mirjala rolled her eyes.

“Oh please, you haven’t heard me out yet.”

“I am not dancing on a stage.” True to his title, his tone was commanding; expectant that she listen without question.

“It wouldn’t be onstage,” she protested. By now she was sitting cross-legged on the stage, her skirt pooling around her, though that still gave her some height above the broad soldier, so she crouched down to meet him eye-level, propping her head on her hands. “We’ll come down to the floor and invite all the audience members to join us. I just want you to be the first.”

“Why?”

Mirjala fought against her second eye-roll of the day, but the commander’s deadpan expression told her he caught it. Her mouth twitched.

“Because,” she began patiently, mentally pretending this was just a petulant child she was speaking to. It is just a bothersome student, she told herself. “Your men are understandably tired and a little wary of us.” She waved a hand at the clusters of people, separated like oil and water. “I want you to be the first one to join us because then others would be more likely to follow your example. They’ll be comfortable once they see their commander and fellow soldier join our dance. The idea is everyone can dance together and have fun.”

“But why?” For a fully grown man fighting a galactic scale war, Wolffe was surely competing with her youngling students for the most Mirjala eye-rolls in one conversation. Skies, she could hear a whine in his voice.

“It’s to make the performance engaging. Meaningful,” she emphasized. She huffed, immediately seeing the disinterest in him. He did have an excellent poker face, but she could sense the disdain from his pointed silence. “Commander, it’s nice and all to watch people perform in front of you. However I’m sure I’m not the only one to notice how removed the dancers are from your soldiers. We can dance however much we want and as well as we can, but there is a fundamental difference between us.” He scoffed.

“Because we’re clones?”

“Because we have fundamentally different experiences of life,” Mirjala corrected. “What resonates for us won’t resonate here. Our dances are all nice and pretty to you, I’m sure. But it’s totally different if we can immerse the troopers in a dance; connect and celebrate on the same level.” Mirjala was well aware of what their position was. This was a Senate ordered performance; a paltry offering to “boost morale” for the soldiers dying for their political squabbles. None of the troopers here care about glitzy, shimmering dances. Not with any real depth at least. To them, they were just another band of merry little Core worlders ordered by the Senate to twirl in pretty dresses as a bandaid solution to their struggles.

She could see the gears turning in the commander’s head. Daring to push it, Mirjala clasped her hands together and looked at him with wide, doe eyes.

“Please, commander,” she implored softly. “I think it could really cheer them up.”

He held her gaze stonily for a long moment.

“Fine,” he groused. “It’s a good idea, but I can’t go up there.”

“Why not?” Mirjala pressed. She was so close to getting him to agree!

“Can’t dance.” He grumbled with a glare, looking like the world was at fault for giving him these inabilities.

“Oh! I’ll show you.” She quickly stood up, brushing off her skirt. At his reluctant look, she waved him up frantically. “Come on, it’s easy. The steps are easy.” Hesitantly, Wolffe jumped onto the stage in such a clean jump that she envied his ease of movement. He was clearly well-trained and athletic. He stood beside her at the center of the stage awkwardly.

“You can set your helmet down,” Mirjala offered.

“Right.”

He set the thing to the edge of the stage, more gentle than he normally would. After hearing her talk about his vambrace, it felt wrong to just throw it.

“Okay,” she cheered. “Just start with your hands at your sides, loose and relaxed. Now first just swing your arm from the back, going up into a circle, and coming down on the opposite side in front of your torso.”

Wolffe swung his arm.

“Okay, good, again!” Mirjala gave him a thumbs up. “Just less I’m gonna hit you and more gentle.” She demonstrated the movement again, making her arm arc over her head before laying it softly in front of her. “Now try it with your other arm.” She wanted to giggle, seeing his face scrunch in concentration.

“Yup, just one arm up and down. Other arm, up, over, and down. Softly, softly. Yup, that’s good! Big circles!” She cheered, doing a happy little jump while he waved his arms around like a fool, making Wolffe feel like a particularly accomplished ceiling fan. He glared at Sinker and Boost, who were snickering from beneath the stage.

“Don’t pay attention to them,” Mirjala murmured, moving her body to block the pair from sight. “Performance is all about confidence. Okay, now let’s add the legs. Just lift one leg in a small hop—opposite leg, opposite arm—and move in time with your arm circles. Yes, yes! Soft hands!”

Wolffe relaxed his hands.

“Ok, but hands strong!”

“You just said soft hands.”

“Yes, soft hands but strongly.”

“Pretty sure that’s an oxymoron.” She ignored his muttering.

“Loose and relaxed, instead of looking like you’re about to form fists.” Mirjala reprimanded playfully. “But still you need to put energy in them so your hands are straight and long. It’s should lengthen your lines.”

“Like this?” Wolffe tried, uhh, energizing his hands. The blasted woman just giggled. He did not pout.

“Relax, relax,” Mirjala wheezed between giggles. She took a hand into hers and shook it. “You’re overthinking it and it’s making your hands clam up.” Mirjala stroked his hands, holding his large palm and brushing his fingers out from their curled positions.

