“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.3
Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)
⸻
The fires in the Kalevalan mountains burned low, the cold wind howling through the high passes. The Death Watch camp was bustling—more recruits, more stolen weapons, more rumors.
And then, the arrival.
Obi-Wan Kenobi and Duchess Satine Kryze.
Uninvited.
You stood with Vizsla on the high ridge as he drew the blade from his hip. The Darksaber hissed to life like a living flame—black as night, glowing at the edges like the promise of death.
The effect on the Mandalorians below was instant: awe, devotion, fevered whispers.
But your stomach twisted.
“This isn’t the way,” you muttered under your breath.
Vizsla grinned, eyes gleaming. “It’s our way now.”
You didn’t answer. Not yet.
When Kenobi and Satine confronted Vizsla, words were exchanged. Accusations. Pleas.
Then lightsabers.
Vizsla went for Kenobi—sloppy, showy. It was never about skill with him. It was about spectacle.
You intervened. Not to protect Vizsla. But to test Kenobi. To understand.
Your beskad clashed against his blade, sparks flying. He was strong, but not unkind. Precise.
“You trained the clone commanders,” he said mid-duel, surprised. “You’re her.”
You didn’t answer. Only pushed him harder.
He deflected and stepped back, breathing heavy. “They still speak of you.”
Your guard faltered. Just a beat. But he saw it.
“Cody is my Commander.”
You let them go. Kenobi and Satine escaped into the mountains under cover of night. Vizsla fumed. Called it weakness. Called you soft.
You didn’t respond.
But later, in secret, others came to you—Death Watch members uneasy with the fanaticism growing in Vizsla’s wake. You weren’t the only one with doubts.
You weren’t alone.
Not yet.
⸻
“General?” Cody asked, voice low.
Obi-Wan glanced up from the datapad, still damp from the rain on Kamino. The war had kept them moving—campaign to campaign—but this conversation had waited long enough.
“What happened on Kalevala,” Cody said. “You recognized someone.”
Obi-Wan studied him a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”
Cody looked down, exhaling.
“I think…” Kenobi paused, unsure how to soften the blow. “I think it was your buir.”
Cody’s breath hitched. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. For a long moment, he said nothing.
“I didn’t believe it at first,” Kenobi went on gently. “But her fighting style. Her presence. It was unmistakable.”
Cody sat on the crate beside him, helmet in his lap. “She used to sing to us,” he said quietly. “Used to say we’d be legends.”
Obi-Wan’s voice softened. “I don’t think she’s lost. Not entirely.”
“She joined the Death Watch.”
“She didn’t kill me when she could have.”
Cody blinked hard. “She always said if you had to fight… you fight for something worth dying for. Maybe she thinks she’s doing that.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s trying to protect something she already lost.”
Later That Night
Cody stood outside his quarters, datapad in hand. He stared at the encrypted channel. No new messages. Nothing in months.
But still… he keyed in a short phrase.
Just two words.
Still there?
He sent it.
And waited.
The barracks were quiet tonight.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that only happened right before everything changed.
Cody sat on the edge of his bunk, polishing his helmet even though it was already spotless. The other troopers in his unit were mostly asleep, some murmuring in dreams, others shifting restlessly. Outside, thunder rolled low across the skies.
And then—
Ping.
His datapad lit up.
An encrypted file.
No message. No words. No source.
He stared at it.
He knew that signature. Knew the rhythm of its encryption—she’d taught it to them. Said it was how Mandalorians passed messages in the old days. Heartbeats in code. A kind of song.
And now…
A file.
Cody clicked play.
And the room was filled with a voice from his childhood.
“Do you still dream? Do you, do you sleep still?
I fill my pockets full of stones and sink
Thе river will flow, and the sun will shine 'cause
Mama will be there in the mornin'”
Her voice was soft, low, carrying that rough edge it always had—like wind against beskar. He remembered hearing it in the cadet bunks, late at night, when the storms outside made even the toughest of them curl tighter under their blankets. He remembered her kneeling beside the youngest, brushing a hand over their short buzzed hair, humming softly.
He remembered how it made them feel safe. Like they were home.
And now, years later, on the edge of the Clone Wars…
He was hearing it again.
