#hellfiresky fic

Everything looked blurry from where you were sitting, especially since the steam from the vent underneath the ledge smoked up your goggles. You swiped a gloved thumb across the glass, but it only smeared the neon reflection of a flickering Wok-The-Tok restaurant sign into a purplish bruise across your vision. A quick scan of your datapad showed three more black-ops freighters needing a discreet top-off at Landing Pad 98.

Ever since the Empire’s doonium quotas turned your Lothal peach garden into a dusty crater, you’d learned that sentiment didn’t feed your hunger, but volatile liquids did. Selling roadside fuel, decanting refined rhydonium from stolen Imperial drums into repurposed thermojugs for the local swoop-rats, or hauling high-capacity pods from your hidden garage for the larger freighters was the only thing that kept you dry and fed. You knew that hawking it to pilots who’d rather pay a forty-percent markup than deal with official port taxes was a high-risk hustle; one accidental drop, and you’d be a memory. But in the perpetual grime of Janix City, it was the only work that felt as honest as the dirt you used to have under your fingernails.

When it came to the black-ops freighters, you never expected a captain or some kind of head of the operation to buy directly from you. It was always a grunt, some hired muscle tasked with the heavy lifting, hauling the fuel pods on the back of a military-grade speeder whilst the person in charge stayed cosy somewhere in the armpit of Janix.

So when the shadow fell across the ledge, the only thing close to a workbench in your spot, you were unbothered. In your mind, you already had the scene figured out - they’d slide a few credits, you’d bargain, and if they were grunts from the scheduled freighters, you’d lead them to the garage and, kaching, rent paid for the week.

But the shadow didn't move. It didn't reach for a credit chip or a weapon. It stayed static in its place. From the corner of your eye, you tracked the silhouette. A heavy, hooded poncho that swallowed the light. Ugh, one of those guys, you thought. Definitely not a grunt. Likely a swoop racer looking for a high-octane fix, or worse, a member of Nico Deemis’ syndicate. You knew the type, low-level enforcers who hadn't even earned a lesser boss title yet but acted like they owned the sector.

“Whaaat?” You dragged the question out, eyes never leaving the blurry nightscape in front of you, silently cussing at the rain that started to drizzle. “Before you even ask, no. I can’t just give your speeder a full tank for free because you’re with Deemis, or Vario, or whatever the fuck gang you’re pretending to represent today. No discounts for ‘influence,’ and no tabs.”

The silence that followed wasn't the awkward quiet of a shamed gang member. It was a black hole. There was a brief sound of a metallic hiss, the sound of high-end cybernetics servos in the dampness of your corner.

“I am not with a gang,” the voice said. It was lower than you expected, vibrating through the metal ledge and up into your dangled legs. They didn't even sound like one of those cocky gang members, they sounded like an old, tired engine finally being turned off.

You eventually looked back. The neon blue of a nearby corner shop sign caught the stitching of his hood, but his face remained a void. He wasn't looking at your fuel jugs. He was looking straight ahead. Nowhere, and everywhere at the same time.

“Still. Even if you’re homeless, I won’t give it out for free.” You rolled your eyes, turning back to your datapad to hide the fact that your heart was hammering against your ribs.

“Did you water down the rhydonium?" He asked. The question was surprisingly banal, delivered with a calm that somehow felt more menacing than any brawls you’ve ever found yourself in.

As you squinted through the steam, you realised the figure wasn't just a tall man in a poncho. He was a Zabrak, his skin a deep, bruised red, with black tattoos that looked like they had been carved into his flesh by some kind of ceremonial blade. Even in the dim light, he looked less like a person and more like a statue of some ancient god left out in the rain.

“Wild accusation,” you said, finally pulling your goggles down to rest around your neck. You tried to summon your best unbothered glare. “Even if I did, I’ve never had any complaints! My customers keep coming back because my fuel gets them where they’re going without the Imperial tax.”

After a pregnant pause, the Zabrak finally turned his head, sickly yellow eyes locking onto yours.

“Indignation is the shelter of the guilty,” he remarked, voice remaining that gravelly vibration that seemed to harmonise with the muffled beat of a nightclub nearby. “I do not care for your moral justifications, nor the fragile contentment of your clientele. I merely find the mechanics of your deceit... compelling. You compromise the chemical integrity of rhydonium to sustain the longevity of your own survival. It is a necessary subterfuge, is it not? To subsist on the margins of a galaxy that offers nothing but the cold residue of progress.”

He walked closer, the smell of ozone and wet leather overpowering the dizzying scent of the fuel.

“You dilute the flame to stay in the game a little longer. But sooner or later, the engine always stalls. The debt of your mediocrity will be collected, one way or another.”

“Rude,” you grimaced, “doth mother never taught you mannerth?”

For a terrifying five seconds, the only sound was the bass thumping from the nightclub and the rhythmic drip of the evening shower hitting the unsheltered area of the rooftop you were in.

“My mother,” he began, the words felt like a trail of poison coming out of his mouth. He looked down at you with a hollow exhaustion that made your snarky retort suddenly feel very small. “My mother was a leader of witches. And my... past, his only lesson was that manners are the luxury of the weak.”

“So... you’re buying?” You raised both eyebrows, refusing to let his words rattle you. You wondered where this aimless conversation was going, and more importantly, if it was going to end with a kaching or a corpse - preferably not yours, though it was the most possible outcome.

He shrugged before taking a deep audible breath that felt like forever, and dropped a metre next to you. Separated only by a potted plant you carelessly placed to add a touch of decor in the makeshift shop, cybernetic legs dangling off the ledge. “Buy, buy, buy. Even loyalty from mercenaries costs credits these days,” he hummed.

“Huh?” You almost laughed. Mercenaries? Was this guy mad? Who would’ve—

Oh.

A grainy, high-contrast holographic poster you’d seen flickering in the Sector 9 transit hub suddenly hit your brain. A face like hell, eyes like burning sulfur. Without realising it, your jaw dropped. Instinctively, you scooted a few inches further away, worsening the state of your ripped trousers as you let them scrape against the rough metal.

“I know that look,” a soft chuckle escaped him as he took off his hood. “I doubt you’d have the guts to turn me in,” he turned back to the city lights. “Many have tried. All failed.”

You simply rolled your eyes, though your hands were shaking as you put down your datapad. You tried to recall the name from the poster, the letters blurry in your memory until they formed into focus.

“Ma—Maul?”

The sound of his name competed with the thumping bass of the nightclub that got louder as the night grew darker and the ever present hiss of the vents. He didn't react. If anything, he seemed to lean into the sound of it.

“I have been many things. A Lord. A son. An apprentice. A brother. Now I am merely 'Maul' who haunts the corners of this city. A cautionary tale for those who think they can run the underworld.”

“Dude, your head costs a lot these days,” you blurted out. You cussed your reckless mouth the moment the words left your lips. Dammit. This was what you got for trying to survive in the bowel system of the galaxy for too long. Eventually, your filter dissolved in the acid waste along with your sense of survival. It was as if nothing truly scared you anymore, not even sitting a metre away from a death-sentence.

“I am aware. As I have mentioned, many have tried to collect the bounty. None have survived.” He looked out at the horizon where some freighters were idling. “I have paid dearly for the loyalty of a band of Mandalorian commandos. Death Watch. Their commander has not questioned my orders, but I have seen the others... the way they look at me when they think I am not watching.”

He let out another short sigh before he turned his face to yours. “They need to be dealt with, don’t they?”

“If only I could just ‘deal with’ the sleemos that keep putting it on a tab and never pay their shit in full,” you chuckled, ignoring how deeply tired you sounded. “I’d be so rich they’d be on their knees begging me for a discount.” You laughed at your own complaint, the absurdity of comparing galactic-scale treason to a back-alley fuel debt hitting you all at once.

The yellow of his eyes was almost neon in the dark, tracking the way you crossed your legs, and turned your body to face him.

“To you, I am a bounty. To you, betrayal is a matter of credits and unpaid tabs.” He observed. “There is a strange honesty in that. My ‘sleemos’ do not keep themselves busy with credits, they play with brittle loyalties, and false promises, and eventually a grand betrayal. But the rot is the same, isn't it? The weakness of character. The failure to honour a commitment.”

“I just call them assholes,” you tutted, leaning back on your elbows, facing upwards as if your shelter would agree with you. The rain was finally starting to soak through the fabrics of your makeshift shop, but you didn't care. “Is that why you’re not sitting on a throne somewhere in the underground of Janix? Too many assholes to deal with?”

Maul let out a sound that might have been a humourless laugh. “Thrones are for those who believe the seat itself grants the power,” his voice dropped to a near-whisper that fought the noise of the city. “I am no longer that person. And my 'assholes', as you so eloquently put it, are symptoms of a larger plague. One I intend to cauterise.”

“You love big words, don’t you?” You couldn’t fight a small, lopsided smile. “Personally, I’d like to cauterise Myke. He’s uhh… get this, he’s a swoop racer who always loses. Zero moulee-rah in his pocket, and I think he’s also a symptom of a larger plague, as you so eloquently put it. Because not only does he put his fuel on tabs, he keeps borrowing everyone’s credits in the name of ‘sponsorship,’ promising them a big win. Meanwhile, that cold, hard cash goes straight to some stupid HoloNet gambling ring. Jawa Depot, ever heard of it? Fuckin’ hate it. Their ads are everywhere in the HoloNet.”

There it was again, that micro-smile haunting his face. Bathed in the ever-shifting colours of the city lights, his red-black complexions seemed to look less and less diabolical. “Myke,” he repeated, testing the common name as if it were a foreign tongue. “He does sound like an asshole.”

You nearly choked on the humid air. Hearing the most wanted man on Janix use the same term you used for the guy who owed you sixty five credits was the most surreal moment of your life. You let out a genuine, barking laugh. “See? I knew you’d get it. Forget the Empire, it’s the Mykes of the galaxy that are going to be our downfall.”

The micro-smile lingered on his face longer than before. For a moment, Maul looked like a normal guy who had once known how to find something funny. The structure-wide light from a massive health insurance company building in front of you pulsed from a harsh blue to a soft lilac, and for a split second, the red of his skin appeared less like blood and more like the warmth of a sunset on Lothal that you missed so dearly.

He looked down at the wilting baby Lothal Peach plant in the cracked pot between you, the one you carelessly placed, the one kept for good luck - knowing that none of your seedlings would survive the climate of Janix. His tattooed hand hovered over it, fingers unsurprisingly steady, before he pulled his hand back.

“I once had a brother,” he said softly. The authoritative tone was gone, replaced by one that sounded like a memory of a kinder world. “He was... fragile. A weakling, the others called him. But he was mine to watch over. My mother - as I have stated, was a leader among her kind - but she taught us that victory wasn't measured in conquest. She taught us to commune with the trees, to find the life force in the chaos.”

“And he spent his money on Jawa Depot?” You joked.

“Hmpf.” Another muffled laugh caught in his throat, tactfully covered by a dry cough. “No. On Dathomir, the world can be dark. My brother was afraid to venture far from our home. I would spend my days in the wilds, foraging for species he could study. I’ve always preferred the silence of the woods.”

He reached out, tattooed fingertips hovering just millimetres away from your wilting peach again.

“I once found a cluster of redweed in a deep ravine. They only bloom in total darkness, fed by the minerals in the cave walls. I spent hours propagating them in a hollowed out gourd just so I could bring them back to my brother. I wanted him to see that beauty didn't need the sun to survive.”

You didn’t know why Maul was sharing this with you. Why the so-called Shadow Lord of a criminal empire was sitting on a dirty ledge talking about botanical species, but you nodded anyway. Before you could say anything remotely snarky back, he continued, gaze fixed on the hazy horizon.

“And then there were the fire beetles that lived in the forgotten swamps near my village. They are foul, bioluminescent things. Venomous if they nip you, and some subspecies would even eat your flesh.”

“And what’s that got to do with Myke?” You let a small, genuine smile grow on your face.

“Nothing,” he answered.

The silence that followed wasn't the pressurised quiet of earlier. Strangely, it was the kind of silence you shared with a regular customer at 0300 when the galaxy felt too stupidly massive to talk about so you settled on menial things like the increasing gas prices and the quickest way to make credits and get the hell out of Janix.

“Nothing,” you repeated softly, looking down at your own hands, stained with engine grease and the soil of a world you couldn't go back to. “Right. Just two folks on a ledge talking about bugs and losers.”

Maul stared at the rain, eyes distant, as if he were seeing the red sunrise of Dathomir instead of the pouring rain amidst brightly coloured signs.

“I would spend all night catching them in a bottle. I would get stung a dozen times, hands swelling until I could no longer comfortably grip my zhaboka, just so I could put the bottle in the centre of our shared bedroom. I thought if Savage had a 'little sun' in our room at night, he wouldn't be afraid of the eerie magical ichor that seeped into our village whenever mother was communing with her sisters.”

He went quiet for a moment, tilting his head towards the sky far outside the city’s structure.

“He was a fool,” he murmured. “He believed the dark could be bargained with.”

The zabrak turned his head just enough for the colourful neon lights to catch most of his face. He didn't look like a monster right then, but like the boy who used to catch weeds in gourds, wondering if collecting fire beetles would be enough to make his brother safe.

“And that was… centuries ago?” You finally asked. You’d never really bothered to learn about the lifespans of other sentients, but Dathomirians had always struck you as an intense, ancient species. You’d only heard about the witches from stories your mother used to tell you when you were a child running around Lothal, “Come back home before dusk, or the Nightsisters will kidnap you!”.

“That was twenty two years ago. I was fourteen,” he recalled flatly.

“Wait, you’re thirty six? I was expecting three hundred and eighty seven.” You laughed at your own admission, the absurdity of it melting the tension.

“I am a Dathomirian Zabrak, not a Hutt.” He let out another sigh, and you swore you saw him roll his eyes.

“Explains the knee,” you probed, subtly pointing at a tiny spark jumping around the casing of his mechanical joint. It was a small flicker of blue light, almost lost in the smog, but your eyes, trained by years of keeping junk-tech running, couldn't ignore it. “Looks like you took a hit. The stabilisers in your servos are trying to compensate, but the feedback loop is causing a misfire.”

Maul looked down at his leg, watching the tiny spark for a moment. The mechanical limb whined in a high-pitched protest as he shifted his weight. “It is a souvenir from a skirmish down there,” he didn't sound proud of it, if anything, he sounded annoyed. “It functions well enough. Still carries me where I need to go.”

“Yeah, until whatever lubricant you’re using catches that spark and your leg becomes a firework,” you countered. You reached for a compact toolkit you kept tucked under the fuel jugs display case, the one you used to fix the fuel pumps whenever the climate gummed them up. You pulled out a small tube of high-viscosity insulation paste and a hydro-spanner. “Sit still. Or don't. But if you blow up my shop, it’s going to be a real bitch to clean up, and I’m already behind on my night shift.”

For a heartbeat, you thought you’d pushed it. You expected a red blade to light to life and end your career right then and there. Instead, the Shadow Lord simply watched as you leaned in. He didn't move. He didn't even seem to breathe.

You applied the paste with the practiced thumb of a gardener-turned-mechanic, sealing the leak and smoothing the wear-and-tear of his cybernetics. “There,” you muttered, wiping your hands on a rag. “It won't make you faster, but it’ll stop the clicking. Other places would probably charge you a hundred credits for a custom service like this, but consider this one on the house.”

Maul stood up. He tested the joint, the spark gone, replaced by a smoother motor. He looked at his knee, then back at you. “Thank you.” The words were heavy, as if they had traveled a long way through a very dark place to reach you.

“No worries,” you shrugged, throwing your tools back where you found them. “If the scheduled freighters bailed on me, then at least this made me feel like I actually worked today instead of just loitering around.”