“You’re very concentrated on getting it right,” she continued, patting his gloved hand. “But you need to relax and enjoy the dance. Don’t think about anything, just enjoy how your body feels. Relish in the movements. Let it connect through you. Be free.”

Mirjala looked up to realize a blush was steadily creeping up the commander’s neck. She released his hand with a gentle smile.

“That doesn’t make sense.” Stars, he was acting like a cadet.

“Not any logical sense, no,” she agreed. “But dance is about emotion, not logic. Let’s try again. Just circle your arms and try to connect it through your body.”

“I look like an idiot.” He didn’t want to admit to grumbling, but Wolffe knew he sounded more petulant than he’d like. His ears burned, knowing this woman was watching him fumble around.

“All dancers start this way. Unsure, because all we do with our bodies these days is work, work, work. Even I did.” Mirjala glanced at him. His eyes were downcast, clearly not believing her. “But you have a better start than most.” She grinned when she saw him look up, eyes snapping to hers questioningly.

“It’s true.” Mirjala continued, smiling reassuringly. “Since you’re so athletic, your movements are sharp. Clean. Many dancers have to work hard and build up the muscles to have such clear movements. But you already move fluidly, aware of your own body and of each muscle, thanks to your training.” Mirjala watched him slowly brighten up—well, brighten up as much as he could.

“Alright,” he sighed.

“Okay, let’s just do this arm movement together.” She began whistling a simple tune. One arm up and over, and then the other. She continued until Wolffe started to keep up, his movements getting less tentative with each try. Plucking up his courage, Wolffe then added in the little hop. One arm up and over with a hop, and then the other, repeat. Mirjala smiled at him blindingly, and he was surprised to find himself grinning back. Faster and faster, they danced. In time with her simple, cheery tune, they hopped around onstage wildly. Wolffe felt himself get more comfortable, throwing his arms in the air quicker and quicker.

He then- shit. Wolffe stumbled and his hand hit hers, squarely nestling his palm into hers.

He made to pull away and apologize but she just grabbed his other hand and began spinning them around hand in hand. Her whistling grew louder, and grew faster and jauntier. He found himself humming along. Wolffe followed her lead and bounced with each step. They spun around the stage, making her thick blue skirt flare out in dazzling circles around her. Wolffe took a step towards her, taking the lead, and twirled her, one arm holding her hand above her head. Someone below the stage wolf-whistled, but he ignored them.

“The next part of the dance, we hold hands in a large circle,” she explained to him, breathless. Following her lead, he released one hand so they stood next to each other with only one pair of hands linked. He copied her movements of bouncing each step on the balls of his feet, traveling to the left of the stage, and then to the right. But once he got bored of it, he began twirling her again with one hand. Mirjala stopped whistling to laugh. He watched her throw her head back, a flush in the apples of her cheeks from smiling so hard.

Eventually, when they were both tired and breathless, they slowed to a dizzy halt and flopped down in the middle of the stage, lying side by side.

“You really love dancing.” Wolffe watched her relax in the sun, seemingly soaking it all in. A light sheen of sweat coated her forehead and flushed cheeks, and he had no doubt he looked the same.

“Yes,” she breathed. She closed her eyes and exhaled, smiling. “The feeling of it, the freedom. The stage beneath my feet and the air under my arms. When I dance, I’m free.”

She turned to him, settling heavy eyes on him. “Thank you, Wolffe.”

“For what?”

Mirjala smiled, and Wolffe thought it made her shine brighter.

“I haven’t danced like that in a long time,” she admitted, sounding a bit shameful. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my troupe, but we’re all…you know, dancers already. We’re all…” she trailed off, searching for the word.

“Too good?” Wolffe offered, somewhat sarcastically but also recognizing her meaning. She huffed, and he took it as an affirmative.

“We do the same things with only a few variations, and we dance like circus monkeys for the Coruscanti rich and elite. They don’t get it. Art is emotion, and it is for the people. Everyone. And we put everything in it: our grief, our pain, our blood. But they buy up all the tickets, hoard our shows, and give them away to their rich friends as bartering tools for their next political campaign, and watch us all like a menagerie of exotic birds. Donating to our charity cause like giving sour jogan fruit to beggars. They don’t get it. That’s not how it should be.” She looked at him, and he felt like his soul was on display.

“Fuck the Senate,” he managed to squeeze out. She broke out laughing, shutting her eyes and breaking their eye contact to guffaw, and Wolffe felt like he got his soul back. Or maybe she still had it, because his head was spinning and he felt all too light.

“Yeah, fuck those guys.” Mirjala grabbed his hand and lifted it, beaming, and looking like a woman from folklore.

“This is what it should be.”