“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream
The river murdered you and now it takes me
Dream, my baby
Mama will be there in the mornin'”
He blinked, chest tight.
Cody didn’t cry. Not in front of his men. Not in front of anyone.
But tonight, he pressed the datapad to his chest and closed his eyes.
You okay, sir?”
It was Waxer, leaning in from his bunk. Boil sat up too, eyes curious.
Cody cleared his throat. “Fine.”
Boil tilted his head. “Was that…?”
Cody nodded once. “Yeah.”
The others didn’t press. But slowly, one by one, troopers across the barracks stirred. Listening.
No one spoke.
They just let her voice fill the room.
⸻
On Mandalore’s moon, the woman who had sent the file stood beneath the stars.
Helmet tucked under her arm.
She watched the horizon and murmured to herself, “Fight smart. Fight together. And come back.”
She would never send them words.
They already knew them.
But she could still sing them to sleep.
⸻
The fire crackled low in the mouth of the cave, throwing shadows across the jagged stone walls. Outside, the frost of the moon’s night crept in, but inside, the warmth of the flames and the quiet hum of her voice kept it at bay.
She sat cross-legged by the fire, her helmet resting beside her, eyes unfocused as she sang under her breath. The melody was soft, familiar, drifting like smoke.
Behind her, a few Death Watch recruits murmured amongst themselves, throwing glances her way, unsure of what to make of the rare lullaby from a warrior like her.
One of them approached. Young. Sharp-eyed. Barely out of adolescence, with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.
“Buir,” he said cautiously, the word catching awkwardly in his throat. “That song. You sing it a lot.”
She didn’t look at him. Not right away. She just nodded, still staring into the flames.
“Who was it for?” he asked. “Someone on Mandalore?”
Her voice came low, worn. “No.”
The recruit waited. He didn’t sit, but he didn’t leave either. After a moment, she gestured for him to join her by the fire. He sat slowly, hands resting on his knees, trying to act like he wasn’t still scared of her.
She let the silence sit a little longer before she answered.
“I trained soldiers once. Before the war broke out. Children, really. Grown in tubes, bred for battle. They were mine to shape… my responsibility.”
“You mean the clones?” he asked, surprised. “The clones?”
She nodded slowly.
“They were… good boys,” she said, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Too good for what the galaxy would ask of them.”
“You cared about them,” the recruit said, almost like it was an accusation.
“I still do,” she replied without hesitation.
He looked at her—this woman in weathered beskar who fought harder than anyone in Death Watch, who’d left behind her name and her history to walk the path of insurgency. The woman who could break bones without blinking… and yet sang lullabies to shadows.
“They’re fighting for the Republic now,” he said. “Isn’t that… the enemy?”
She looked at him then. Really looked at him.
“I didn’t train enemies,” she said. “I trained survivors. Sons. And no matter where they are, or who they fight for, they are mine.”
The recruit shifted uncomfortably.
“I thought you joined Death Watch to protect Mandalore,” he said. “To fight the pacifists, the weakness Satine brought.”
“I did,” she said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving the people I left behind. Sometimes war splits you down the middle. Sometimes you fight with one half of your soul… while mourning with the other.”
The fire crackled between them.
After a long pause, the recruit finally asked, “Do you think they remember you?”
She smiled, just a little.
“I hope they remember the song.”
⸻
The air on Mandalore was thin and sterile—peaceful in a way that felt almost unnatural.
Walking through Sundari’s wide, shining corridors in full armor again, the reader felt the stares of pacifist advisors, senators, and citizens alike. A Mandalorian warrior hadn’t walked these halls in years. Not since they were exiled—branded relics of a bloody past the new government had tried to bury.
She kept walking.
Each step echoed with restraint, but not regret.
When she reached the palace gates, the guards blocked her path, hands twitching toward the stun batons at their sides.
“I seek audience with the Duchess Satine,” she said, voice even. “Tell her an old warrior has come home to bend the knee.”
The guards exchanged skeptical glances, but one of them relayed the message through their comms. A beat passed. Then another.
Then: “The Duchess will see you.”
Satine Kryze sat tall on her throne, draped in royal silks, her expression unreadable.
The reader approached slowly, helmet in hand, her armor still painted in the battle-worn shades of Death Watch—though the sigil had been scorched off.