“Hmm.” He hummed as he pulled his hood back over his horns, the shadow swallowing his face once more. “You possess a curious brand of mercy,” he remarked. “Most would see a broken machine. You see a flaw to fix.”

“Most would see a murderer, judging from your records. Yeah, I was reading about you on the HoloNet just then,” you added, a little bolder now that he was standing. You waited for the anger, but again, it didn't come.

“Well… we make do to survive.” A micro-smile escaped him again, gone as quickly as a fire in the rain.

“There’s something about you. It’s… um… hard to explain,” you cursed yourself for being reckless one last time. But you’d always liked reading people, and Maul was no exception. “I mean, if you’re up for a chat, or more philosophical rants in High Galactic language, then I set up my station here every Zhellday at least for the next two weeks. On Taungsday, I’m usually over in the Sector 4 bay.”

“I’ll come find you.” Maul nodded.

And before you could even blink, he was gone. Dissolved into the Janix smog, possibly magically manifested somewhere amidst the crowded buildings like a ghost returning to the machine. You shook your head at the absurdity of it. You could have called the local security precinct, but there was no point in reporting a ghost to the very institution that would shut down your illegal hustle in a heartbeat.

Suddenly, your datapad chirped, three immediate pings. The freighters had confirmed their refueling schedule - they were sending their speeders to your spot in less than an hour. Then, a new notification scrolled across the screen. A Kom’rk-class fighter had booked a high-capacity fueling for the coming two days. Neat, you thought. You’d never seen a Kom’rk in person. It was a special Mandalorian ship, at least based on your growing starship knowledge, and that usually comes with a shut-up-money that would pay for a whole new warehouse.

“For the last time, drink your damn cough syrup!” barked Cody in that loud and strained tone that he usually used when he was frustrated at his troopers. The Marshal Commander had been pacing for the past thirty-five minutes, wandering in and out of your room, the kitchen, back into the living area where an equally dusted Rex was sprawled on his back. The man was coughing, sneezing, wheezing - forehead plastered with a neon-blue fever patch.

“I don’t like it,” you hacked, throat burning. “Tastes like shit, Cody, for kriff’s sake—” Another round of coughing ripped out of your chest.

From the other room, Rex rasped back, “At least it knocks you out!”

“Oh shut up, I had to force feed you that,” Cody snapped, marching over just to smack Rex on the shin. A curse loudly sputtered out of the blonde captain, followed by the distinct sound of two grown ass soldiers slapping at each other.

By the time Cody peeked into your room, you were in a fetal position under the blanket, all sweaty and miserable. “I told you not to overtrain,” he calmly scolded you.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve said that today,” you groaned. “Why don’t you go say the same thing to that loser outside?” Your stomach growled in betrayal, because of course on top of coughing your lungs out and a mild fever, you were also shitting your guts out. Misery loves company.

Truly, it was right what Cody once said (he was always right), if a 15k run feels too good to be true, the universe WILL smite you with either an injury or an illness immediately after. You and Rex should’ve listened to him, he’d been warning both of you all week. But no. You and your bitch-ass best friend were stubborn as hell. If Cody weren’t there supervising, you two idiots would’ve pushed straight into a half-marathon “just because.” And as if the 15k wasn’t enough, both of you decided to cap the day with a ninety-minute swim. Sicko behaviour.

Cody sighed, scratching his overgrown hair before leaning against your doorframe. “Heh, I did tell him. Repeatedly. But at least he’s a clone, his body’s built for this crap.” He tore open a sachet of herbal medicine, mixed it with warm water, then gently handed it to you. “You, however? You’re just a civvie with a death wish.”

“I’m a hybrid athlete,” you muttered as you took the glass.

He snorted. “Yeah. Hybrid between determined and fucking stupid.”

“HAHAHA! TAKE THAT, LOSER!” Rex yelped from the living room… before immediately dissolving into a violent coughing fit.

“YOU take that!” you pathetically wheezed with that pre-flu-induced voice of yours.

Poor Cody rubbed his temples, questioning every life choice that brought him to this exact moment. “I swear to Maker, I cannot do this with either of you.” He let out a long, exhausted groan. “Rex refuses to drink anything except his fuckass sterile milk so I had to force the syrup down his throat, and you—” he pointed at your herbal concoction, “you insist on chugging that herbal medicine as if it’s going to resurrect your immune system.”

“You’re weird for not believing in the power of ginger, honey, and galangal,” you croaked.

He rolled his eyes so hard it surprised you they didn’t bulge out. “I’m making porridge and boiled eggs. You are both eating it.”

“I hate—”

“NO.” Cody stepped back into the doorway and pointed at you. “You will EAT it and you will LIKE it.”

“Rex, get your sick ass back to the sofa - where the fuck are you going?!” The Marshal Commander twisted his body away from you.

Ignoring his brother completely, Rex wobbled into your room. He lobbed a pillow directly at your face, then proceeded to climb into your queen-sized bed, immediately crowding it. “I deserve a soft bed,”

“You deserve a good ass kicking,” you swatted him. “And an uppercut straight to your jaw!”

He flicked his thumb and finger against your ear, earning a smack to his shoulder, then a punch that would’ve bruised a normal person. Rex simply cackled, ignoring your violent attack.

“Cody’s right,” he rasped, stealing your blanket. “We’re dying.”

“You’re dying,” you corrected, grabbing the blanket back by force. “I’m just stupid for saying yes to everything you said yesterday.”

“Same thing,” he coughed.

“IF YOU TWO AREN’T FLAT, HORIZONTAL, AND QUIET IN FIVE MINUTES, I’M DRAGGING YOU BOTH TO THE CLINIC LIKE STICKY CADETS!” Cody screamed from the kitchen. “I MEAN IT!”

Rex buried his face in your shoulder. “I hate when he uses the disappointed dad voice. He’s not even a father.”

“He’s going to make us eat that weird medicinal nuna vegetable soup too, isn’t he?” you whispered.

Saleucami was more heated than you remembered. The sound and smoke of blasterfire engulfed you, not that you cared about it, you were too busy swinging your lightsaber - slicing through battle droids. You ignored the wetness down your arm where a wound bled through your heavy black robe, ignored the smell of churned soil and burnt wildgrass.

“Fall back!” you shouted, swinging through another wave. Your trusted commander, Neyo, was on your flank, as always. Quiet, commanding, one of the deadliest men you knew. His blaster bolts fired in clean bursts that dropped clankers before they even reached your periphery.

Many moons ago, you had replaced Jedi Master Stass Allie as general of the 91st Mobile Reconnaissance Corps. Transferred from Republic Intelligence, you had felt relief shedding years of secrecy and false names. Espionage was lonely work. Out here in the frontline, it was bloodier, yes, but you had something close to kinship - comrades who fought beside you, soldiers who watched your back. The clones called it brotherhood. You had never had that, not even with Quinlan Vos or Bode Akuna, who were more like distant, annoying brothers who preferred to vanish on their own missions.

You found it here. You found it in the 91st. You found it in him.

Neyo never smiled, not in public at least. He was infamous across the Grand Army as one of the coldest troopers alive. When you took command of the 91st, you knew their casualty numbers were high, and everyone always pinned it on Neyo’s lack of mercy - even for his own men. That rubbed you the wrong way. You had left the Republic Intelligence in search of kinship, and what greeted you was silence.

Nobody liked Neyo. That was a fact. You even asked around the Temple, cornering clone commanders who lingered around between deployments. Marshal Commander Cody had sighed so long and deep you thought he might suffocate before he answered. “Trained under Alpha-17,” Cody had finally muttered, scratching at the scar on his temple. “Cold bastard, even by our standards. With all due respect, sir, please talk to Bacara from the 21st Nova Corps if you want more. He’s the only one who gets him. They’re basically the same guy.”

So you learnt. Neyo had been one of the first hundred graduates of the ARC program. Promoted to Marshal Commander, feared for his efficiency, respected only for his kill counts. An oddball amongst his brothers, aloof, untouchable, ruthless, efficient.

But even beskar could be bent with the right materials. You remembered the first time you caught the faintest smile on his face, there and gone before you could blink. It had been after Saleucami’s first skirmish, the night you stitched your own arm whilst he stood watch in silence. You’d made some very sour, very dark jokes - too tired to care that they were bad ones - and for the briefest moment, you thought you saw something close to a smile. You never told anyone. Some things weren’t meant to be shared.

And then, recognising his equally bad taste in humour, you went digging. That was how you found it, buried in the 91st’s archive, under training files and casualty logs: Neyo’s Almanac of Clankers, co-authored with Bly, Monnk, Wolffe, WAC-47 of all droids, and a Republic captain named Jikesh Valia. A manual for the Clone Youth Brigade, informative and packed with every weak point a battle droid ever had.

“So much for not giving a single fuck about those kids,” you’d laughed, scrolling through diagrams and notes until you nearly dropped the datapad. “Neyo’s Almanac of Clankers? Are you for real?” Your laughter had echoed off the walls of the command post, and you knew he would either go full ice cold or never share a shred of his personality with you ever again. For a heartbeat he froze with his visor trained on you before muttering a curse in Mando’a under his breath - completely forgetting that his voice modulator was on - probably meant for himself more than you, and then he stalked out.

You’d been grinning for hours after, teasing him in your head. He might be ruthless, but to you, thanks to that almanac, he was the commander who spent weeks compiling facts about battle droids with his brothers, and published it under his name. That was how you knew. Beneath all the ice, there was warmth. He just didn’t know what to do with it.

“I suggest we move to the foot of the mountain, General.” Neyo’s order brought you back from reverie. “We need more cover. The Separatists are coming in hot. If we want to retake Saleucami, we need to regroup and restrategise.”

“Huh.” You coughed, lungs raw from smoke.

The warmth of his hand seeped through the thick material of his glove over your robe as he guided you towards your BARC speeder.

“Go with the boys. I will come through,” he lifted his blaster and walked back towards the fire.

“But—“ you argued.

“Go! Go! Go!”

Catching the protectiveness in his voice, you quickly swung onto the speeder, heart hammering. You didn’t know that it was the last time you’d ride out believing he would always be at your side. Because he had always been at your side ever since he broke out of his shell.

It had started with a tent you were forced to share during one of the Outer Rim sieges, the early weeks of the Battle of Lokori, when the 91st paved the way for the rest of the companies. Oh, Lokori. You remembered how pleasant the air had been, how strange it felt to breathe sweet scented air instead of smoke. How beautiful the capital city of Fucallpa had been with its organic towers and riotous colours, architecture blooming like flowers.

“I can move out to camp with the men,” he had stiffly said as he turned towards the flap.

“I don’t care,” you’d muttered, too exhausted to argue. You dropped flat onto the cot, dragging your bloodstained robe over yourself like a blanket. “Just don’t make a noise before five in the morning.”

Neyo never wasted words. So, of course, you hadn’t expected him to say anything back. But a few minutes later, in the dark, you heard him lie down on his own cot and quietly reply, “I don’t snore.”

You’d laughed into the fabric of your robe, biting it down so he wouldn’t hear. But you were sure he had. Because in the silence that followed, you caught the faintest creak of the cot frame as if he’d rolled to face yours.

And then, little by little, he shed his shell. Every day, every planet, every battle. He’d sneak you an extra protein shake, slip an extra ration into your tray, because he couldn’t fathom your Jedi restraint. That ingrained vow to always stop before you were satisfied, to call it enough.

“I don’t get it,” he’d said during a much-needed lunch in the wilderness of Kashyyyk. Wookiees had laid out a feast, and the corps dug in with grateful abandon. You had eaten quietly, finished the small serving that you took, and didn’t ask for more. “An hour ago you were seething with hunger,” he muttered around a mouthful of roast beast. “But a plate like that is enough?” He pointed his fork at you, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Come on. The Wookiees are giving this for free, General.”

Shaking your head, you smiled. But to your amusement, he was dead serious, watching you as if you were the strangest puzzle he’d ever seen. “I always stop before I’m satisfied,” you explained. “Nothing too much is ever good for you.”

“I think fueling up during a campaign is crucial,” he countered.

“And you risk puking it out later?”

His brow arched, mouth full, chewing slowly as he considered your words. “We’re going to bed later.”

The tall blades of grass whipping against your speeder pulled you back from zoning out. The desert of Saleucami was unending, dry air biting as you pressed a hand to the commlink in your ear.

“Yes?”

“Are you safe?” Neyo’s modulated voice came through your ear.

“On our way south. Passing the swamp and into the forest,” you answered.

“Great. We’ve finished off here. Saw a new batch of droids dropping in - will be on your side in no time.”

“I will see you, then.”

“And I—um… general.”

“Neyo?”

There was static before the weirdly comforting monotone in his voice came again. “In case we’re losing the battle. I just want to remind you again that I—”

“I love you,” he had said that night. On the rooftop of his dormitory in the freezing Coruscant winter. A rare respite from battle, the two of you wrapped in stolen hours, watching the sun bleed out across the skyline. You had been wearing his blacks, far too big, sleeves gathered in your fists. “Quite surprising that I’m capable of love,” he’d chuckled.

From your place in his lap, you tilted your head to look up at him, his face bathed in the orange glow of the sun. “I thought you only ever loved Bacara.”

He grimaced. “I love all my brothers. Just because I don’t coddle them like Cody does, doesn’t mean I hate them.”

Pushing yourself upwards, you captured his lips in a kiss. “And I love you.”

“I know that,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours. “But you really have to go back to your quarters now.”

“Oh, come on,” you laughed as he showered your face with quick, stolen kisses. “Let me stay here!”

“I believe that’s against barracks regulations. You should know what Wolffe made his men do when he caught them sneaking their lovers into the building…”

Your brows shot up. “What?”

“Freshers duty,” he said, smiling against your lips. “And I just handed the same punishment to my men last month. What if they found out—”

“Anakin stays over at the barracks all the time.” You pouted.

“He throws ragers with his men,” Neyo countered, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Unless you—”

“I can throw one too,” you interjected, grinning. “I’m fun, you know. I spent years in the galactic underworld doing Force-knows-what as a spy.”

He gave you that look - half disbelief, half admiration - before pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re trouble.”

You smiled, the war momentarily far away. In that rare, fragile pocket universe, it was easy to believe you’d have more nights like this.

“Entering the forest in two klicks,” you chimed into your commlink. “How’s your position?”

“All safe. All good. I’ll see you in a few minutes, General.”

“Take care.”

“Oh, and General?”

“Yes?”

“Once you get to safety, tell Two-Three to keep close to you. I don’t care if you argue, he knows.” He commanded, more stern than usual, though you knew the reason behind it. He knew you couldn’t take a hit like before. He knew you were carrying more than yourself now.

Static buzzed between you. “And you should rest when you can. That’s an order.”

You smiled to yourself, hand pressed over the swell that only you and Neyo knew about. His way of caring was always hidden under orders. Still, you understood.

The forest at the foot of the mountain greeted you with flocks of yellow carrier butterflies, their wings flashing like sparks of gold between the trees. In your culture, they were a sign of fortune - luck was heading your way. Of course it was. Luck would come in the form of a girl.

Smiling faintly, you nudged your BARC into formation beside CT-3423, honouring Neyo’s order.

“There’s a cave nearby. We can rest there, sir,” Two-Three said, helmet cocked towards the shadows in the rocks ahead.

You nodded, easing the speeder into the treeline. The forest canopy closed over you, sunlight dripping through the leaves in broken beams. For a fleeting moment, you thought: maybe this would be enough. A place to rest. A place safe enough to finally breathe. And when the war was over, you could stay. Here, at the foot of this mountain, where the forest sang with birds and the dirt smelled perpetually like rain. You’d build a home amongst the trees, a quiet place where your child could grow. And you would convince the Republic, somehow, to let Neyo petition for an Outer Rim post here. A small garrison tucked into the wilderness, a safe assignment where his corps could recover and rebuild.

The walls of the cave were rough but comforting, cool stone wrapping you in quiet. You sat down, closing your eyes for the briefest moment. Then the commlink beeped.