A/N: The dance Mirjala and Wolffe do is inspired by Tibetan Guozhuang folk dances! It’s meant to be a big dance with many participants, usually community members, in a circle while singing. From what I understand, it seems like a big communal bonding experience where people of all ages join and dance together, from grannies to little kids, and I’ve even seen videos where even foreigners were brought in and everyone vibes together, and I just think it’s beautiful. And Mirjala’s costume is heavily inspired by traditional Tibetan wear. Also sorry to Anakin stans, but he's a bit of an ass in this one.  Also, you've probably caught on, but the beginning is a thinly veiled commentary on how environmental protection is gutted for the profit of corporations, and how that usually impacts low-income marginalized communities the most. I'm about as slick with “peraleum” as George Lucas is with naming the greedy corrupt senator Halle Burtoni (Halliburton is a fracking company)

“It’s difficult to say, since I’ve yet to have a relationship. But I do enjoy spending time with my loved ones. Only when you spend time with another person, do you get to know them.”

“You don’t have a soulmate?”

Lavinia stiffened.

It was generally rude to ask around someone’s soulmate. The phenomenon where certain beings could feel the pain of another being in the galaxy had been a well-documented mystery for millennia. Pain would inexplicably correlate between two beings; if one was injured, another being, regardless of distance, would feel bits of that pain with varying degrees of severity. Phantom pain. Most people had one, but some didn’t. It was hard to say whether they simply hadn’t noticed pain that wasn’t their own, or if their soulmate was too young or already dead, or if they simply didn’t have anyone.

Recent years saw a company come out claiming the bond was of “fated pairs.” A frenzy over the idea of two beings perfectly compatible; be it romantically or otherwise, the company claimed it was some sort of soul bond.

“No, I don’t buy into the whole “fated pairs” business,” Lavinia laughed, trying to keep her voice from sharpening. The interviewer feigned an apologetic simper, covering her mouth with a purple hand.

She bought one the minute she was legally allowed to own a Soul Book, on her fifteenth lifeday. She still remembered the store, staring at the tacky pink and red posters advertising Love at First Word and One Book, Two Hearts Connected as she waited in line for three hours. She dumped five months worth of chores and allowance money, and the sales clerk placed a decorated box of gaudy tissue and ribbons in her hands. Inside, her very own Soul Book.

“No?” The interviewer pressed on. “You didn’t spend your hiatus looking? What if your perfect other half is out there?”

Lavinia had spent her entire sophomore summer writing in her journal as a fifteen year old, staring at each page intently for any hint of ink or graphite. She’d write a page and leave the next blank for the reply.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” She flashed a winning smile to keep from gritting her teeth. Her first interview back, and she was already fed to the wolves. “But no, I took a hiatus to recover from a debilitating illness. Besides, I don’t believe in perfect other halves. It’s all marketing, that’s all.”

Her other was always in pain. It had been alright when she was younger. Bearable. A few aches and bruises with the worst being a broken bone or two. Her muscles also woke up sore more often than not, even when Lavinia had done nothing the previous day. Her twelve year old self had pieced together a rough idea from these phantom pains: someone scrappy and adventurous, who loved sports.

“But no relationship at all?” The interviewer frowned in a that can’t be right manner. Her fingers dug into her palm. “But you’re so pretty!”

“Hah, thank you.”

“What diet are you on?”

Her smile tightened.

“None.”

The Twi’lek sighed, but she caught the dissatisfaction in the woman’s eyes. She couldn’t really blame them, she was hardly giving them any gossip fodder for their ratings. Their production was C-list at best, they had no right to treat her this way. Still, Lavinia reigned in her temper. Her management said she was on thin ice as is.

“Well if you have a soulmate out there,” the interviewer said, gesturing towards the camera with a beatific grin, “what would you say? Want to give the Holonet a message?”

As Lavinia had grown older, and the pain had gotten worse, she grew less sure of that idea of her other. Pain would wake her in the middle of the night, something scorching through her stomach bringing her to curl over pathetically in her fresher and heave her empty stomach. Throbbing phantom bruises painting her chest. A broken hand. Blisters on her perfect, unblemished feet. But she’d managed it, managed to push forward with her career and star in some of the biggest pictures among A-list stars.

And then came the excruciating pain.

She smiled demurely, looking into the camera lens. Thoughts of the annoying interviewer faded in lieu of her…person. She never did know what to call them.

She’d spent seven months bedridden from pain. As she laid there in her glittering, penthouse apartment laboring to breathe through it all, only one thought fluttered through her barely conscious mind.

“Maybe, don’t get too hurt out there?”

The pages stayed blank, but the pain never left.

“Shut that thing off.”

Wrecker curled around the holoprojector protectively, like Crosshair was about to lunge at the thing to destroy it. Although, Echo thought as he eyed the irritated sharpshooter casting sharp glances at the image of some woman speaking, maybe Wrecker had the right intuition.

“Shut up Crosshair! You just don’t wanna admit it!”

“Admit what.”

“Admit that she’s the most beautiful, gorgeous, kind hearted, talented, pretty, uhm- and… and amazing-”

“You’re pathetic. It’s just a woman. She looks like she’s about to keel over. What’s there to like? Skin and bone?”

Wrecker let out a roar and then something crashed.