Satine’s eyes narrowed. “You walk into my court bearing the same steel that once stood with Vizsla and his radicals. Why should I hear a word from your mouth?”
The reader dropped to one knee.
Not in submission.
In promise.
“I left them.”
Satine arched a brow. “And I’m meant to believe that?”
“You’ve heard what Vizsla plans. He wields the Darksaber like a hammer, believing Mandalore’s strength is only measured in fire and conquest.” Her voice was low but sure. “But true strength is not brutality. It’s knowing when not to strike. It’s survival. Legacy.”
Satine rose from her throne slowly. “That sounds more like my philosophy than that of a sworn Mandalorian.”
The reader’s head lifted.
“I am sworn to the Creed,” she said. “The whole Creed. Not just the warmongering chants of the fallen, but the heart of it—the protection of our people. The survival of our world. That is the way.”
Satine studied her.
Something in her eyes softened.
“You pledge yourself to me?”
“I pledge myself to Mandalore,” the reader answered. “And right now… you are the only one keeping her heart beating.”
A long pause.
Then Satine stepped forward, extended a hand.
“Then come,” she said. “If you would stand for peace, walk beside me. I leave for Coruscant in the morning.”
⸻
The duchess’s starcruiser hummed steadily through hyperspace, bound for Coruscant. Peace had no place in the stars anymore—pirates, bounty hunters, Separatist saboteurs—any one of them could strike at any time. Satine’s diplomatic voyage needed more than security.
It needed Jedi.
And hidden among the entourage was a shadow in Beskar.
You.
You stood silently behind the duchess, armor painted anew—neutral tones, a far cry from your old Death Watch markings. Most on board didn’t recognize you, especially with the helmet on. But Obi-Wan had looked twice when he boarded. Said nothing. Just gave you a subtle nod—acknowledgement… and warning.
You were a guest here.
But you were also something dangerous.
t started when the droid attacked. The assassin model, slinking through the ventilation shafts like a ghost.
The ship rocked as explosions tore through the hull—one hit dangerously close to the engines. Screams echoed down the halls.
As the Jedi and clone troopers mobilized, you were already moving, your beskad drawn from your hip in a practiced motion. The moment you cut through the access panel and leapt into the ducts after the droid, Obi-Wan barked, “She’s with us—don’t stop her!”
You burst from the duct with a grunt, landing in a crouch between clone troopers and the assassin droid that had been pinning them down. In one quick move, you flipped the beskad in your hand and hurled it—metal slicing through the droid’s neck and sending sparks flying.
The clones blinked, surprised.
Then one of them spoke, stunned.
“…Buir?”
Your eyes met his.
Cody.
He looked older now. Sharper. War-worn. But the way he said that word—the softness beneath the gravel in his voice—stopped your heart for a beat.
“Cody,” you breathed.
Before you could say more, another explosion rocked the ship and the Jedi shouted orders. You both surged back into motion, fighting side by side as if no time had passed. Rex appeared at your flank, helmet on but unmistakable.
“Never thought I’d see you again,” he said through the comms.
“You look taller,” you shot back.
“Still can’t outshoot me,” he quipped.
“Let’s test that once we survive this.”
Later, when the droid was destroyed and the ship stabilized, you stood with your back against the durasteel wall, helmet off, sweat dripping down your brow.
Cody approached slowly. His armor was scraped, singed.
He stood in front of you silently.
“You left,” he said.
You nodded. “I had to. It wasn’t safe. Not with the Kaminoans growing colder… not with what was coming.”
His jaw clenched. But then he exhaled slowly, nodding.
“You’re here now,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”
A pause.
“You were right, you know,” he added quietly. “We weren’t ready for the galaxy. But we survived. Because of what you gave us.”
You looked at him—really looked at him—and placed your hand on his chest plate.
“I’m proud of you, Cody. All of you.”
Rex joined, helmet tucked under one arm, a crooked grin on his face. “Buir’s gonna make us get all sappy, huh?”
“I’ll arm-wrestle you to shut you up,” you smirked.
They laughed.
For the first time in years.
⸻
Coruscant never changed.
Even from orbit, it looked like a city swallowing itself—buildings stacked on buildings, lights never fading, shadows never still. You stood by the Duchess’s side as her diplomatic cruiser descended toward the Senate landing pad, flanked by Jedi, Senators, and clone guards, all navigating the choreography of politics and danger.