“Come in,” you answered, thumb pressing the channel.

“Cyare, I’m here,” Neyo’s voice came through.

You were on your feet before you thought, rushing out of the cave, boots skidding in the dirt as you spotted him. You didn’t care who saw. You didn’t care what it meant. You ran towards him, throwing your arms around his shoulders, pressing yourself into the armour you’d memorised by heart.

At that point, secrecy felt absurd. You were certain the corps knew. Maybe not about the child you carried, but about the way you gravitated towards him. How you lingered in the barracks too long. How you laughed louder when he was near. How he vanished from sight, only to be found later with a cup of hot caf in hand, sitting across from you as dawn painted the sky. Or the time on Felucia when you had insisted, against all counsel, that only he accompany you on recon. The men weren’t born yesterday. They had seen. They had always known.

And still, here in the forest, with his voice in your ear and his arms around you, you believed it was possible. That the war could end, and the two of you could walk away.

“A rescue team will come to pick us up,” he affirmed, fully slipping off his helmet. “I’ll hold a conference with the other commanders for a better strategy to retake Saleucami. I believe you’ll have more clever ideas to share, too?”

“Of course.” You straightened, shoulders drawing back, returning to your role. “For now, let’s regroup, do a headcount, and restrategise for the short term. I’ll consult the Council for further strategy. We may need a joint mission.”

For a moment, his eyes lingered on you. He let his thumb brush across your cheek, sweeping away a splatter of dust from your skin.

“You heard the General,” Neyo said at last, turning back to his men. The infamously cold Marshal Commander persona sliding back into place like a second skin. Around him, the troopers immediately moved to obey.

“Hey,” he gave you that rare smile of his before he caught himself at the sound of his commlink beeping in urgency. “I—uh, sorry. I have to take this.”

You smiled. At last, you could imagine the rescue team coming in, pulling you out of this nightmare. Soon, all of you would be aboard the Venator, heading back to Coruscant. You would spend the next few days curled in his arms, big and warm.

In your head, you made a list. Work first, always work. You would consult the Council, draft down strategy, reach out to Kenobi for his experience coordinating with locals in extended sieges. Besides, 7th Sky Corps could provide air superiority where your own reconnaissance corps couldn’t. You’d grit your teeth and call Ki-Adi-Mundi too, the 21st Nova Corps had the heavy artillery and orbital support Saleucami’s terrain demanded. With the three of you aligned, the Separatist hold would break.

After work was done, you’d go to the hospital. You would check on her. This time, you’d drag Neyo with you - no more excuses, no sudden assignments like Metalorn pulling him away. Last night in your tent, he had promised. He’d submit his leave request on time. He would be there. And after the hospital, you’d eat your favourite dumplings in your quarters, even if you had to sneak him in after midnight. He’d laugh quietly at your antics, and shower you with even more kisses until you fall asleep. Holding your vision close, you smiled to yourself. For some damned reasons, you could almost believe that the war was ending sooner than expected.

“Yes, Chancellor.” You saw him put his helmet back on.

“Is everything alright?” you asked. “Neyo?”

But he was not himself when he turned. You felt it in the Force. The warmth of sunlight peeking through the canopy was gone, replaced by an absolute coldness. A coldness you had never felt from him before. Dark, ugly, suffocating. The Force never lied. It could manipulate, obscure, mislead - but it never lied. And it told you the truth now, because the man you loved had his blaster pointed at your chest.

“Neyo…” You backed away, hands raised. But the love of your life still fired.

Years of training saved you, the lightsaber leapt to your hand, the bolt ricocheted off the blade. You ran into the trees, branches whipping past, the dark forest came alive with the sounds of blasterfire.

“Don’t let her go!” his cold commanding voice rang mercilessly.

“Please tell me not to go,” you’d murmured against his lips one quiet morning, exhaustion heavy in your bones.

“I will never let you go,” Neyo had groaned, arms locked around your waist in a deathgrip. “But if you don’t go to the Council meeting, Bacara’s boss will talk crap about you again.”

“Gosh, I hate him,” you’d yawn.

“Hmm.” He’d hummed into your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Go shower and get dressed. I’ll be here.”

And he would always be there. Just like he was there when he and his men chased after you in the woods.

You threw everything into the run. Every ounce of Force, every shred of muscle, every staggering breath. The forest saved you for a while, its trees too dense for BARC speeders to follow. You whispered thanks under your breath as you dashed between trunks, to the trees, to the wind, to the sun, to the ground. You tripped more than once, palms tearing on roots and stone, your heavy robe falling away in the scramble, and you didn’t stop running.

But what was one body against a corps? Against the 91st Mobile Reconnaissance, bred for pursuit, for pressure, for endless battles? Against Marshal Commander Neyo. Aloof. Untouchable. Ruthless. Efficient. Yours.

It was too easy for them to corner you as you stumbled into a clearing. A wide canopy breaks above you, basking you under the scorching midday sun. Yellow butterflies from earlier came in a sudden swarm, flying towards the light, leaving you mesmerised. You leaned your head back, following them skyward. Maybe that was it. Maybe luck meant release. Maybe the war was finally ending - for you, at least. No more blood. No more shadow. No more nightmares.

And in front of you, the man you loved. Blaster trained steady at your head.

“Neyo…”

The Force, merciful yet cruel, flooded you with warmth. Suddenly you were far from Saleucami, far from the smoke and blasterfire, back in the comfort of your quarters at the Jedi Temple. The sheets still smelled of him, his heavy arm draped across your body, your head rising and falling with the movement of his chest.

“She will look just like you,” you giggled into the dark.

“With a temper like you,” you added, grinning as your fingers trace the curve of his jaw. “Oh! And she’ll run wild, just like you.”

He groaned, hand brushing through your hair, pulling loose strands away from your face. “I’m not that bad.”

That earned a full belly laugh from you. “Sure you are.”

He took a deep breath, followed by an equally long exhale before he said it as if it had been waiting inside him all along. “Sienna.” His chest rumbled as he chuckled. “She’ll talk to the trees and sing to animals - just like you.”

You pressed your chin against his chest, searching his face as his fingers played absently with your hair. “That’ll be cute.”

“How does it feel like for you?” he asked suddenly, almost uncertain. “Being in love?”

You inhaled, readying yourself to give him one of your strange explanations. “It feels like this: at least fifty blaster bolts straight into my heart, and my body is merely a vessel to contain everything before I finally wither and surrender into it. All of the explosions, and uneasiness, and then it sets me free.”

Neyo huffed, amused and exasperated all at once. “Only you would compare love to being shot.” His hand moved lower, caressing the swell of your belly. “For me…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “…for me, it will always feel like tonight. The comfort of your bed in this massive quarters,” He laughed at the silliness of it, “...the galaxy quiet for once. Your laughter stuck in my head. The way you look at me like I’m more than what I was made to be. That’s what it feels like.”

The memory brought a smile to your face, the sweetest smile - reserved only for him, even as simmering pain wrecked your body. You remembered it all - Neyo and you at the beaches of Spira in the winter when the waves were mad, the little stolen moments during campaigns in the Outer Rim, his face just minutes ago when you ran from the cave into his arms.

But that was being in love, wasn’t it? Getting shot by at least fifty troopers straight into your chest. Your body merely a vessel to contain everything, as your lover led the execution.

The Force continued to envelope you close in its benevolence, your lightsaber slipping from your hand as your body dropped to the ground. For a moment, you saw her in the forest. She looked just like him - with a curly dark hair, a pair of curious eyes, sunlight shining on her small hand as she reached for you.

You raised a trembling arm towards her, whispering her name as she slowly disappeared, taking you with her.

GAR ALL PERSONNEL BROADCAST

📌 PINNED MESSAGE (edited 3 hours ago by Jesse):

Welcome to ALL PERSONNEL BROADCAST – this is the official GAR-wide channel.

Rules (because apparently we need them):

1. No thirst trap reviews.

2. Use threads. For the love of Prime.

3. Be kind. No inter-unit war. Mods will smite you.

4. If you see General Kenobi or General Skywalker join, act normal.

5. No one wants to hear your datapad mix at 0300

6. Any dream involving General Mundi is a YOU problem.

7. DO NOT EVER add civvies, Jedi, or your Mandalorian buire (looking at you, Skirata’s sons).

8. Please remember: Alpha-17 is reading AND modding.

9. Emotional breakdowns permitted on Primeday only.

10. The “clones tier list” thread is banned. Forever.

(This week’s special rule: If you see Marshal Commander Cody typing, stop what you’re doing and reflect on your sins.)

Current mod on duty: Ordo Skirata

Most recent muted user: Dickies from the 41st Elite Corps (for sending an unsolicited Niamos karaoke as a bit).

Server uptime: 99.7% (dropped after Marshal Commander Fox rage-quit and rebooted the network)

——

CT-339821: i texted her “what if we kissed in the AT-TE maintenance hangar 🥺👉👈”

CT-898421: real ones know there’s no better first date than taking apart a blaster

Ridge: y’all got dates??? 😐

Hardcase: i got RIZZ

Echo: please stop using that word.

Jesse (mod): no he’s right tho. hardcase got this weird situational rizz. 3 seconds max and then he self-destructs

Kix: idk what’s worse, the medbay smell or watching y’all exchange your pickup lines in this chat like it’s 79’s fresher line at midnight

Sinker (mod): just woke up to 6,902 unread messages what the actual kriff is going on here

Scorch: *sends tooka memes*

Cody (mod): STOP SPAMMING. THIS IS NOT FOR MEMES.

Boil: but sir we had an important discussion about if clones could beat a rancor with bare hands (probably buried. scroll up for context!)

Boss (mod): No. You could not.

Fi (mod): I could

Niner: Omega fucking wins again

Ordo (mod): No you couldn’t, Fi. You whined when you stubbed your toe on Dar’s gear bag.

Alpha-17 (mod): If i see one more picture of some shiny’s helmet next to a mug of caf and a datapad with the caption “just Centaxday tings” I’m purging this entire network

Parts: sir u just don’t understand ✨aesthetic✨

Gree (mod): boys, boys. please. some of us are trying to maintain a reputation here.

Bly: Reputation as what gree. The funky lil trooper figurines collector???

Wolffe: YOU PROMISED YOU’D STOP MENTIONING THE FIGURINES

CT-8364: With all due respect, sir. That’s such an L

Wolffe: Trip, right? Latrine duty. Now.

Bacara (mod): What’s an L?

Jesse (mod): ok ok back to business. shinies been saying some wild shit. translation thread starting now. drop your questions sirs

Boss (mod): What does “ate” mean? What did Rex eat on Umbara?

Rex: rations and sterile milk

Fives: shut the fuck up rex you can’t be that dense

Dogma: Wow, ARC title allows you to talk osik to your superior?

Jesse (mod): shut up dog

Echo: shut up dogma

Fives: SHUT UP, DOGMA!

Nax: Thanks, guys, he’s sulking again and stole the console. It was supposed to be my turn to play Battle Star.

Hardcase: i WILL beat him and he will SULK even more

Sinker (mod): “ate” -> Translation: He did well. Usage: “Captain Rex really ate during that campaign on Umbara 🔥”

Boss (mod): What’s the significance of eating and performing?

Fixer: @Scorch get him

Scorch: On my way! 🫵🏾🤣💥

Fi (mod): Okay i’m starting a new thread called “Fever Dreams” for funsies! Drop your weirdest dreams. go!

Comet: I dreamt I was a loaf of bread being sliced by General Plo. He was gentle.

CC-IMMUNE: dreamt i had to re-certify my shooting skills and the blaster was a frog. General Yoda had to tame it

Nate: Dreamt that Kit Fisto told me he was proud of me. I woke up sobbing

Jangotat: CT-92-1786, oh you’re the one who adopted my former name.

Bacara (mod): Not gonna happen, kid. @Nate

Advisor: Dear all, please avoid going to Mess Hall B98 at the Republic Military Base from 1300 to 1800 tomorrow. There will be a demolition experts meet up.

Cody (mod): Thank you, Addy.

Bacara (mod): Well noted.

Fox: Thanks. Please contact Thire for all base announcements.

Sev: what did i miss i was asleep

Jesse (mod): dreams. drop yours and be weird about it.

Sev: i dreamt i was in a hot spring on hoth with the Delta Squad. but the water was beer. Fixer had eggs for eyes. Scorch was a sentient kettle. Boss was Boss.

Fi (mod): EXACTLY the kind of sick shit I wanted

Ordo (mod): I always pick the wrong time modding

CT-78927: one time i dreamt we were all assigned emotions like that animated holofilm. i got “mild disappointment”, CT-78928 got “suppressed anger”

Bacara (mod): @Keeli aren’t those your kids?

Keeli: Yeah. The weird ones are mine, sir.

Hound: I had a dream where I adopted at least 60 massiffs

Wrecker: I DREAMT I WAS DATING A THERMAL DETONATOR and SHE WAS SHY BUT SWEET 🫵🏾 WHEN SHE BLEW UP, SHE SAID “I’M SORRY IT HAD TO BE THIS WAY” AND KISSED ME. BOOM! DREAM!

Crosshair: I’m banning you from sleeping in the armoury

Parts: dreamt i was in 79’s, but the band was made of Jedi. Obi-Wan on drums. Anakin on bass. Kit on guitar. Plo on keys. Mace crowd surfed. i got kicked in the face and thanked him 🫡

Thorn: i dreamt i was chasing paperwork and every time i got close it changed into a new form. i woke up and it was real

Fox: We shared the same dream, vod.

Gree (mod): last night i dreamt i was a lamp in the Jedi Council chamber.

Boss (mod): All of you need psychological help

Jesse (mod): Boss pls drop ur weird dream or we’re revoking ur mod card

Boss (mod): I dreamt I got demoted and had to lead base tours for civilians in @Part’s drag sash. Walon Vau hugged me, and I woke up sweating.

Ordo (mod): weirdest part is Vau showing affection

Fi (mod): ok that concludes Fever Dreams. you lot are unwell. i’m proud of us.

Alpha-17 (mod): Everyone logging into this thread is being scheduled for mandatory psych eval. Even me. Especially me.

Tup: okay but hear me out, what does it mean if i dreamt the clones were all in a musical called Buirmia! and Captain Rex had a solo called “Order 69” whilst Commander Fox tap danced in a turbolift in 1313 and Commander Cody did a duet with General Kenobi

Echo: it means we all need to go to sleep and never wake up

Omega: This looks fun! What are you guys talking about? 🤭

Echo: CLOSE YOUR EYES

Echo: WHO GAVE THE KID ACCESS?!

Hunter, Tech, Crosshair, and Wrecker left

Sister: This is why I told you it was a bad idea to join this broadcast @Emerie

—————————

Just like any other city-planet, meeting people on Coruscant usually meant dating apps. Swiping through faces in the middle of a war felt ridiculous, but hey, so did everything else these days. And thanks to a disturbing combination of high clone population density and terrible algorithm, at least 70% of your feed was clone troopers.

You didn’t mind, though. They were all gorgeous. Most of them were polite. Some were funny. A few of them were very hot. And then there was the commando. You had no idea what made them different until you saw his profile, a classic clone trooper thirst trap: top half in black undersuit, bottom half armoured. The man looked broader than the average Coruscant Guard trooper you passed on the upper levels, and somehow looked even meaner with the helmet off.

You matched on a Taungsday. Talked for a few hours. And by Benduday night, you were meeting in person.

He didn’t pick 79’s, thank fuck for that. It was always a bit too loud and too military for you. And, it was too likely for you to run into an ex-fuckbuddy who worked at the GAR who’d ruin the mood.

Instead, he said Qibbu’s Hut in the Entertainment District. The hotel slash bar was shadier, sure. But it was still cheap, had a good selection of drinks, and some decent private booths. You got it. Clone credits didn’t go far, and hookup dates weren’t supposed to scream luxury. So there you were with a classic Kali Cooler in hand, elbow glued on the sticky table surface, watching the man across from you size up a Twi’lek server like he might know her personally.