“That’s Lavinia Lue. Just the most brilliant actress ever,” Wrecker yelled. “And she’s recovering from a sickness! And you don’t know anything about her. She is amazing and kind-”

“Ugh.”

Echo grabbed his kit from where he’d left it by the back panels and made for the bunks as quietly as he could. Vaguely, as much as he disliked agreeing with Crosshair when he was being tetchy and insulting, he noted that she did look sunken. Grieved. It wasn’t in her face—her makeup was flawless, as you’d expect from a celebrity—but rather a collarbone that jutted out too much and the slight tremble to her slim hands. She smiled tightly at something the interviewer asked, rubbing slightly at her upper arm. His prosthetic throbbed.

Echo shook himself.

He walked into the bunks, sliding the door shut on Wrecker and Crosshair’s bickering. But even the hiss of the door didn’t keep him from hearing her answer.

“-be, don’t get too hurt out there?”

“You alright?”

Echo turned to Hunter who leaned against the wall near his bunk on the Marauder. “Oh yeah, just not used to the noise.”

“You get used to it eventually, but there’s no stopping ‘em once they get started. Cross is picky about his environment and gets annoyed at loud sounds, and Wrecker is…” Hunter paused, waving his hand in the air sheepishly while he searched for the right words.

“A lot?” Echo offered. Hunter grimaced.

“Yeah. They end up winding each other up. I’m used to it, but I hope it’s not too much for you.” Hunter patted Echo’s shoulder as he passed by his bunk. Echo shrugged.

“It’s fine.” Echo thought back to the roughhousing they’d do on the Resolute. Boys in blue scrapping over dumb betting pools and arbitrary arm-wrestling games. His heart panged. “Things were rowdy back in the 501st so it’s nothing new. I just need some time to adjust.” After everything, went unsaid. The two shared a commiserating look.

“Well, you did a great job on your first mission with us. I think you’ll fit right in.”

“Thanks, sarge.”

“Hunter.” He corrected, then smirked somewhat self-deprecatingly. “No one ‘round here has the respect to call me that, so might as well not start now.” Echo huffed knowingly.

“Hunter, then.”

“So, you gonna write in that?”

Echo glanced down at what Hunter was nodding at, faintly surprised to remember what he was clutching. A blue banthaskin notebook, its flimsi pages were warped and discolored with time and sun exposure. He’d bought it on a whim from a secondhand thrift shop. He didn’t know why. The Kaminoans didn’t bother with any of the “soul bond” stuff, claiming it was a load of unscientific skrag, despite the fact the books did usually connect people with the person sharing their pain. And even if it weren't, the clones weren’t sentient; they couldn’t have soulmates because they didn’t have souls. Lama Su himself had made a facility-wide announcement, the day the clones got wind of the Soul Books business, that clones were just organic material given energy. Nothing more, nothing less. Any phantom pains mentioned were dismissed. Echo’s stomach clenched, feeling a familiar pang within. It was clearly old, but the condition was still good. The sturdy leather was only slightly beaten, but could be brought back with some proper care.

“You think we really have soulmates? Our perfect other half? That it isn’t just a bunch of marketing nonsense a company did to sell books?”

Hunter’s eyes drifted off, seeming klicks away. The moment stretched on, verging on uncomfortable, but Echo could understand. He’d only just joined the Batch, but he’d noticed the sergeant’s tendency to just… pause. Long, pensive silences. Echo could only imagine how loud the galaxy was for him. Eventually, Hunter seemed to come back to the present, absentmindedly rubbing his chest where his heart sat.

“Feels real enough to be something.”

Echo nodded.

“Do you…” Echo trailed off. Hunter nodded, closing his eyes.

“I did, but I can’t really feel her anymore. Don’t know if she’s just gotten more careful or…” He rose from his seat, patting Echo’s shoulder again, but a touch gentler now in the wake of what they’ve both revealed. “Anyways, you should write them.”

The door hissed shut, and Echo was alone.

His stomach shifted uncomfortably in the wake of what Hunter revealed. He’d pegged them as hunger pangs right as they started, maybe a year back, and quickly realized they weren’t his own. They were sometimes bothersome, sometimes so intense it messed with his training. It had annoyed him the idea that there might be someone out there, a civilian who’d never labored or so much as grow callouses on their palms, with all the resources and opportunities at their fingertips choosing to starve themselves. But those thoughts went as quickly as they came. Who was he to judge.

Echo stared down at the small book in his hands.

He uncapped the latch, and a little needle extended out.

“Just prick the tip of your finger,” the shopkeeper had said when he walked up to the counter, book in hand. “One small drop should do it.” The aged Theelin then tossed in a dated ink pen into the bag, which Echo hadn’t even thought about.

“On the house,” he said with a wink.

Echo removed the glove from his hand and gently pushed his fore finger onto the needle until red bloomed. The latch glowed and then fell apart, allowing him to open the book.

For a minute, he simply sat there.

He flipped to the first page.

Hello. I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I can feel everything and it hurts. A lot. I wish you’d stop hurting. Maybe then I could actually focus on my exams.

I’m sorry. I realize that was awfully callous of me—I’m told my mouth is a permanent shoe box apartment for how often I put my foot in it. How rude of me not to introduce myself. I am Lavinia, but my family calls me Elu. Do with that information what you will (read: hopefully use it when you reply to me). I hope you are well and you get your ankle treated; it’s been twinging, it is clearly sprained. Do be mindful.

Hello. You’ve yet to reply, and that’s fine—maybe you haven’t bought a book yet—but I thought I’d pop back in and say hi. I got in a fight today at summer school. One of the boys stole my notebook and he insisted on seeing it. I got in trouble though for fighting him. It wasn’t my fault he didn’t like the black eye I gave him. It was my doodling notebook, but it made me consider bringing you to school so I can talk to you all the time. But then again, maybe not. If Brackly keeps making it a habit to steal my items, it might not be good to bring you along. We’ll see.

Mother’s putting me in acting and modeling classes. Says she’ll make a star out of me, one way or another. The girls there are rude, but it’s fine. I’m meaner anyways. I’ll be busier.

And then, at the bottom of the page, one small, frustrated scribble.

Hello, when will you answer? Actually, no, I might just get disappointed. It’s fine, I’m probably too mean anyways. Mother says that’s why I have no friends.

He could see from the neat little dates above each entry where she’d given up. A few years before she returned with longer, more journalistic entries. They became less expectant of him, but always leaving a page blank for his reply.

And then he got to the end.

Where she was writing right now.

He watched neat script curve and loop over the page, filling it in with orderly lines. Her handwriting was neat, clearly practiced in some calligraphy or penmanship class, with old timey serifs.

Hello. Today was my first interview back from my hiatus. The interviewer was like a goddamn akk dog smelling blood from me, looking for wounds to exploit for her shitty C-list production ratings. Mutt. If I were to extend this ridiculous metaphor, then the blood you're smelling isn’t mine you pathetic bootlicker. But, I shut her down pretty quick. Sorry, I’ve been complaining an awful lot. How are you? Today was one of the better days, no? It’s weird talking about the phantom pain of phantom pain. My arm throbbed a bit in the interview where your prosthetic is atta-

How did you know I have prosthetics? Echo couldn’t help himself from asking. Her writing paused. His heart jumped to his throat.

I didn’t feel it when they removed the limbs—you were probably under anesthetics—but I felt it when you woke up.

You felt it?

A beat.

Yes.

Oh God, Echo couldn’t breathe.

I am so sorry.

It’s fine. A pause. Well it isn't, I had to take six months off my job, but that’s money I can always make back. Besides, I don’t imagine you asked to be amputated.

No, I didn’t. Still, I’m sorry. You must have felt so much pain.

Yes, but I’m strong.

Of course.

It took a bit to recover, but I’m bouncing back.

I can believe that. First interview, huh?

You figured it out already.

It wasn’t hard. My brother’s a fan. You’ve got quite the groupie in him.

Her writing paused for a moment, and he liked to imagine she was laughing.

Well. Now that you know who I am, you should tell me who you are.

He hesitated.

My name is Echo. And then. I am a clone trooper.

A beat passed.

Hello, Echo. I am Lavinia. It’s good to finally meet you.

A/N: Every time I write crosshair I’m instinctively compelled to put his dialogue in italics because how else am I supposed to capture his unadulterated disgust? Also I tried to think of the most annoying little boy name for someone who’d steal someone’s journal and I ended up mushing together Brock and Bradley. Ok but real talk this one shot is a mess but the only successful thing it does is let me nerd out about the functions and implications of soulmate bonds and stuff like that. I’ve kinda lost the plot with the themes bc it was supposed to be like “they spend quality time writing to each other” and I would try and clean this up a lot and make it fit a bit better, but this is fan fiction and im lazy and also I need to write my day 3 entry sooo

He opened his mouth to reply, not sure whether to be baffled, indignant, or both, but the blaring sirens cut him off. The tinny voices of droids buzzed.

“Go, we’ve got to go,” she barked. Left with few other options, Rex revved up the landspeeder and swiftly peeled away from the sidewalk.

“Left here,” she ordered.

He obeyed. Swerving past a flock of chittering birds, he caught a glimpse of flashing red and blue. Blaster bolts rang out. Behind them, police droids on speeders gave chase.

“Turn right!” She yelled, hair flying as she ducked. Reeling her arm back, she launched a gleaming heel which slammed square into a droid’s dome, knocking it off its speeder onto the street.

“Where are we- kriff!” He swerved to avoid a crowd of pedestrians. More blaster shots zipped around his head. The woman hurled her other shoe with deadly accuracy.

“Where are your blasters for shit’s sake?”

“On my belt.” He yelled back, thrusters squealing as he tried avoiding flattening someone’s grandmother. “Who are you?”

“Waves crash- ugh, into a cliff,” she screeched. She grabbed one of his pistols from his belt holster and began shooting.