He introduced himself earlier, Sev. Short for “Seven,” which you guessed was some sort of callsign or designation. You didn’t ask. You weren’t here for backstories. You sipped your drink and propped your chin on your palm to force eye contact. “So?”

Looking back from the server, he raised his eyebrows, and matched your energy. “So…” he echoed.

It wasn’t awkward. Just… that particular flavour of low-stakes first date where both of you already knew how this was going to end. Not that you didn’t like each other. You just didn’t have time for pretending it was something it wasn’t. It was Coruscant, after all. You had your life, job, rent, the whole big city routine. He had war.

“Tell me about yourself,” you chewed on the blue flimsi straw. It was such a default question - a staple for a one-night stand or a long-term partner. Small talk to make the room feel a little less like a transaction.

In front of you, the crimson-white armoured trooper hummed. “I’m a sniper. In an elite unit called the Delta Squad. There’s four of us. I have three pod brothers.”

He stretched his long legs and let out what seemed like the most relaxed sigh in his day. “That’s like actual siblings, in… randomly-ejected-individual terms.”

“Randomly-ejected what?”

He tilted his head. “You know. People who weren’t decanted from the same genetic batch. Civilians.”

You laughed. “You mean people who were born?”

“Right,” he nodded. “Those.”

“So you’ve done this…”

“Often,” Sev said, finishing the last of his drink in one swallow. “Gah, please tell me you’re not one of those people who think all clones are virgins.”

You nearly choked on your straw. “Shu-shaaah, no.”

It was an actual belief, surprisingly common among people who’d never stepped foot in 79’s, never swiped through a dating app on Coruscant, never seen what clones looked like off-duty. Some thought of them as sterile, clinical government-issued products. Property of the Republic. Others exoticised the hell out of them, like they were some collectible fuck-doll line instead of actual men. You knew the type. The people that went to 79’s for their “flavour of the month.”

“I actually hooked up with a Corrie once,” you offered.

“Aha. So I’m a checklist.”

You rolled your eyes. “No. I’m not-”

“I’m joking,” he interjected, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t give a fuck.”

And fuck, there they were again - those dimples, catching you off guard. You could already picture them disappearing somewhere below your waistline and in between your —

Nope. Absolutely not. Not now, at least. Brain, shut up.

But it was too late. The image was there now, imprinted on the foreground of your mind. Sev on his knees, those calloused hands gripping your thighs, that mouth working you up like a man starved. And you bet he’d be quiet while doing it. Judging from how you were doing most of the talking here at Qibbu’s, it tracked. Or, or worse, maybe he wouldn’t be quiet. Maybe he’d talk you through it in that low and gravelly voice, “Still responsive. Still with me. Good.”

Fuck. That didn’t make it any better. You crossed your legs tighter. Maker, you hated that turned you on so much.

“Hey.” He snapped his fingers in front of your face.

Shit. You did not just zone out

“I asked,” he chuckled, “your place or my quarters? The boys are out tonight. Or… I know Qibbu’s owner. I can probably talk my way into one of the cheaper rooms. There’s one on the third floor with—“

“My apartment,” you said quickly. “Mhm. Definitely.”

“Copy that.”

There was a moment of quiet filled in the tight space between you. Around you, the noise of the bar kept going - glasses clinking, bartenders yelling orders, electronic music blaring, someone laughing too loud from the circular booth behind you - but for that little moment, it all felt far away. You’d both just stepped into a pocket of stillness in the middle of a planet that never shuts up.

From his half-lidded gaze, you could tell he’d internally confirmed it too - that this wasn’t going to be more than one night. But for you, that didn’t mean it was meaningless. You were two people with too much noise in your lives, craving a quiet you could touch. You weren’t deluding yourself into thinking it’d be more. You weren’t even trying to make it tender. You simply craved the way city nights carve into you with its brutally cold lights, warm skin, and a stranger in your bed.

You’d probably never see him again. Or maybe you would. It didn’t matter, especially in times like these - where every day ran on borrowed hours. The same could be said for that lovely Jedi with the dreadlocks and a golden facial tattoo you’d spent the night with many moons ago, or the Coruscant Guard officer, or really anyone who wasn’t completely buried in the war machine. People were just trying to survive, and hold on to something that made them feel like themselves for five fucking minutes.

“So,” Sev asked as you slid off your barstool to grab your jacket, “you live alone?”

“Hm?” you stalled, reaching back to the table to finish the last watery sip of your drink. “Yeah,” you said finally. “Me and a pet.”

He tilted his head. “Tooka?”

“Nah,” you smirked. “Just the dog in me.”

There was a second of silence before he dropped his gaze. Sev’s lips gave way to a ghost of a smile.

“Terrible,” he shook his head. “That was terrible.”

“You laughed,” you bit back.

“I coughed. Drink was spicy.” He actually laughed this time.

You looped your arm through his as you stepped out of the bar, letting the warm buzz of your drink mix with the city air. “You’re a tough crowd.”

Everything around you was lit in a thousand colours, Coruscant never slept after all. His face, scarred around his left cheek, was briefly washed in hot pink and cyan as a massive advertisement pulsed across the building across the street. It would take a while to get to your place. A hovertrain ride, twenty minutes, twelve stops. Then another ten-minute walk through the neighbourhood. And you were prepared to fill that time with trying your best to avoid war-related conversations - until his arm slung around your shoulders and dragged you closer.

Okay. Hot was a bit of an understatement.

You could feel the shape of him. His grip was tight, and controlled. An idea about being pinned immediately brewed in your head.

“How long will this train take?” his breath was hot in your ear.

“Uh—around twelve stops.”

“Damn.”

And then he crowded you. Body flush to yours, one hand braced against the window of the hovertrain. You had no time to gasp before he leaned in and kissed you.

The kiss, like all hook up kisses, was sudden and messy - with a little too much teeth.

But fuck, you loved it nonetheless.

The train rocked as it accelerated, city lights flashing past the windows like falling stars. His mouth was on yours, hungry in a way that showed he hadn’t done this in a while. You were vaguely aware that the car was empty, Benduday night, past 23:30, contra flow. Not many people left the entertainment district this late unless they were working, or hunting, or fucking. But would you care if there were people in the car? You probably wouldn’t.

You kissed him back, hungrier. His hand stayed where it was, caging you in. The other gripped your head to keep himself - or maybe both of you - grounded. The train screeched on a turn, and you used it as an excuse to lean into him harder.

“You’re a menace,” you whispered when you pulled back for air.

“You want me to stop?”

“Mmm no. But maybe to wait?”

He kissed you again anyway.

Next thing you knew, your back hit the bed, Sev’s weight settling over you - heavy, warm, and solid like his armour. His hands moved over your body as if your body was a battlefield and he’d been trained to navigate every inch of it blindfolded.

You expected silence. Maybe a growl. Definitely something primal. Because that’s what they were, right? That’s what you heard. One of your girlfriends once bragged about hooking up with a commando and wouldn’t shut up about how rough and broody he was. The way she described it over drinks felt like you were being forced to listen to live commentary on a fucknasty holofilm - like The Senate Aide, that raunchy underground hit about the Zeltron assistant who became her boss’ submissive. You were both impressed and kind of wanted her to shut the hell up. Listening to your friends’ sex life in surround sound was never as fun as how Sex and the Ecumenopolis portrayed it on screen.

So no, you didn’t expect him to murmur, “I read a manual for this.”

You had no idea what to say to that. “I—sorry, what?”

He was hovering over you, eyes trained on your mouth, waiting for it to do something again. “There was this weird intimacy training manual back on Kamino. I skimmed it. Some of it stuck.”

“You skimmed—”

“Most of it was terrible,” he added quickly. “Outdated. Weirdly mechanical. But the anatomical diagrams were... useful. I didn’t know why I said it. I’ve done this many times before. Just popped up in my head,”

His kiss swallowed the laugh that was about to come out of your mouth. Then, the sniper started slowly kissing his way down. Past your jaw. Your neck. You felt the slight scrape of stubble and let your head fall back into the pillow. “Adjusting course,” he murmured.

His hands ghosted along your sides, pausing at the hem of your shirt and glanced up as if he might ask permission again, but instead he knitted his brows and said, “You know,” he swallowed, tone turned deadly serious, “Scorch once hooked up with a Zeltron during a mission on Zeltros. Said she made him go for at least five rounds.”

“…Okay?”

“He wasn’t functional the next day. Total systems failure. Just laid in the nest like a broken droid. Good thing it was a surveillance op.”

You stared, on your way to yet another breathless laughter. “Is this foreplay?”

“No. This is a warning.”

He leaned down and kissed your sternum.

“If I fall apart tomorrow, it’s your fault.”

You bit your lip. “So I’m the Zeltron in this situation?”

“You’re worse,” he muttered. “You flirted terribly and made me laugh.”

“Mm did I win something?” You teased, laughing. Which turned into a moan as his mouth moved lower, trailing down your stomach while his fingers hooked under the waistband of your trousers. He kissed just above your hip, breath warm against your skin, a set of brown eyes psychologically undressing you through those lashes.

“I have a week-old protein bar somewhere in my armour over there,” he jerked his thumb toward the pile of gear dumped near your bedroom door.

“…What?”

“I’d offer it as a prize. It’s chocolate flavoured.”

“Sev.”

“What?” Teeth grazing your hip. “You said you wanted something memorable.”

You threw your head back against the pillow and laughed. Truly, helplessly laughed until the sound melted into a gasp because he started peeling your trousers inch by inch, kissing every new patch of skin. And when he finally settled between your thighs, he looked up to you again and added, “Besides. I’d rather eat you.”

And just like that - goodbye, sanity.

You barely registered the sound of your trousers hitting the floor. Too focused on the warmth of his mouth around your core. He kissed the inside of your thigh, and mapped you with the same care he probably gave to his well-maintained Deecee. And the first deliberate stroke across your cunt had you arching up with a broken gasp.

“There it is,” he quietly murmured - more to himself than to you. “Responsive.”

Wrapping his hands under your thighs, Sev steadied your reactive body. With each pass of his tongue, you felt your grip on the moment slip further. He moved like he had no war to go back to. No brothers waiting. Just this bed. This night. You.

For a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe in a kinder galaxy, this wasn’t a one-night thing. Maybe in that parallel universe, he’d come home to you. But Coruscant did not leave room for fantasies. There were only flunking wartime economy, tired mornings, and lovers who didn’t text back. So, of course, you quickly sweeped the fantasy out of your headspace.

Down there, you could feel your fingers involuntarily tightened around a fistful of his overgrown curls as he sucked on your clit, and the moan that left your throat felt ripped from somewhere deeper than lust. A quieter, lonelier place.

“Good?” Sev took his time to ask.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “So fucking good.”

The clone commando nodded, dipping his head back down without another word. Leaving the room with nothing but the sweet sound of your moans and the distant buzz of the ecumenopolis outside the window. Oh, and the wet sound of his mouth, generously devoted to you.

As if it wasn’t good enough, his thick digits joined in. One. And then two. Careful, steady, slow. Slipping in deep and curling just right, just fucking right, and you weren’t prepared for how much it would undo you.

“Fuck,” you whimpered - not realising how wrecked you already sounded. “Sev—”

“Still good?” he asked again, you swore you could hear him grinning against your pussy.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

A smug little chuckle burst out of him before he returned to what he was doing. He continued working you up faster, gradually building the eventual explosion inside you. You could feel it coming in your belly, and then slowly rolled out in waves, swelling and sweet and all-consuming. Your back arched, your mouth opened - though no sound came out of it. Nothing but a silent gasp where your brain short-circuited under his touch.

And then, maker help you, you laughed and moaned at the same time. Not because it was funny. But because it felt that good. That someone had touched you like that, and it was him, of all people. A late night - almost drunken decision - you swiped just a few days ago. It must’ve been a while since you let yourself go like this.

The stress. The suffocating anxiety. The grind of surviving on a city-planet that never slept, in the middle of a galaxy-wide war that was slowly eating people alive - you hadn’t even realised how tightly you’d been holding on until he unraveled you.

Sev pulled back to look at you. His beautiful face, the one he shared with millions of other men but somehow still uniquely his - flushed and glistening with your cum, resting between your thighs. “You laughed,”

“That was. Fuck. That was not funny,” you breathed, trying to adjust your vision back into focus.

“You did laugh.”

“I didn’t know I could come that hard,” you flustered. “Shut up.”

He rested his chin on your thigh, expression unreadable except for the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth. Those fucking dimples again.

“SITREP,” he said. “Subject responsive. Outcome: extremely effective. Reaction: uncontrolled laughter. Will continue for further analysis.”

You groaned and chucked a pillow at his face. Sev caught it one-handed, and threw it back behind him. Something clattered on the floor - probably one of those cheap plastic decor you’d impulsively bought just to feel something. You’d never even bothered to untag them.

Oh-Seven climbed back up and kissed you hard. As if he hadn’t just had his mouth on your cunt. As if the past ten minutes hadn’t ended with your orgasm hitting so hard you laughed.

You could feel how hard he was through his blacks, how tightly he held himself together, savouring the moment before he lost control.

“You still with me?” He rasped.

“Fuck yes.”

“Good. I need you to actually stay with me this time.”

And that was the moment everything changed. His earlier playfulness, that chaotic warmth, folded and replaced by a rough intensity. He stripped the rest of his blacks off, and stars, you barely had time to process before his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and fuck. Yeah. That tracked.

This man was solid muscle, scarred and freckled, in a way that was not delicate. Sev was designed to be a weapon for maximum damage. And right now, all that force was for you.

You reached for him, but he caught your wrist and pinned it above your head. “Let me,” he commanded.

Sev stretched you open in one slow thrust - deep enough to knock the air out of your lungs. You tried to hold yourself back, planted yourself in your bed, and he held you there to adjust, forehead pressed against yours. Not moving, not speaking, just feeling it with you.

“Shit. Sev!”

“I know,” he whispered.

Only after you nodded did he begin to move. He started slowly, taking his time to feel your warmth, before it gradually turned deeper and relentless. Every thrust of his hips dragged a moan from you. Every grind sent heat down your spine. He was watching you the whole time, not looking away for one bit.

You tried to close your eyes or even look away from his intense gaze, but he cupped your face.

“Eyes on me.”

You managed to refocus your sight.

“Good. Stay with me. I want to see you.”

And fuck, he did. Sev saw everything. From the way your body shuddered underneath him, the way your walls clenched around him with every deep, brutal thrust. The way your mouth parted before you begged - faster, harder, don’t stop. The way your sweet moans unraveled into messy whimpers and feral cries the deeper he fucked you.

Sev didn’t look away. Not once. Not even when your legs coiled around his waist and your nails marked a long line down his back.

He leaned down and devoured your mouth through it all - swallowing your cries, your shaky breath, your everything - like he needed it to stay sane.

Because he did. Because this was his, too.

He didn’t just want to make you come or make himself come. He wanted to fuck you so hard the shared loneliness between you didn’t stand a chance.

And gods, you could feel it in the way his thrusts started to falter into an uncontrollable rhythm. He was right at the edge, and so were you. You felt your entire body tightening, shaking, bracing for the fall. To unravel together.

You knew this would be the kind of orgasm you’d come back to later. Maybe in the shower. In the dark. Whenever the city got too loud or the silence got too suffocating. You were filing it away, storing the memory in that little corner in your mind where it could stay warm.

Sev buried his face in your neck and groaned your name repeatedly like a prayer. You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, holding him through it, legs trembling as his heartbeat pounded against yours - and you both came hard. A quiet, yet planet-shattering orgasm.