“You’re the informant?” He yelled incredulously. She fired, making some nearby civilians shriek and run towards the buildings to hide. He blared the speeder horn and wove around the others on the road. “Kriff, don’t just shoot wildly. The pedestrians-”

Three shots rang out, nailing two police droids straight in the head. Their metal bodies and speeders screeched into the road as they crashed.

“Tell your general to get a new code phrase that isn’t cringy as shit,” she spat back, still firing shots from behind the cover of the seat headrest. One more droid crackled and hit the cobbled road. Rex cussed as they neared the end of a road. “Left!”

Metal screeched against a building wall. They hurtled down a small road between tall white buildings. Rex tried not to think about the unfortunate porg who couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. They crashed through clotheslines and dumpsters until the road opened up.

“You drove us to a karking cul-de-sac?”

“Just keep driving.”

“It’s on a cliff!”

“JUST. GO.” She snarled and grabbed the steering wheel. Shoving the blaster in his hands, she took over.

“Cover me,” she barked. Gritting his teeth, Rex obeyed. Firing shots that went purposely wide to avoid hitting any of the cowering bystanders, he felt his body lurch. Tearing through someone’s unlucky flowerbeds, she drove them straight towards the open air between two small houses. Metal shrieked and suddenly, he felt the weightlessness of being airborne before gravity reasserted itself with a scream. Huh, oh he was screaming. He was also falling, which seemed like an unfortunate commonality in his life as of late.

They landed with a harsh thud that reverberated into his teeth. He slammed his palms against the dash as they hit the ground and bounced harshly. His body jerked up before slamming down, tailbone against hard plastoid. His spine trembled. Rex looked down. They’d landed on what upon a bit of squinting turned out to be apartment complexes knitted so tightly together that the speeder had no issues running along them. Sirens blared above, bringing Rex back to his senses. He grabbed the steering wheel. The woman beside him collapsed into her seat.

“That was close,” she remarked, awfully upbeat.

“It’s not over yet.” His reply was a touch sour. He couldn’t deny the small well of annoyance when she just smiled sunnily. “They can still catch us.”

“Yeah, but they won’t follow us over. They can't legally go onto the rich people property that we just tore through, so they’ll have to go around. Droids.” She mused. “No independent thought.”

Well, that he could agree with.

Liya pretended to shift her dress as she glanced over. There’s generally not much information on clone troopers outside the usual propaganda, much less anything that would indicate any sort of personality in the people that corporate oligarchs in the Senate are using as meat shields. The closest she’s heard was rumors amid the slums of Dio Ambra following a flood of refugees coming from Christophsis—and even then, there wasn't much. Whispers of helmeted troopers moving so synchronously they seemed like shifting white sand dunes from afar. Regardless, it figured she’d get stuck with who was probably the most poster-boy perfect soldier those elitist Kaminoans could come up with.

Shit, even his breathing looked metronomically timed.

Go figure.

Studying his side profile with an intensity that led her to think he was purposefully avoiding her gaze, Liya wondered what made this man tick. A clone soldier. There were conflicting stories on Dio Ambra from where and how they came about, but everyone agreed it was…odd. A perfect army that appeared the moment war broke out. This man, who was conveniently trapped in a vehicle with her nosy ass, was ostensibly the first outside news source she’s had since taking this mission on this insular “no war in Ba Sing Se” hellhole planet. Liya embraced this revelation, since it meant she could bug him.

“So,” she began coyly.

“So?” His tone was unamused. She smiled to herself.

“So,” her lips curled around the syllable and dragged it out playfully. “Scared of heights?”

He choked, but tried to disguise it as a cough.

“What gave you the impression?” His attempt at stoicism was cute, but he’d already given himself away much earlier.

“The screaming. Hope you aren’t too hoarse from that. I’d hate to tell Skywalker that I broke his favorite soldier.” She mused.

“General Skywalker doesn’t have… favorites.”

“Oh? Then why’d he send you on this trip, Sergeant?” Liya tossed her long hair back with a flippant smile.

“Captain.” He corrected. She watched him reel in his irritation with a smirk. “It’s Captain Rex.”

“Your name?”

He nodded.

“You chose that yourself?” She tried not to sound too derisive, she really did, but something in her tone made the man twitch. Maybe it was in the way she said “chose” or her intonation of “yourself.” Or maybe it was just the fact that she was nosing into his business when clearly he did not want conversation. Yes, she could indeed be self aware. Either way, she watched his hands tighten on the steering wheel. Oops, she needed to say something to lessen that. She wanted to get under his skin—play the vapid little princess—not genuinely piss him off.

“Rex,” she said, testing out the sounds. Liya continued blabbing. “It has quite a nice ring to it. Rolls off the tongue nicely. Captain Rex.”

“I’m not too familiar with natties but I’m pretty sure normally people introduce themselves after learning someone’s name.”

Well. Judging by the steely undertone to his words, she hadn’t been very successful in not offending him. She pulled on a winning smile that went largely ignored.