Before you knew it, Sev dropped his full weight on top of you as if you were the only safe place left in that wide galaxy. Neither of you said anything. You let the silence grow, filled only by the distant wail of a CSF siren a few blocks away. The loud tooka next door started meowing again. Somewhere down below, the 24/5 noodle bar buzzed with life - the sound of metal chairs scraping, speeder doors slamming, someone yelling over delivery mix-ups. The usual noise of Coruscant after midnight.

The city glowed outside your window, bathing your tangled naked bodies in the faintest cerulean light. Letting the moment suspend, you shut your eyes.

“You took it well,” Sev said eventually as he settled beside you. He reached over to brush back your sweaty hair and tucked it behind your ear. “You deserve that week-old chocolate protein bar.”

“Ew.” You giggled, still feeling the warm leak of him between your thighs. “We even forgot to use protection.”

“Shiiiiiit,” he burried his face into your hair for a second before kissing your forehead. “I got tested recently though. Clean. And I requested… you know. The GAR clearance.”

You raised an eyebrow. “The clearance?”

He nodded. “Yeah. No risk of anything… sticking.”

“I’ve got an implant too. Don’t worry.” You laughed.

“Hmm.” Sev hummed, hand gently tracing down your back like he was still trying to memorise the shape of you.

“I’ll get you water.”

————————

The last thing you remembered from that night was both of you eating cup noodles. You, only in your knickers, wrapped in a blanket. Him, still shirtless, stabbing through the seasoning packet and aggressively sprinkled the content into the cup.

He told you about that time he ran a mission on a ghost ship and almost died. Told you about Scorch, the clown of the squad. About Boss, their sergeant, apparently the one who cussed the most. And Fixer, the quiet one, the slicer, the nerd, the one who called Sev “unhinged” every five seconds.

Somewhere along the way, your vision went dark. You remembered mentally telling yourself that he’d be gone by morning. And it was fine. It was always supposed to be that way. That’s how this city worked. One night. One warmth. One lover gone before the sun.

But then you woke up to a death grip around your waist and a snore. Turning your body slowly, you squinted against the harsh Coruscant sunlight peeking through your blinds.

Sev was still there.

He was still wrapped around you. Barely moving. You thought about waking him. About doing the usual morning-after ritual - a kiss. A joke. A breakfast offer. A “call me later” even when you both knew it probably wouldn’t happen. A clean-up. A goodbye.

The crowd had been roaring for the past twenty minutes. Yes, only twenty. You’d stepped into the pit twenty minutes ago under downlights harsher than usual - probably a tech error, or maybe just your own exhaustion playing tricks again. Another sleepless night. Crunching your core, you ducked under the jab just in time. The Trandoshan’s claws sliced the air where your throat had been a breath ago. He was twice your size. Well, maybe more. Scales slick with the blood of his last opponent. Mouth reeking of lizard stench and bloodlust.

You blacked out for a split second and slammed your fist into the soft meat under his jaw, cracking something cushiony and solid. Could be his bones, could be your own knuckles.

Next thing you knew was that nasty feeling of your skin scraping against the rough ground. Ears ringing. Your eyes were momentarily blinded by the sweat around them and tasted blood when you licked your lips. Could’ve been from the previous fight. Could’ve been yours. Could’ve been reptilian. 

You rolled to your side and saw your opponent rubbing his jaw. Thick digits probing at the spot you’d hit. Wide mouth full of fangs twisted in something that could have only been arrogance. Rolling your head to the ground, your forehead felt the grit of the surface, palm feeling the stabbing of tiny particles as you pushed yourself upright with your good hand to get back into the stance, ignoring the way your ribs screamed. 

Your leg shot out to catch the bastard clean. He hadn’t expected you to recover that fast, and failed his footing. You pulled his head down as you drove your knee into his chest, shoved him back, and finished it - one elbow to the temple. Then another. And finally, a hammer strike straight to the base of his skull - successfully incapacitating him. 

Even with your ears still ringing, you felt the crowd gradually fall into silence. It started from the front rows, then the middle, spreading like smoke through the rest. 

They knew what they saw. The infamous Trandoshan fighter, undefeated across half the Outer Rim, killed with your bare hands.

Blood dripped from your brow as you raised one arm, something between mockery and victory. The lights buzzed overhead, flickering sickly green-gold, casting your shadow across the corpse. Third win today. Hundreds, maybe thousands, in Wolffe’s pocket.

And that’s why they called you Wolffe’s Butcher.

Silence in the locker room was worse than the arena noise. No crowd, no shouting, only the intermittent hiss from the busted coolant pipe overhead and the sound of you wrapping your shoulder in a bacta-gel bandage. The cold bit into the torn skin left by Trando's claws. You clenched your teeth and kept wrapping.

You didn’t even bother looking up when the metal door whirred open, and exposed those familiar heavy steps. You also ignored the obnoxious sound of a sidearm clattered against the transparisteel table, followed by the weighted drag of a robe tossed over the back of a chair.

“Two more fights,” Wolffe said with his gravelly voice. “Then your debt’s paid.”

You let out a dry snort, and spat a clot of blood onto the floor before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Two more fights, huh?” You rolled your shoulder, testing the wrap. “And after that, how long do I keep playing your bodyguard?” Pressing a palm into a bruise on your tricep, you cussed to yourself. Fighting a trandoshan bare-handed was never your favourite pastime activity. “Thought a former Republic and Imperial commander could handle himself.”

With your hair glued to your scalp from sweat, you finally looked up. Wolffe stood a few paces away, still in his battered Phase II armor. No rerebrace, no elbow plates, no vambraces - only the chestplate, leg armour, and spaulders. The whites on his armour had long since faded into dust-grey, scratched and dulled from wear. He’d swapped the full body glove for a short-sleeved variant, both arms exposed. Ink ran from shoulder to wrist, black and bold.

“You’d be dead if I hadn’t pulled you out of that wreck on Nar Shaddaa,” he deadpanned. “You still owe me.”

Rolling your eyes, you stood up with a grunt, overtrained joints cracking as you stretched your arms overhead. Muscles flexed, you had the type of build people trained decades for. Shoulders almost as broad as his, biceps big enough to crush a jogan fruit, back sculpted as if you were hiding a pair of wings, stomach tight under bronzed, scarred skin. Walking towards your locker, you let the fight drip off you. You didn’t bother putting your shirt back on. The gunmetal grey compression top clung to your chest was soaked with Trandoshan blood. And as you packed your gears inside your locker, you felt his eyes.

Of course you did. Wolffe was never subtle.

The ex-commander’s stare was always piercing. He tracked every line of your spine, the roll of muscle through your traps, the ink peeking along your ribs. Blood had crusted across your shoulder. A split along your left bicep still wet. A fresh bruise was blooming in your lower back, dark and ugly.

He watched anyway.

Throwing a towel on one shoulder, you turned to him, “I beat that one Wookiee bounty hunter next week and I’m done fighting. Deal?”

“I said two more.”

“One Wookiee is basically two… any other beings, really.”

You turned your back again to grab the bottle from your locker and chugged it. Shit, you hated how the room-temperature water tasted like steel. 

“You’re lucky you’re not my type,” Wolffe said, after a pause. “Otherwise I’d make you pay another way.”

You let out a mocking laugh before turning back to face him again, cocking your hips as you tossed the empty bottle into the rubbish bin behind him without looking. “Oh. I’m everyone’s type,” you bit back. “I fucked one of your girlfriends last week.” You stepped forward, close enough to see Wolffe’s cybernetic eye twitch. “She called me daddy.”

You reached for the leather gloves hanging on the communal cloak hanger behind him. 

“Careful, Butcher,” he smirked.

“Or what? Bet I could make you fold like your girls under you,” you grinned before slinging your duffle bag. “At least double my payment if ya want to fuck,”

Only after you left the locker room did Wolffe let out the longest sigh of his day. Maybe his week. Maybe since he left the Empire.

He pushed himself to sit on top of a metal crate where the rest of his pit fighters put their gears in. Every muscle in his body ached - some from the occasional underworld fight that he had to handle without your intervention, some from hiding from the Empire. And all of it his own fault.

Ever since defecting, he hadn’t slowed down once. No quiet retirement. No peace. Just more war in a different font. He started out with odd jobs in the galactic underworld. Bounty hunting, debt collection, merc gigs under the alias Direwolf. He’d earned a reputation quickly - former clone commander turned freelance executioner. 

Eventually, the credits piled up. So did the enemies. He stopped working for gangs and started competing with them. Built an operation from the wreckage of the Empire’s rot. Ran a weapons smuggling network right under Imperial noses, thanks to loyal brothers still inside, quietly feeding him surplus and military weapons from abandoned outposts and ghost shipyards. The credits got laundered through pit fights. And that was how The Wolf Den was born.

He picked Level 1313 for a reason. It was lawless enough to hide from the Imps, brutal enough to keep the weak out, and profitable enough to buy loyalty. He’d tested other systems. Even tried a run on Nar Shaddaa.

Your home moon.

That was where he found you, or maybe lost you. It depended on how you looked at it. Half-alive in an inhumane fighting ring, chained at the ankle, fighting for scraps. Full audience to entertain everyday, no rules, no medics. Only pain for you and profit for your captors. He hadn’t meant to intervene, but something about the way you kept getting up… the way you looked at your captors like they were already dead sparked something in him.

And he eventually pulled you out. Though, Wolffe didn’t do it to be noble. You were valuable. You had the build, the mindset, the rage. So he gave you a better life. Better pay. A bunk that locked. A contract with clauses. Extra credits for guarding his ass between matches. He made you a pit fighter again. Only this time, you had a choice. Or so he kept telling himself.

Wolffe never asked for much. He only wanted you to pay back the credits he shelled out after dragging your body out of that Nar Shaddaa slaughterhouse. The clinic was two levels below the nearest decent hospital, run by a Rodian surgeon with real medical degree but zero licence. You were opened up, cleaned out, patched together with bacta and a secondhand metal spine implant. It wasn’t charity. It was investment.

Not only did he cover the full skyrocketing bill - he also paid extra credits as hazard pay for the doctor, bribe money for the gang who ran the block, and the cost of your forged chain code so you could live in the Den without worry. And although he paid you, your debt didn’t shrink easy. It took time. Pit earnings weren’t much, as generous as Wolffe was compared to other handlers, it was still nothing stacked against the amount owed.

You had a little extra from guarding him - your official “secondary function,” and that went straight to personal entertainment. Vice, mostly. Vices were cheaper than therapy. So yeah. You were still in debt.

Sometimes, it felt like he wanted it that way. For you to be forever indebted.

You liked to blame that on his girlfriends. Yes, plural. He didn't actually need you to pay back those credits he spent on you to keep the Den running. But there was always someone on his arm. Pretty. Soft. Not built like you. They came and went like weather - dancers, slicers, the occasional smooth-talking smuggler with silky dresses and expensive shoes.

All of them temporary. All of them replaceable. But you weren’t. And he knew it.

Which was probably why you were still stuck here - shoulder bandaged, ribs bruised, guarding the man who bought you a second chance and kept you close like he still hadn’t decided whether to thank you or own you.

“Did you check your account?” He asked without looking back. The weekly rounds across the level had become almost religious. A show of presence. Territory marking. Wolffe took it seriously - polite visits to those he tolerated, thirty minutes staring contest at ones he didn’t. And like always, you trailed a step behind, slugthrower slung loose in your grip, hands still raw from the last fight.

“I did,” you muttered, eyes locked on a passing Falleen.

Black Sun. Their people were crawling all over 1313 lately. You didn’t like it.

The other bodyguard, a Lasat built like a security droid with pale lavender complexion and massive scars across his eyes and mouth, shot you a glance and huffed through his nose. A laugh? A warning? Hard to tell with him.

You let out a muffled chuckle at his reaction. Everyone knew you weren’t the strongest. Not by a long shot, but you were the smartest, and definitely the most reckless. That’s how you won all those fights. So Wolffe doubling your pay wasn’t a surprise. It was a simple math. Keep the wildest one happy, or deal with the fallout when she flips the table during a negotiation.

“No more complaints then,” Wolffe muttered as he adjusted the clasp on his cloak, pulling it tighter across his shoulders.

The three of you stepped inside an establishment crawling with people scraping for credits and a second chance at survival. A rival pit ring Wolffe planned to buy out. Or ruin.

“Eh,” you said, brushing past him to clear his path. “Could be better.”

You walked straight toward the Abyssin in the navy blue blazer, Kor Gresh. The one-eyed man sat dead center of a half-moon plush booth, surrounded by at least six visible guards and probably a couple more blended in with the crowd. You held back a laugh somewhere between amusement and pride for your own boss.

Kor Gresh was a known gangster, blackmarket financier, and a typical crime lord who would fold in an alley fight before he even bled. That’s why he always moved in a pack. His reputation lived in the men he paid to keep him upright. Wolffe didn’t need that. The ex-commander was a threat on his own. You and the Lasat were enough backups.

The armoured guards stood straighter, hands steady on the triggers as you approached.

“Kor Gresh,” you said coolly, before stepping aside to let Wolffe take the front. “Wolffe,” you added, catching the eyes of your Lasat colleague, making sure he was ready if anything broke.

Kor Gresh stood still, of course he did. He raised his expensive-looking glass of liquor. “Direwolf himself,” Kor drawled with his unmistakable posh Upper Coruscanti accent, voice gurgling as if it had something caught in it. “Didn’t think you’d show in person. Thought your Butcher did the talking these days.”

You didn’t react. You did, however, rest your finger near your trigger.

“I only send her when I need someone dead,” Wolffe answered. “Today’s a talk.”

Kor stretched his arms across the booth. “So, talk.”

Wolffe’s cloak brushed the grimy floor as he stepped forward. “You’ve been siphoning fighters off my circuit. Not paying them. Two of them ended up dead in your ring last week, no payout to the families. That’s a problem.”

Kor shrugged with one massive shoulder.

“It’s the pit. Everyone dies eventually. You should know.”

Wolffe tilted his head. “They died badly. Not even a good crowd. Only disposal. That’s not sport. That’s waste.”

Kor grinned. “You here to lecture me on honour now, Commander?”

“No,” Wolffe said. “I’m here to buy your ring. Before I take it.”

A laugh rumbled from the Abyssin’s throat. “Bold. New in the game, and cocky as hell.”

Like good little minions, his bodyguards chuckled along. Forced, performative, fingers locked tighter on their blasters.

“Your fighters came to me because of your piss-poor pay,” Kor went on, lighting a thick cigar with a torch the size of your fist. “You’re not even a good employer, Direwolf.” He blew out a column of smoke with practiced arrogance. “No need to talk like you run Galactic Wrestling Entertainment where nobody dies and it’s all a choreographed performance with decent pay.”

You watched the smoke curl around his massive watery eye and considered whether it’d be more satisfying to break his jaw or his kneecap first.

It wasn’t a lie, though. Pay was shit. But at least Wolffe paid you. Oh, the joy of bare minimum. You really should start looking into outside sponsorships. Something to scrape together to finish off your debt, maybe even catch a patron. If you could land that, maybe Wolffe would finally move you up like he did with the other not-you top fighters he backed. Those he actually hired, not picked up like a sad tortured tooka. 

Maybe one day, you could be like Wyrmen Lictor. That top-ranking warrior on Nar Kanji. The Arachne was well-sponsored, well-armed, and loved by her syndicate. She was a walking billboard of protection. No one touched her without permission. And her fights gathered spectacles from across the Outer Rim, expensive, surrounded by medics and cameras. She wasn’t just a fighter. She was basically a celebrity, and you weren’t there yet.

But if Wolffe was picking fights with people like Kor Gresh, maybe you weren’t as far off as you thought. Maybe one day he’d get enough credit and senses to actually sponsor you. 

“Return my fighters, or I’ll take over your arena.” Wolffe hissed. Now was the time for a quick headcount. You scanned the guards. Memorised blaster placement, knives, every miniscule of hand movements, the guy in the corner pretending to be drunk. You didn’t have to look at the Lasat to know he was doing the same.