“You may call me Liya. I chose it myself too,” she said, tossing her hair.

“Whatever you say.”

Liya laughed, tossing her head back and arching her spine. Throwing her hands in the air, she basked in the perfect weather. The heat of the sun was offset by the salty ocean breeze. It was perfect weather for her slinky white midi that probably cost more than her. She felt his gaze trail her pale neck and down her peeking décolletage as the sun illuminated her perfect skin. Beneath sooty lashes, still giggling, she watched his ears redden.

Perfect soldier or no, he was still a man.

He cleared his throat.

“That wasn’t that funny.” His hands gripped the steering wheel as he kept his eyes fixed on the road.

She leaned forward onto the dashboard. Crossing her arms on the warm plastoid, she laid her head down and looked at Rex from under fluttering lashes. She watched his jaw tick. His hazel eyes stayed stuck on the road ahead.

Damn, she’d have to try harder.

“Awfully nice weather,” she commented when the silence drew too long. Her new friend seemed intent on ignoring her existence, but she was well versed in the art of talking a lot about nothing. Really, she’d make bank as a politician. “It’ll be the only thing I miss about this planet.”

He said nothing.

“I mean, the architecture is beautiful.” She continued. “They have some stunningly rich culture here. Nice pastries. Oh but, their tyrannical rulers are a bit of an issue. Money rules, right? And, terribly authoritarian over here. Couldn’t even get a proper Holonet connection to the outside; I had to send an email by printing it out on flimsi and mailing it.” Liya threw her hands up and looked at him aghast. Partly because she enjoyed being dramatic, and partly to watch his lips tighten disapprovingly at her purported diva behavior.

“That sounds awfully difficult.”

She snorted at his dry wit. He didn’t even try to mask his disdain. “Sarcasm? I expected better from you, captain.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Yes, but that’s what conversation is for,” she slouched, watching his jaw tighten. Pushing further, she added a snotty, “do keep up.”

She could feel his temper slipping.

She clicked her tongue loudly. His jaw ticked.

“You won’t even answer me?” Liya let out an exaggeratedly burdened sigh. “I’m hurt.”

“Just keep quiet until we get to the ship.” He snapped.

Bingo.

Liya huffed, injecting as much hurt into the puff of breath as she could. She crossed her arms and turned away to look at the passing landscape. Stretches of shitty quality apartments knitted together. They were riding right above the slums of Dio Ambra, where the unfortunate and impoverished lay out of sight and out of mind of their rich overlords. She waited a moment, and then another. And right as she thought she’d actually pushed him too far, she heard a small sigh.

“What brought you here?” His tone was about as excited as someone walking towards a noose, but she could sense he was feeling apologetic. Ha, can’t stand seeing a lady in distress, was it? What a noble soul. Content to let him suffer in his own guilt, she let silence reign for a moment.

“It was supposed to be a quick job.” She began slowly, trying to sound reluctant. Liya kept her head tilted away, propped up on one hand and facing the scenery. “Hired by some rich princess to play house for a little bit. Fill in as a bridesmaid, since she didn’t have enough friends, while doubling as protection. But then the princess grew a bit…attached. Never had any real friends before so naturally my charm and wit were enrapturing,” Liya drawled playfully, deigning to look his way again and catching his exasperated eye-roll.

“She wanted to keep me there because she said I was the only one she could trust and that I would never betray her and whatnot, someone probably should’ve socialized her when she was younger. Beyond those bratty high-society debutantes.” She picked at her delicately manicured hands. “Let her see what us poors and impoverished live like.” Liya tacked on sarcastically, “good character building experience, no?”

“Anyhow, threw a fit anytime I tried to leave. Kept hiring me for this and that. Even shut down the shuttle ports. Would’ve escaped earlier—I can’t stand people like her—but ol’ Obi called in a favor for me to stay and gather some intel on the low.” She finished dramatically, flippant but…pensive. “And that’s me.”

“Huh.”

She resisted an eye-roll. Men.

“You’re not a very good conversationalist, are you captain?”

“No, ma’am-”

“Don’t call me that,” she cut him off sharply. He blinked, but she turned away trying to reign herself in. Oops, accidentally had a mood swing like a trebuchet at a glass castle! She’d apologize but, oh well she wasn’t built like that.

“No,” he said, quieter and then he gathered the courage to offer an olive branch. Grinning cheekily, “I’m not great with conversation, but I bet I have you beat?”

Liya almost fell out of her seat with the strength of her scoff. “Bullshit. In what world-”

Rex huffed in amusement.

“In this one, since I know how to introduce myself-”

“Oh yes, ‘It’s Captain,’” she mocked his low tone. “Captain Rex.”

“Least I didn’t just jump into a stranger’s speeder.”

Liya snorted, letting loose a sharp grin.

“It clearly wasn’t like that, there were extenuating circumstances-”

“And that required screaming in my face?”

Rex almost felt like a cadet back in Basic, as her piercing eyes lasered into him like his old trainers. He kept his hands firmly on the steering wheel and refused to wipe his palms.