“As a longtime businessman,” Kor chuckled, “let me tell you - your clone mentality will always set you back.” He swirled his drink, the liquid sloshing in slow circles. “You know, the whole brotherhood thing. Loyalty. Camaraderie. Even when these lot aren’t your brothers. They’re just your fighting dogs.”

He took another sip. Then pointed his cigarra at you. “Yes, including you, love.” Then at the Lasat. “And you.”

“You know we c—” you started in a low voice, but Wolffe’s hand came up fast, holding you back.

“It doesn’t have to be violent,” Wolffe said calmly, voice taut. “Just hand them over, and we can do the site handover like good, civilised men.”

Kor set his glass back down on the shiny table, chuckling like he already knew the ending to this conversation. “I’ve been having fever dreams of taking over your little Wolf Den too, you know.”

Tapping the ash of his cigarra, he crossed his leg over the other.  “I own at least half the fighting arenas on 1313. You think you can buy them all out? The shitty little ones, sure, they fold because they’re worthless. But mine?” He showed his teeth through cracked lips. “My fighters stay because I make them visible. I give them stage lights, sell them as brands. They get front-row sponsors, personal logos, their names printed on cheap t-shirts down in The Wharf. Do I pay them fairly? No. Sometimes not at all. Do I let them keep their full cut? Hell no.” He shrugged. “But they get seen. They get talked about. They get followers. They think it’s exposure, and that’s worth more to them than your clean-cut credit transfer at the end of the week.”

You felt something twist in your gut. Because he wasn’t wrong. “I give them the illusion of fame,” Kor said, spreading his arms wide. “And it works. Because that’s all most of them want. Right, darling?” He looked at you again. 

You glared at the void behind him, engaging your old, tested method to tune everything out. Cold air. Strobing lights. Distance. Let the noise drain out until it was just you and the shape of what needed doing. Because you knew how this ended. With Wolffe and his little ambition, his dream of owning every fighting ring on 1313, turning his gang into a syndicate - you knew a fight was inevitable. You just hadn’t expected it to break out in velvet booths and overpriced liquor. Still, you had to admit: Kor Gresh was no idiot. Arrogant, yes. Flashy. A fossil with his one-eye and coiffed hair and suits. But he’d earned his rep. And he didn’t build and buy the arenas on this level by being slow.

“Don’t make me ask twice,” Wolffe grunted.

In a blink, blasters pointed straight at him. At least eight. All aimed at his overgrown curls-covered head - surprisingly, including the Lasat. 

Fucking hell. You stiffened. Of course it was X. That bastard had only been around three months, and somehow wormed his way into Wolffe’s favour fast enough to stand beside you as co-bodyguard. You never liked his name, refused to say it out loud. And now here he was, a plant all along. Wolffe glanced at him in the flattest stare you’ve ever seen, and a single word.

“Really?”

Then he looked at you. And you knew that the best survival tactic in a room like this was to act like the majority. Let the dumb ones think you're part of the tide. You quickly drew your slugthrower and aimed it at Wolffe’s temple. “I want my face on a t-shirt too,” you deadpanned.

Wolffe turned his head slightly to meet your eyes. “Butcher,” he muttered. 

You’d done this before, pretending to turn on him only to flip back the next minute and tear the whole fucking room apart. This wasn’t new. But it never got old. His eyes dragged down to your lips for a breath then he gave the tiniest nod you’d ever seen.

You pulled the trigger.

The slug caught the Lasat in the side of the head, just above the temple, and dropped him before he fired. You quickly dove behind the booth as Wolffe flipped the table, sending bottles and plates crashing. Wolffe was on his feet, twin DCs drawn, firing fast bursts. He dropped two guards in the first volley. You rolled out from behind cover and caught one trying to flank, choking him in the neck before emptying your clip into his gut.

The velvet lounge that once contrasted the rest of the grimy arena reeked of smoke, blood, and glass. One of Kor’s men tried to run, and Wolffe got him through his leg. You kicked another in the knee, grabbed his blaster, and used it to cave in the skull of the one trying to crawl for the exit. By the time the last scream died, you were both standing. Wolffe breathing hard, ignoring a steaming scorch mark at the bottom of his cloak.

You, spattered in blood again, hands still tight around the warm grip of the stolen blaster.

Kor Gresh slumped cold in his seat, a line of red dripping from his throat, still holding that fucking cigar like he might get one last puff.

“I hate these meetings,” you muttered.

Wolffe cracked his neck. Holstered his blasters.

“Then stop talking so much.” He turned to you without a smile or a thank you, of course. Just that steady post-firefight tension in his shoulders because he hadn’t quite come down yet. You hadn’t either. Your pulse was still somewhere in your throat and in your ears. 

The rest of the arena had cleared out when you fired the first shot - scrambling to avoid being caught in the crossfire. What remained now was just the scent of scorched leather, burnt hair, and death, and that obnoxious Huttese techno over the sound system.

And there was you and him.

“We’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do first thing tomorrow,” he muttered, looking around. “I’ll contact… what’s his name—”

Of course. Fucking man forgot the name of his own secretary again.

“Kala.”

“Yes, him. He’ll handle the old fighters, transfer the new ones, and we’ll rebrand this place. Make it the new Den.”

You weren’t listening to the logistics thanks to your rebellious eyes who decided to slip for a second right to his lips. It made you feel stupid, mostly because you’d seen him covered in blood. Seen him bark orders, take down men much scarier than him, walk into rooms and ambush everyone. His lips shouldn’t be the thing you noticed. But it was. Lush. Too plush for someone like him. A little chapped. Smudged with soot in one corner. And you wondered - not for the first time, not even the tenth, but this time it hit you harder, how he might taste.

It was true you’d slept with one of his girlfriends. Okay. Two. But you’d started wondering lately was it because you actually wanted them? Or because you wanted residues of him? Whatever part of him they carried in their mouths. On their silky smooth skin. The way they said his name behind closed doors. The shape of his voice echoing through someone else. You shook it off, swallowed hard, and looked away. But you could feel his stare grazing the side of your face, again. 

The two of you left the venue, your boss himself had ping whoever cleaners available in the block to clean the bodies up, and whatever business that usually went down after a successful acquisition. You pulled open the speeder door with a grunt, knuckles still aching from a punch you landed on one of Kor’s men - yet you admired the flaking blood painted the tips of your nails as you curled your fingers around the wheel. Wolffe slid into the passenger seat without a word.

You were halfway to the Den when Wolffe broke the silence. “Drive to your apartment.”

“Why?”

“Just drive.” 

You glanced at the rearview. He was head-down in his datapad, scrolling through whatever schedule or cleanup list he was already organising. Not a minute later, he let out a long exhale, raised one eyebrow at you, then tilted his head back to stare through the grimy sunroof - watching nothing but tangled structures and dull support beams lining the notorious level.

“Alright,” you muttered to yourself.

A few minutes later, you pulled up in front of your building - a rundown, three-story slab of concrete with dying hallway lights and a busted lift that always smelled like bleach. You killed the engine and got out, holding the door open so your boss wouldn’t have to touch the grime-caked handle. Stupid little courtesy you never gave anyone else but him.

Wolffe rounded the speeder without a word. Cloakless. Probably left it crumpled in the passenger seat. He had a habit of ditching it the moment he sat down, said it restricted movement, but you knew it was more than that. He wore it for image, not comfort. Part of whatever social code he’d picked up on his slow rise through the underworld.

He reached for the driver’s seat, then stopped before turning to you, and really looked at you. And for the first time in two years, he said, “Thank you.”

You didn’t realise your face had cracked into an eyeroll and a frown until you looked away and let go of the door. But before you could take a step, he grabbed your wrist, pulled you back, and crashed his lips against yours. It wasn’t soft, nor was it curious. It was pure lust, and it was full of teeth, and tongue, and possibly two years of unsaid shit dragged between your bodies. His rough hand cupped the back of your neck, and when he broke away he rasped. “Stars, what more do you want, Butcher?”

You simply stared at him for a second, tasting the kiss, breathing through the ache in your ribs and the split in your lip. Then you grabbed him by the front of his sweaty undershirt, yanked it like a collar, kicked the speeder door shut behind him, and started walking backwards towards your building. He obeyed like a good boy. And judging from the way he stared at you? The bastard was enjoying it.

You dragged him along without letting go, twisting your arm to keep moving properly up the emergency staircase that still reeked of deathsticks. Of course the lift was broken again. You passed the second floor’s stuttering hallway light, burning dim and useless, before finally reaching your Wolffe-paid apartment. Keying the lock with your free hand, you shoved it open with your boot, pulling him in.

Inside, Wolffe caught a breath of unwashed laundry, old leather, and the metallic tang of weapon cleaning solutions. He’d known what kind of place this was when he let you crash here. It was barely livable with concrete walls, one grimy window, no decor - but clearly, he didn’t care. Not then. Not now. Not when you were about to fuck him into oblivion.

You let go of his shirt and reached for his chest plate, clumsy from exhaustion. He caught your hand just to look. Eye scanning your face like he was seeing something for the first time.

“You sure?”

You rolled your shoulders, didn’t bother with words. Instead, you dragged him into the wall and kissed him again - harder, hungrier. “Shut the fuck up,” you muttered against his mouth.

“Yes ma’am,” He chuckled against your mouth, letting you claim him. 

After accidentally scratching an open wound on your own hand, you finally got the first clasp of his chest plate open, yanked the metal off his body, and threw it across the room. Wolffe didn’t stop you. Didn’t help either. He only dragged you closer, hands palming your ass, grabbing for whatever part of you he could get, trying to undress you through sheer willpower while you tore him apart one brutal piece at a time.

His spaulders went next. Then the leg plates. Then the vambraces. Each release echoed through the shitty little apartment. He got impatient by the time you reached the codpiece. No surprise. His fingers were fast, unhooking the leather buckles at your side with one hand, yanking your blood-slick gear down with the other, dragging you back into another kiss that tasted like sweat, rage, and iron. By the time you both collapsed into the barely-held-together excuse of a bed, tangled in the hole-riddled duvet, you were half-naked and grinning like a fucking maniac. 

Wolffe shoved you down hard, but you flipped him on his back, and climbed on top. He growled beneath you, rough palms dragging down your sides to grab the meat of your thighs as if trying to remember what control tasted like - but you didn’t give him the chance.

You peeled your compression top off with zero ceremony, and tossed it somewhere behind you. The last of your armour hit the ground. Your body was a map of bruises, scars, half-healed fractures. It was a battlefield that perfectly matched his own. 

Wolffe sat up to meet you there - one hand curling into your hair, the other braced against your waist. You expected him to bite, to snarl, to pin you and make a mess of it all. But instead, he stilled for a breath or two. Then he tucked your hair behind your ear gently. “Fuck, you’re beautiful when you’re not beating the shit out of those poor souls.”

Warmth climbed your neck and bloomed across your cheeks - unwelcome, too visible, too human. You knew your face was red, and it pissed you off more than it should. “Fuck you,” you growled, but the man under you only laughed - smug as fuck. You didn’t give him time to gloat. You caught his mouth again in another hungry, furious kiss, biting at his bottom lip.

You were soaked, flooded, wrecked. His hands all over you, the tent of his blacks stiff as it dragged against the soaked seam of your underwear. You ground your hips down harder just to hear that heavy breath he always tried to swallow. His hand came up, rough palm cupping your bare breast, calloused thumb circling your nipple before giving it a sharp pinch that made your spine jolt and your teeth scrape his lip. “Gods, you could’ve just told me you wanted me,” he rasped against your mouth, tone infuriatingly casual for a man about to get ruined. “No need to be bratty about it. Could’ve skipped the whole pay raise stunt.”

You pushed him down harder, flattening him against the mattress. “Shut the fuck up,” you hissed, but the crack in your voice betrayed the forced nonchalance - it only told him how badly you wanted this. How badly you wanted him. He chuckled, and a hand smacked down on your thigh, then your ass. 

“Ohhh, I see,” his breath hitched as you pressed your palm down again. “This is about you being on top tonight.”

You licked your lips, chest heaving, eyes locked on his flushed face and parted mouth. “Damn right it is.”

“Mmh. You kinda have to fight for it, Butcher,” His hand dragged up from your ass to your thigh and finally your throat. Giving it just enough pressure to make your pulse flutter under his palm. The toothy grin that split your face was enough to break him. “Stars,” his thumb stroked the hollow of your neck. “Did I just find my match?”

You leaned in into his grip, letting him feel the way your pulse kicked beneath his thumb. Your grin grew wider. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

Wolffe’s cybernetic eye burned grey in the low light, that molten kind of focus reserved only for the ring, or this. You could feel his erection straining against his blacks under you, and gods, the way he looked at you like he could snap your spine or beg you for mercy? Either one would’ve made you feral. “You’re cocky tonight,” he rasped.

“You started it,” you whispered, rolling your hips to make him hiss. “You think I’m gonna let you manhandle me like your other girls?”

His palm on your throat wraps tighter, possessive and reverent all at once. “No,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re not the kind to get handled.”

“Exactly,” you leaned down, lips brushing his stubbles, nipping it. “I’m the kind who does the handling.”

That earned a low, half-laugh, half-moan from deep inside his chest, one of those sounds that made you even wetter. His hands were on your thighs again, holding you like he was bracing for impact - or maybe surrender. You preferred the latter. You reached down and wrapped your fingers around the hem of his blacks, yanked them down to free him, and gods. There he was. Thick, heavy, and already slick at the tip. You couldn’t help the curse that slipped out of you. “Go on then,” he said, voice rough as rust. “Handle me.”

And you did. You sank down slowly, savouring every inch like a victory you fought tooth and nail for. The stretch was brutal in the best way, making your breath catch, your body tremble, your bruises scream and beg for more. Wolffe’s hands gripped you tighter, eyes darkened with a glimpse that almost looked like awe.

“Fuck—” he gasped. “You feel—stars—Butcher—”

You bounced on him once, to watch his face twist. Then again. And again. 

“You liked this, huh?” he grunted, voice sending shiver down your spine. “Like seeing me under you like this?”

The crime lord peeled his back off the mattress, catching your mouth in a toothy kiss, only to drag his lips lower - biting a mark into your neck, claiming a territory. “Is everything a fight for you?” he growled into your pulse. Then his hips surged up, driving deeper, harder, dragging a cry straight out of your throat. You clutched his shoulders, nails scoring the meat there as your head dropped forward, gasping, moaning his name like it was the only thing you remembered. “Yes,” you answered.

“Of course it is,” he rasped, bucking up again, letting you feel the full weight of him. “Fucking starved thing, always clawing your way to the top. Even here.”

You growled back, pulling his face up to yours, teeth clicking as your noses touched. “You think I work this hard just to get fucked? No. I fuck you.”

He bared his teeth. WIth his wild eyes now, and equally wild hands, he bruised your hips as he slammed up into you again and again meeting every drop of your hips with equal fury, and smacked you again. “Come on, then. Take it. Take all you want,”

That drove you to roll your hips harder until the air left his lungs in a sound that sounded more like a complete surrender in the form of your name. Sweat stung your cuts. Your thighs burned. His hands slipped and found new bruises to make on your thighs. And still you didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” he rasped. “No wonder they’re all scared of you.”

“I don’t want them scared,” you gritted, grabbing a fistful of his greying curls and tugging his face to yours again, “I want you ruined.”

“Too late,” he laughed, breathless, slamming up into you again and dragging another helpless moan out of your mouth. “You already ruined me, Butcher.” And stars, if that didn’t make spiders swarm the insides of your stomach.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulder as you slowed down your pace, grinding in tight, torturous circles instead of bouncing like he wanted. Dragging your lips against the shell of his ear just as his hips tried to buck again, and you slipped your palm down on his abdomen and stopped him. “No,” you whispered. “You don’t get to fuck me unless you ask.”

Wolffe let out a frustrated groan as if something primal was clawing its way out of his throat. His hands gripped your thighs, but he didn’t move. “I swear to fuck—” he growled through clenched teeth. 

That gave way to a wicked smile on your face before you started rocking your hips down again, taking him in deep, but not all the way. Your lips brushed his again, taunting. “Say it.”

His brow furrowed, frustration leaking from every corner of his face. The man who commanded an entire battalion - from the Republic to the Empire and now to a growing underground syndicate. The man who fought wars. Who ruled the Den. Who never begged. Never bent. But here, pinned under you, shiny with sweat and breathing like a beast, he was shaking.

“Please,” he finally muttered, cracking his voice.

You tsked and rolled your hips again, cruel and perfect. “Louder.”

“Fuck,” he hissed, almost punching the mattress. “Please. I need you to fuck me. Ride me like I’m yours.”

You leaned down, kissed the corner of his lips.

“Good boy.”

That broke him. With a grunt, he flipped you, pinning you down with his weight, one hand braced by your head and the other gripping your jaw as he rammed back into you like a man possessed. You cried out as the whole bed rattled beneath you. “Happy?”

But you couldn’t speak. Not with him buried in you so deep it hurt so deliciously, not with the pace he set - brutal, unrelenting, devastating. You could only moan his name, again and again like it was holy. Like it was a prayer. “Fuck. Wolffe. Pl—”

You choked it back. No. No fucking way were you going to beg.

“Say it,” he growled, eyes locked on yours. “Come on. I said it.”

His grip on your throat tightened just a little—enough to make you aware. His other hand dragged down your body, anchoring your hip so you couldn’t squirm away. He rammed into you again. “What do you want, Butcher? Huh?” he hissed through his teeth. “You want to be like those fuckin’ fighters in the Outer Rim? Get your face plastered all over 1313? Credits poured into your account? Sponsors fighting to buy your contract?”

You rolled your eyes back as pleasure tore through you in waves, your back arching, mouth open in a silent scream. He smirked.

“Oh yeah, that’s it. Taking me like a good girl now, huh? Not so mouthy when you’re this full,” he sneered against your throat, biting down to leave a mark. “Not much of a fighter now, are you?”

You hissed between clenched teeth, nails raking down his back. “Fuck you, I’m still winning.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, baby,” he snapped, “but right now? I own you.”

And then he pounded, and you finally let go. Fully. Completely. Every wall, every smartass quip, every scrap of carefully curated control - you let it burn. It all dissolved under the weight of him, the way he filled you, claimed you, broke you in the most devastating, delicious way. You rode that heat with no shame, let your back arch and your mouth drop open, fingers scrambling for something - anything - to hold on to.

He didn’t let up. Didn’t give you space to think. And gods, it was so good to stop thinking. “Did my girls behave like this when you fucked them?” he bit again. “Did you act like me? Say it.”

“Fuck,” you moaned. His thrusts started to stutter, his rhythm slipping, trying to chase the high now, same as you. He dropped his forehead against yours, hand still firm around your throat, the other fisting the sheets beside your head. You felt him shake.

“Come on, Butcher,” he breathed, eyes wild. “Be a good girl. Tell me what you want now.”

You met his gaze. Sweat beading down your temple. And you smiled. “More,” you whispered. “I want more. Until I forget my name. Until I forget yours. Until the whole level collapses and the only thing I remember is you.” And with a desperate groan, he kissed you again.

“Come for me,” he growled against your lips, his bedroom voice fraying at the edges of control. “Now.”

You could only nod. Could only cling to him, breath breaking into gasps as your entire body tensed, spiraled, then shattered. You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, dragging red crescents into sweat covered skin as wave after wave ripped through you. And he didn’t stop until he felt you quake and tremble and fall apart beneath him. 

That was when he let go. 

With a strangled curse and a stuttering thrust, he followed you over the edge, his release crashing through him as his hips jerked and finally slowed, grinding deep as he buried himself to the hilt. He held you there, locked tight together, panting against your neck, every muscle in his body taut with the aftershock.

And then, he chuckled through the haze, lips brushing your cheek. “Good,” he murmured. “Always so pretty when you win something.” Wolffe planted a kiss against a scar on your jaw. “Apparently still pretty when you lose.”

He stayed there. Letting himself stay buried inside you. Breathing you in. The room stank of sweat, and sex, and neither of you moved. His weight grounded you. His presence muted the outside world.

You both stayed like that for a good five minutes, the only sounds in the room being your breaths and the slowing thud of two hearts calming down. Then finally, Wolffe pulled out with a grunt, very slowly as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go yet. You winced at the sudden emptiness, but then his hand slid up your body to push back the damp strands of hair clinging to your forehead. “Still with me?” he rasped.

You nodded, eyes half-lidded, lips curved into dazed and blissful smile.

“Good. Stay here.”

He rolled off the bed, groaning as he stretched, every muscle from his shoulders to his calves protesting the motion. You heard him muttering something under his breath about "concrete hellholes" and "buying a new mattress, for fuck’s sake," before the sound of the sink running filled the apartment. A few minutes later, he returned with a glass of water in one hand and a damp rag in the other. He handed you the glass first. “Drink up.”

You took it, gulped, and let your head fall back into the pillow. “Why do you sound like you’re about to give a military debriefing.”

“Because I know you’ll pass out without rehydrating, and I’d rather not scrape your body off the floor tomorrow.”

You snorted into your water. Wolffe sat back down beside you, dragging the rag gently across your stomach, wiping away sweat, his cum, and smudged blood from the earlier fight. 

“Did you just clean me?”

“Stop talking,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I’m always thorough.”

You caught his hand, fingers curling around his wrist. “Yeah? Is that what your girlfriends said?”

“Yeah,” He raised an eyebrow. “They didn’t say the same about you after you slept with them? Did you wham-bam-thank you ma’am my girls?”

“I had to hurry cause you were at the door. So…”

Wolffe rolled his eyes, then leaned down, kissing the side of your knee. “Maybe I should stop letting you win.”

“You won’t.”

“You keep pushing, Butcher, and I’m going to make you really lose next time.”

You smiled lazily, letting the empty glass rest on your belly. “Promises, promises.”

Months later, the new Wolf Den was alive with bigger suspended ring, better lights, louder crowd. It had taken weeks to convert Kor Gresh’s sad excuse for an arena into something worth bleeding in, but Wolffe had done it. Or rather, you both had.

And now, the crowd roared around you, every scream bouncing off the walls like thunder. You stood dead center in the pit, shoulders rolled loose, knuckles already bloodied and swelling under your wraps. Across from you, that mountain of a Wookiee covered in black and grey fur snarled deeply. He was notorious, one of the most feared gladiators in the Outer Rim, flew to the core of the Galaxy and deep in its most infamous level. Black Krrsantan. A worthy opponent. 

The announcer’s voice echoed across the massive sound system filling the entire arena, “Three… two…”

You bounced once on the balls of your feet, rolling your neck. Unlike before, you weren’t stitched together by alcohol, stubbornness, and painkillers. Your cuts were fresh, but your body was prepped. Strong. You had proper gear now, a real training schedule, and gods help you - a fucking medical team. And it was all thanks to him.

“One…”

You scanned the crowd. Past the lights, past the noise, past the ring of fighters and guards and sponsors and drunk bastards. And there he was. On the upper level, seated like a fucking king. Tattooed arms and elbows on the table. Maroon cloak draped elegantly behind him. At least eight armoured bodyguards around him. That familiar scowl carved into his face.

And yet, his eyes softened when they landed on you.

Wolffe raised his glass and tipped it towards you. A private gesture no one else noticed. No smile, no words. Just that.

You grinned.

“Fight!”

And then you charged.

“Are you sure you’re doing this?” Jesse stretched his legs and jogged in place, black compression undershirt sticking to his broad chest, blue shorts cut high on his thighs. You recognised them as the ones Skywalker had ordered for the entire 501st, a rare act of foresight from a Jedi who understood soldiers needed proper leisure and workout kits. You’d made a note to do the same for your men on Ryloth when you rotated back, simple things went a long way. For now, you were stuck here. Skywalker requested your oversight and tactical plans for the 501st whilst he and his padawan were off chasing a lead in the Outer Rim, especially with a joint operation on the horizon. It was decided that you might as well embed early. Better for coordination.

“Thought you said you were on your period, sir? Kix and I are going for twenty five klicks, and you know the route here isn’t like what you’re used to back home.” His grin was bright as he turned towards you.

You dragged your arm across your chest in a stretch, trying to ignore the warning pinch in your lower abdomen. “I can handle city terrain, Jesse. Just because I bleed once a month doesn’t mean I’m fragile.”

Kix, whose expression was more dubious than Jesse, said, “Fragile? No. Stubborn? Absolutely. Bet you’ll keep a perfect pace for the first ten klicks and then I’ll be peeling you off the ground.”

“And that’s why you’re a medic,” you said, letting your arm down and switching sides.

Jesse laughed, shaking his head. “Stars, she’s going to kill herself out there.”

“Then you can write the report,” Kix replied flatly.

You straightened to adjust your waistband and the bungee cords that tied your vest together. “You two done talking, or are we ready to run?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Jesse pointed two fingers at his eyes - then yours - before he jogged towards the exit gate of the Republic Military Base.

Beside you, Kix extended an arm to let you slip in front of him before falling into step at your right. Jesse breezed up on your left with a steady pace.

“What’s the route today?” Kix asked.

“Standard twenty five,” Jesse replied easily. “Base to Senate District, cut across some parts of the Financial District, down to CoCo Town. Turnaround point’s Dex’s, then back the same way. Nice and scenic.”

“Scenic?” Kix deadpanned.

“Senate plaza, corporate skylines, and a diner that serves the best nerfburger in the Core. Tell me that’s not scenic.” Jesse elbowed you.

You focused on your breathing. “I’m not stopping for greasy food in the middle of a run.”

“Tragic,” Jesse said. “We could’ve set a record for longest takeaway order on foot.”

Kix shook his head. “Please, you guys are wasting oxygen.”

The three of you pushed through the gate, the city opening up ahead - broad avenues lined with reflective metal separators, hoverlanes stacked overhead, and the gleaming silhouette of the Senate Building in the distance. Yeah, it was quite scenic.

Within a few hundred metres, it hit you again - clones were tall. Long strides, easy cadence. You had to work twice as hard just to keep from falling behind.

“General, you running or trying to catch the next flight to Ryloth?” Jesse laughed.

“Shut it,” you huffed, adjusting to their pace. “Not all of us are built in a lab.”

“Not our fault you’re fun-sized.” He bit back again.

Kix snorted, eyes ahead. “Stop fighting. We’re not even one klick in.”

“Exactly,” Jesse said. “This is the warm up. Prime time for trash talk.”

Your breathing evened out, the early stitch in your stomach was successfully suppressed. The Military District rolled past in neat, regimented blocks. Clones on leave, junior officers, supply crews - everyone turned to watch as the three of you picked up pace.

“Five klicks to the Senate,” Kix said, glancing at his chrono.

“Five klicks of glory,” Jesse added. “Best view on Coruscant when the Senate Building’s dome comes into sight. Almost makes you forget how much kriffing paperwork they bury us in.”

“Almost,” you muttered.

“Bet you a round of caf I beat both of you to the Senate Plaza,” Jesse grinned as he pushed a couple of long strides ahead.

Kix groaned. “We’re not racing. Easy twenty five, vod.”

You lengthened your step, heat prickling in your abdomen as you surged after them. “Fine, Jesse. You want speed play? You’re on.”

Kix snapped his head towards you. “Are you for real, General? What about your—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off. “Not now.”

Jesse whooped loud enough to startle a civilian jogger who swerved off the track, muttering curses under her breath. The lieutenant didn’t even give a shit, arms driving, grin wide. Kix muttered something in Mando’a as he pushed harder to keep up, pace quickening outside what he’d call “easy.” The three of you ran through the wide avenue, shoulder to shoulder, as the dome loomed ahead.

You felt every centimetre of the gap between their legs and yours. And you loved it. Dropping the Force during training, refusing to lean on speed or strength, forced you into the limits of muscle and bone. On the battlefield you needed every advantage of the Force, but here, without it, you felt grounded - humbled, even. Human.

“General’s keeping up,” Jesse called over his shoulder.

“Barely,” you shot back, voice strained tighter than you wanted.

“Not bad for someone who’s currently bleeding out and spent the entire night heat compressing her abdomen,” Jesse chuckled.

“What the fuck?” Kix snapped. “You don’t even know shit!”

“What? Logic!”

The entrance of the Senate Plaza greeted you, all grey and vast with occasional Coruscant Guard patrolling and Senate workers commuting to the main building. Jesse surged the last few metres, arms pumping, and slapped an invisible finish line across the periphery. “Winner!” he crowed, throwing his fists up before dropping pace again.

You exhaled through your nose, forcing your stride to even out as he jogged back towards you. The break in pace almost made you laugh - surge, recover, surge, recover. He called it easy. You were out of breath. Meanwhile, Kix slowed down next to you, observing your face without saying anything. You knew he’d clocked the strain in your breath, the tightness in your shoulders. Keeping your eyes forward, you refused to give him the satisfaction of being right this early.

Foot traffic thickened as the three of you ran towards the outer layer of the Financial District. Spires rising close on either side, holoboards flashing across skybridges. A few civilian runners in name-brand outfit and matching mirrored goggles ran past you - oh, it must be nice to join one of those running clubs, you thought. Morning run, fun programs, a brunch after. If only you had the time.

“Twenty nine minutes in and we’re at ten klicks!” Jesse called out. “And we weren’t even pulling our fastest.” He jabbed a thumb at his own chest, then pointed at Kix. “Fastest in the 501st, right here. Well—” he tossed you a wink, “you too, sir. Echo, Fives, even General Skywalker can pack it up.”

“Eh.” You kept your voice flat. “We could be faster. Wanna try that?”

“General,” Kix interrupted before Jesse could take the bait. He tapped the water pouch strapped inside your vest. “For the love of everything holy, don’t push yourself today.”

You waved him off, trying to keep your breathing steady. “I’m fine.”

“You sound fine.” Kix shrugged. “Doesn’t mean you are.”

“Hydrate,” Jesse quietly added. His hand brushed the small of your back before he sprinted ahead of you and Kix.

The three of you weaved around a group of civilians. Someone spotted Jesse and shouted his number, earning a salute from the trooper. Torrent Company - always the ones the public recognised. Jesse and Fives had the entire HoloNet watching them after that stupid pull-up contest they did during a campaign in some backwater planet went viral. A million comments under every post since. All genders, all species, dropping comm codes for a chance.

You clenched your jaw and pushed harder, forcing your legs to keep their pace, ignoring the cramps that started to gnaw under your stomach again. The Senate dome was long behind you, its gleam swallowed by glass and steel. Ahead, the avenue bent towards CoCo Town. Dex’s neon glow marked the halfway point.

Jesse looked back at you with that perpetual grin across his face. “Still with us, General?”

“Always,” you said, even as another pinch pulled tight in your oblique.

Kix heard it in your voice. “How’s your HR?”

“Fine,” you muttered.

“Numbers,” he pressed.

You spared a glance at your wrist tracker. “One sixty eight.”

Kix’s mouth tightened. “Too high for this pace.”

“It’s city air,” you said quickly. “Pollution spikes it.”

“It’s cramps spiking it,” he shot back. “And denial.”

“Would both of you relax?” Jesse cut in. “We’re almost at Dex’s. Halfway mark, caf on the brain. I say we swing by, grab a couple of sausages, and make this a proper training run.”

“Honestly, a gel would suffice.” You gulped your water, forcing it down. The urge to reach for the Force distracted you again - just a touch to smooth the pain, and steady your stride. But that would be cheating. You wanted the burn. To train like them. To feel everything.