“The planetary police force was tipped off and had been searching for me, as we just witnessed, so I’m sure you can understand the hurry.” She sniffed, though he could tell she was fighting a smile.

“You sure didn’t look it.” The words escaped him before he thought any better.

Her head whipped towards him.

“What are you insinuating?”

“Nothing.” He reeled in the instinctive sir. “You just looked very relaxed.”

Her glare intensified. Admittedly, Rex had thought the woman quite pretty when he first saw her. Wandering down cobblestone streets barefoot in a fancy dress and looking lost as she swung her pair of heels in time with her leisurely stroll. Dark wavy hair reaching her back juxtaposing perfect porcelain skin. She looked like the floating ads on Coruscant, standing amidst villas and green grass with some shimmering slogan above her head. Something so foreign. He’d felt oddly voyeuristic, noticing reddening shoulders as she lifted a pale arm to block the sun from her eyes.

Maybe her dark eyes met his.

Maybe he glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck.

Not that he would remember, since the moment she spotted him—pretending to be just another civilian—she jumped into the speeder and began screaming at him to drive.

“Running tends to attract more attention and suspicion. Better to look like an inconspicuous wandering tourist who got lost than someone running away from something.”

“And then you jumped into a speeder and began screaming to drive.” Rex didn’t know what was driving him to speak this way. He tacked on, “inconspicuously.”

The resulting glare was withering. In his periphery, he watched her red lips pull into a wicked smile and tried not to think of his jumping heart rate. He was losing his mind probably. The heat was getting to him.

“Maybe I like the sun.”

His palms sweated.

“I like the feel of it.”

Left? Left turn here, right?

“It’s hot. I like it.”

For a moment, Rex’s mind goes off without him. Without his permission, a million scenarios run through his mind. This woman smiling at him. A white dress hugging her figure, so bright under the sunlight it hurt to look at her. And even if he did tear his eyes away, an imprint on his vision would stay. A salty ocean breeze. Perfect red lips. And he wondered, would they smear?

“Right,” he manages to remark, as casually as he could manage. His mind frantically searched for something to change the subject. “You said you chose your name?”

They were nearing the ship. He could almost regret the end of this liminal moment. Driving on this vast, endless plane under a millennium blue sky. Bantering with this woman about introductions and weather, both incongruously easy to do yet feeling constantly on his toes with her moods.

“Yes.” She replied after a moment. In his periphery, he watched her stretch in the sun and sigh shortly, like his very question irked her.

“Not going to deign this clone more of an answer?”

“No,” Liya snapped. “You don’t know me.”

“Isn’t that what conversation’s for?” Rex echoed her earlier words. A frigid silence greeted him. He felt the need to say something, to make up for it. He considered her for a moment.

“You know, I almost named myself The Thunderer when I was four. Well, eight in nat-years.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he cackled. “I tried insisting on only answering to that, even stole the datapad my trainer had to splice into the attendance records and change my name. He made me do a month of being a training dummy for the older classes and scrubbing freshers for it.”

Rex watched her giggle.

“Such a powerful name didn’t stick?” She wiped her tears, still stifling her laughs. He felt oddly proud to be the cause of that.

“Nope. None of my brothers would call me that. Flat out refused.”

Liya laughed, seeming softer under the setting sun. “They really saved you, then.” She breathed out and whispered, “I named myself after I killed the man who enslaved me.”

Oh.

Rex pulled the speeder to a stop a distance away from the ship.

He’d landed the ship in a patch of scattered overgrowth, just the right color that his ship blended in well enough against the grays and browns. Thorny vines dotted the ground precariously, crunching under his boots. Rex came around to open her door like a proper gentleman in those old timey holofilms as he thought about a proper answer for her. He was still contemplating how to tactfully answer when he looked down and realized.

“Carry me?” Liya grinned cattishly, kicking her bare feet. Right. She’d used her shoes as goddamn projectiles. Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Rex leaned forward and scooped her up, feigning a struggle to pick her up, which earned him a jab in the sternum. He lifted her easily. She tucked herself into him, looping an arm behind his neck, her breath ghosting along his neck.

The walk was both longer and shorter than he wished.

But before he set her down, Rex realized he hadn’t ever replied.

“It’s a good name.” She looked up, a dark eyebrow cocked in amusement. He smirked. “Liya. Rolls off the tongue nicely.”

“Hah.” Liya grinned up at him, eyes gleaming. Rex felt his heart stumble. “Yours too, Thunderer.”

“The Thunderer,” Rex corrected.

A/N: Now I think Rex is such a good dude and WOULD canonically try and keep up small talk with civs and generally be a decent guy, but I also do think he’d get annoyed at someone who’s clearly never lived a rough life and is acting like a total prima donna like Liya was. Then she hits him with her "eat the rich-ness" and he thinks he's in love but he's is NOT comfortable in that fact. She’s like the bad boy rule breaker that a clone would absolutely love and live vicariously through. Like she’s cursing out senators? Damn, that's a repressed desire of mine. I love you.