“A gel would suffice, if you actually took it when you needed it.” Kix snorted.

Jesse chuckled, shaking his head. “She’s stubborn, vod. Don’t waste your breath.” He dragged himself closer to nudge your arm softly. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” you answered quickly.

Unlike his brother, the medic wasn’t convinced. “Numbers.”

You checked your tracker. “One seventy two.”

Kix swore under his breath. “We’ve only been jogging for the past five hundred metres. That’s too high.”

“Still with us, General?” Jesse looked back to see if you were keeping up.

“Duh.” You forced a smirk, even as your legs weighed on you heavier than before. Ignoring it, you dug into your vest to pull out three energy gel pouches, tore one open with your teeth, and squeezed the chocolate-flavoured paste onto your tongue. Sticky, sweet, disgusting. You tossed the other two to your companions.

“Whoa,” Jesse exclaimed, catching his easily. “This is a delicious one. Not like the GAR-issue goo.” He put it between his teeth and squeezed, humming an exaggerated approval whilst he was at it.

“It’s equally nutritious and full of much needed carbs and electrolytes.” Kix shrugged as he downed it in one squeeze.

Jesse laughed under his breath. “You’re joyless, you know that?”

“Nutritious is the point,” Kix replied flatly.

Jesse wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand before checking in on you again. “Better?”

“Mhm.” You nodded and pushed your pace. The gel had done its job - quick energy burst that woke you up - but it didn’t do anything to the cursed period cramps.

Dex’s neon sign flickered across the avenue as you hit the halfway mark. The smell of fried nuna wings and caf filled the air every time the door hissed open for the morning crowd.

Jesse slowed, and raised both his arms. “Halfway! You know what that means! Sausages, caf, best training run of our lives.”

“Not happening,” Kix said before you could react. “You don’t want to vomit on the way back.”

“Come on.” Jesse sidestepped a speeder skimming too close to the curb. “Quick stop, carb load, then we crush the return leg. We’ve done worse in battles.”

“Honestly?” You drained the last of your water pouch and shoved it back into your vest. “This and the gel are plenty.”

Kix gave a curt nod. “Agreed, sir. One hundred and ten per cent.”

“Joyless. Both of ya,” Jesse blew raspberry. He leaned down closer towards you as he matched your pace. “You sure you’re good? Sir?”

“Still with you.”

“Good.” He patted your back lightly before he drifted forward again.

On your other side, Kix shoved his own water pouch back into his belt. “Twelve and a half klicks down. Same again back to base. Don’t make me carry you, General.”

You scoffed, rolling your shoulders back against the knot tightening in your stomach. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

“Wanna test that?” Jesse called over his shoulder with a laugh.

“Not happening!” You laughed and sprinted ahead.

A few minutes - though your body swore it was hours - later, the three of you left CoCo Town behind and re-entered the outer layer of the Financial District. The sun was up now, and heat was starting to emanate from the permacrete ground. Mid-morning crowds swelled the pavements, speeder horns stacking in layers overhead, completing the sensory overload. Jesse raises a hand to wave at a couple of civilians shouting his name.

“See?” he called back. “Running with me grants you instant celebrity status. Next thing you know, you’ll have a fan club, General.”

You huffed through your nose. “Not interested.”

“Don’t worry,” Kix chuckled, rare warmth in his voice. “I’ll vet the applications.”

Jesse barked a laugh. “Hear that? Medic slash agent.”

You managed a smile, even though your pace was slipping. The gel had burned through, leaving only the cramps. Each stride sent a rattle through your core. You forced your breath even - deep inhale through the nose, exhale hard through the mouth. You let your shoulders drop loose, and pull your arms tighter to your sides to keep from overstriding. It bought you seconds, not minutes.

Kix wasn’t fooled. “HR?”

“One eighty,” you admitted.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He shook his head. “We’ve been sitting steady at six per klick. One eighty is your three per klick pace heart rate, sir.”

“Still fine,” you muttered. “Two hundred metres to fifteen klicks,”

Ignoring Kix’s concern, you picked up the pace again. You loved this, those rare moments when the runner’s high kicked in, stripping everything else away. No war, no responsibilities, no Council oversight, not even the fact that your own body felt like it was turning against you. It was on you, your breath, pavement, and the wind blowing through your hair. Too bad it was short lived. By the time your tracker buzzed fifteen klicks, the cramps had you again. You lifted a hand, motioning them forward. “Don’t wait—go. I need to… adjust.”

Jesse instantly stopped in his tracks. “Not happening.”

“You’ll walk, stretch, get your HR down. That’s what’s happening.” Kix’s medic instinct kicked in as he pressed the back of his palm to your forehead. “You’re heating up, sir.”

“Come on—” you started.

“No,” Jesse cut you off, jogging on the spot beside you. “We’re not leaving you to limp home alone.”

“Sit down. Sit down,” Kix ordered, guiding you towards a bench tucked into a square between office buildings.

“Kix, I’m fine.” You rolled your eyes, words tumbling out too fast. “HR spike from the crowd, manoeuvring around them, sun’s up, summer heat—”

“Nope.” He popped the p and crouched to dig into his belt kit.

Beside you, Jesse stayed jogging in place. “It’s okay, we stopped here. Don’t want you injured.”

“Agreed,” Kix said, fishing out a small case. He shook out a single electrolyte tab and held it out. “Here, take this.”

“Seriously, Kix, I don’t have—” You shook your head.

“When it comes to health, I outrank everyone.” He grinned.

“Ohhh, you love saying that,” Jesse groaned, raking a hand down his face.

You slumped on the bench as the cramps pulsed through your core. The last of your water was long gone. Kix tipped his own pouch back, shook it, and cursed. “Empty. Stars.” He looked around the square, and spotted a shop on the corner. “Stay here. I’ll get more for you.” Before you could argue, he already disappeared from your peripheral vision.

Jesse knelt in front of you, and pushed damp strands of hair back from your face. “You’re burning up,” he murmured. Unlike most of his brothers, he wasn’t used to being in a vulnerable position. Jesse was always on - loud, cocky, quick with a joke. You’d noticed that in situations like this, when someone actually needed comfort, he faltered. Back on Ryloth, if this had happened to you, Howzer would’ve done what Kix was doing with his clinical reassurance, steady presence, and all the right words you needed to hear. Plenty of other clones who worked close with you knew how to step into that space. Jesse didn’t. Maybe it was because he’d been pushed to be Rex’s right hand, or maybe it was just Jesse being Jesse.

“I swear I’m fine,” you whispered back.

“Sure.” He took your wrist, tugged it gently until your tracker faced him. The numbers blinked red. Two fingers pressed against your pulse as he studied it. “One sixty five. It was supposed to go down minutes ago.”

“It did drop. It was one eighty.” You gave a weak snort. “Bit slow, that’s all. Don’t worry. Totally normal. I’m tired.”

“You’re in pain,” Jesse said quietly. “That’s different.”

He didn’t move until you fully eased your breathing, his grip loose but sure on your wrist, eyes meeting yours for a minute before he finally let go. By the time Kix walked back into the square with two bottles in his hands, the trooper with a massive Republic cog tattoo was already back on his feet, jogging in place.

“Took you a while,” he jabbed.

Kix only shrugged, sat down beside you, and pushed a bottle into your hand. “Drink up,” he said, cracking open his own. “Jesse can handle himself with water fountains.”

“Meh.” Jesse waved it off. “I don’t need water until twenty klicks in.”

“Wow, what an athlete.” Kix rolled his eyes sarcastically.

You twisted the cap, gulping greedily, the cold water hitting your stomach in heavy waves. It didn’t erase the cramps, but the dizziness dulled, and your heartbeat finally began to slow. “Okay, I’m good now.” You jumped back to your feet. “Let’s go.”

“General,” Kix groaned as he walked briskly beside you. “It’s fine. We can just walk back.”

“Or we can run,” Jesse muttered.

“Jesse!” Kix snapped.

“Fine,” Jesse sighed, throwing his hands up. “We can walk.”

“I can ru—oh no.” The words broke as you doubled over, pressing hard against your abdomen. The pain consumed you, and it was getting worse with every second. Second day always wrecked you. You’d promised yourself - again and again - not to train heavy on it, but here you were, crouched on the street in front of passerbies, gasping.

“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, aaargh.”

Kix cursed under his breath as he pulled open his running belt. He snapped his fingers at Jesse. “Carry her, vod.”

“What—”

“Do it. I need my hands free.” Kix fished out a small heat pack, a painkiller tab, and a cold compress.

“I can walk,” you whispered. “S’fine.”

“You cannot.” Kix said sternly.

“Come on. Up you get.” Without asking, Jesse slid one arm under your armpits, the other under your knees, lifting slow to keep from jolting you. “Hold on,” he said with that surprisingly soothing register of his when he was not throwing jokes.

Meanwhile, Kix pressed a cold compress to your forehead, before moving in front of Jesse. He hovered his hand just over your abdomen. “Permission to apply the heat pack?”

“I’m ready to be one with the Force,” you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut. “Fuck, it hurts.”

Nodding, Kix took your desperation as consent and applied the heat pack against your waistband, holding it flush. “Tell me if it gets too hot. I’ll peel it off before it burns.”

You gave the smallest nod.

“Now open your mouth,” Kix ordered, and slipped a small tablet past your lips. “Chew. Meiloorun-flavoured.”

“That is not meiloorun.” The bitter taste flooded your tongue - pulling a grimace out of you.

“The only way to get you to chew that atrocity,” Jesse said with a huff of laughter, adjusting your weight against his chest as he stood fully.

“Move,” Kix told him, taking point through the crowd.

Jesse carried you close, one arm still braced under your knees, the other supporting your back. Kix walked to his left, angled closer to your head so he could keep checking. Every few blocks, he readjusted the heat pack, murmuring instructions, “Breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

“Almost there, sir.” Jesse’s thumb brushed slow circles against your forearm, grounding you.

The moment they reached your quarters, Jesse lowered you onto the bed. You curled in on yourself immediately, arms wrapping tight across your core. You could feel your pulse pounding in your head and all you cared about was a quick relief - dirty shoes be damned. Normally the thought would’ve irked you. You kept your quarters clean, orderly, especially since you weren’t always here. Mostly you were on Ryloth, and when you were gone the room doubled as a crash spot for other Jedi passing through.

As if reading your mind, Kix dropped to one knee, pulling your trainers until they slipped free. “Still hurt, General?”

“Mhm.” You pressed your face into the pillow.

When you opened your eyes again, Jesse was back - setting a steaming mug on your bedside table. “Lavender tea. Your fav…” He hesitated. “…ourite. I heard.”

Confusion painted all over Kix’s face as he knitted his brows at Jesse. “Told you not to snoop around the General’s quarters.”

“I—I didn’t.” Jesse shrugged. “I just saw, uh, five purple tea packets on the caf table.”

Kix let out a long sigh. “Right.” He turned back to you. “HR’s calmed down, but I need to finish the checks - respiratory, oxygen level, BP. Nothing invasive, just the basics.”

You waved weakly. “Fine.”

“I’ll grab the monitors from the clinic. Be back in fifteen. Don’t move.”

The moment the door whirred shut behind him, Jesse dropped at your side, bracing one hand against the mattress near your head and the other light over your stomach, careful not to press too hard. “Still hurt?”

“Wow.” You gave a weak laugh, tilting your face towards him. “Lavender tea? My favourite? You ‘saw it on the caf table’? Woooow.” Your chuckle cracked into another laugh. “That was terrible, Jess.”

He winced. “Yeah, I know.” He ducked his head, shoulders rising as if he could fold himself smaller beside the bed. “Sloppy.”

“You almost spilled it.” You curled further onto your side to look at him properly. “What if Kix was suspicious of that? You’re a soldier. Lying isn’t supposed to be your weakness.”

Jesse’s mouth curled upwards at one corner, but his eyes stayed fixed on yours. “It’s not lying when it’s half true. I did see the packs. Just… not where I said I did.” His fingers brushed over the fabric at your waist, circling once before he caught himself and pulled back, resting his hand against the blanket instead. “I’ll do better next time.”

You hummed, eyes fluttering shut as another dull cramp grew inside of you. “Also, why were you so mean to me back there?” A laugh bubbled up despite the pain. “You bullied me non-stop!” You smacked his arm, the solid weight of it barely reacting under your hand.

“You said we have to really hide our relationship!” he shot back, laughing with you. His hand came back to your hair, sweeping it off your forehead with careful fingers, and brushed it back. Soothing was an understatement, you loved it when he played with your locks. “That was a good cover, wasn’t it? No one suspects two people screaming at each other the whole way through a twenty five klick.”

The heat pack pulsed against your waistband, radiating steady warmth. You savoured it, letting your hand drift to his face, caressing his cheek before giving it a joking slap. “You know if it’s too much, it would make people suspicious, right?”

“It makes no sense.” Jesse caught your hand, thumb stroking the back before lifting it to his lips, pressing a kiss there. His voice softened. “It shouldn’t even be a problem if people find out. You’re not my direct general. You’ve got your own battalion. You’re only here on interim.”

“Conflict of interest,” you sighed, holding his gaze. “Power imbalance. Jedi and soldier. We’re not supposed to get attached.” Your voice dipped lower. “Council oversight. GAR discipline codes. If they ever decided to investigate, I’d be hauled into a hearing. And you—” you squeezed his hand, “you’d face harsher punishment. They’d probably reassign you to some godawful planet. Maybe worse.”

“Well, I’d find my way back,” he mumbled against your knuckles. “What’s so bad about power imbalance anyway? We do love each other, and that’s a fact,” he shrugged.

You let out a series of breaths that wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s exactly why it’s bad, Jess. Because it’s not supposed to be simple.” You adjusted your position, wincing as another cramp punched your uterus. “You answer to me when I’m assigned to your legion, even when we’re on a joint-op. That alone makes it dangerous. The line between orders and affection - between what I’d ask you to do as a general and what I’d ask as someone who…” Your voice softened. “...as someone who loves you. It blurs way too easily.”

Those big brown eyes that you’d love to swim in stayed locked on yours as he digested your words.

“And the Jedi Code,” you went on. “We’re not supposed to have attachments. We’re meant to serve, not to love. They’d say I’ve compromised myself, and by extension, the people I lead. It isn’t just about us - it’s about every single soldier who’d fall under suspicion if they thought we were bending the rules.”

He clenched his jaw as if he wanted to argue, but he didn’t let himself go. Finally he said, as gently as he could, “So we find a way. Doesn’t have to be now. Doesn’t have to be obvious. But we find a way.”

Your chest tightened as a pooling warmth breaking through the ache. Pushing yourself, you leaned your forehead briefly against his until the heat pack to remind you of the body you still had to fight through. “We will,” you whispered. “But right now… we have a war to fight.”

Jesse huffed a laugh, a little raw, and squeezed your hand once more before pulling back, mask sliding into place again just as the door whirred open behind him. “What took you so looong?” he groaned as he flopped into the chair by your desk. “I’m losing my mind in here. The General’s room doesn’t even have a gaming console, unlike Skywalker’s. How are we supposed to survive in these conditions?”

Flat on your bed, you bit into the blanket to stifle the laugh bubbling up.

“I’ve told you not to snoop around,” Kix said as he crossed the room, medic kit case in hand. His usual dry tone never failed to entertain you. “That’s impolite.”

Jesse threw his arms wide. “Not snooping! What was I supposed to do while you were gone? The General asked me about our next battle plan the moment you left the room. Which book are we using, vod? Rex hadn’t even briefed me.”

That earned a laugh out of you, boisterous at first then breaking into a kind of warmth that only you could feel, shaking the ache out of your chest for a moment. Jesse caught your eyes across the room - long enough for private feelings to pass between you. By the time you dropped your gaze back to whatever Kix was doing, his mask was already back in place.

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.