The moment your boots hit the durasteel of the Senate rotunda, you felt it—that tingle down the back of your neck.
You weren’t welcome here.
But you didn’t need to be.
You were here for Mandalore.
And for them.
As Duchess Satine prepared to speak, you fell back slightly—watching her take the grand platform before the Senate assembly, her calm, steady voice echoing through the chamber. She spoke of peace. Of neutrality. Of independence.
The words stirred an old ache in you—half pride, half grief. She was strong in her own way. You respected that now.
But while the chamber listened, your eyes scanned.
And locked on him.
Standing at attention near the perimeter, crimson armor gleaming under the Senate lights, was Marshal Commander Fox. He hadn’t seen you yet. Too focused, too professional. But you approached him like a ghost walking out of the past.
“Still standing tall, I see,” you said, voice low enough not to draw attention.
Fox turned, his sharp gaze meeting yours—and then widening. “No kriffing way.”
You smirked.
He stared, then let out a small huff of disbelief. “You vanish for years and that’s the first thing you say?”
“You didn’t need me anymore,” you said. “You were always going to be something.”
Fox’s jaw tightened, emotion flickering. “We needed you more than you think.”
“Marshal Commander,” you said, mock-formal. “Look at you. I leave for a couple years, and you’re babysitting Senators now. Impressive.”
He rolled his eyes but smiled. “I thought I was hallucinating. You’re supposed to be dead, or exiled, or something dramatic.”
“Only in spirit,” you replied. “Congratulations, Fox. You earned that armor.”
He hesitated.
Then gave you a quiet nod. “It’s not the same without you.”
“It’s not supposed to be,” you said softly. “You were always meant to outgrow me.”
He looked away for a second, then back, voice lower. “The others talk about you sometimes. Cody. Rex. Bly. Even Wolffe, and that man doesn’t talk about anyone.”
“Tell them I remember every one of them.”
“You’ll tell them yourself,” he said, then added, almost too quickly, “Right?”
You didn’t answer. Just touched his shoulder lightly. “You did good, Fox. Better than good. You lead now. That means you carry the burden… but you also get to set the tone. The next generation of vode? They’re watching you.”
He blinked a few times. “You always were the only one who said things like that.”
“And meant it,” you added.
He nodded, slower this time. “It’s good to see you. You look… older.”
You smirked. “Try keeping your head above water in a sea of Vizsla fanatics and tell me how fresh you look after.”
“Fair.”
⸻
The danger came in silence.
You and the Duchess had returned to the Senate landing platform, flanked by Jedi and clone escort. The diplomatic skyspeeder waited, gleaming in the light.
The moment Satine stepped into the speeder, a faint whine filled the air—subtle, but wrong.
Your instincts screamed.
“Don’t start the engine!” you barked, lunging forward—too late.
The speeder blasted off—far too fast, veering wildly.
“Something’s wrong with the repulsors!” Anakin shouted. “The nav systems are locked!”
You were already sprinting toward a nearby speeder bike, Obi-Wan mounting another. “We have to catch her!”
Fox was shouting into his comms, coordinating pursuit and clearance through air lanes.
You and Obi-Wan flew through the sky, weaving around towers as Satine’s speeder dipped and jolted erratically.
Your voice cut through the comms, “Hold her steady, I’m going in.”
Obi-Wan gaped. “You’ll crash!”
“Yeah. Probably.”
You leapt from the bike.
Time slowed.
Your gauntlet mag-grip latched onto the spiraling speeder as you crashed hard against the hull. Satine inside looked up, startled.
You smashed the manual override, pried open the control panel, and yanked the sabotage node free—sparks flew, and the speeder jerked before leveling out.
By the time it landed, your shoulder was dislocated and you were covered in soot.
Later, in the quiet aftermath, you sat against a stone column inside the Senate’s private halls, shoulder hastily reset, your armor scorched. Satine was alive, thanks to you. Obi-Wan sat on the edge of a bench nearby, breathing slow and deep.
“She saved you,” he told Satine softly.
“She tends to do that,” Satine said with a tired smile.
You looked up at him, brows raised. “Surprised?”
He shook his head. “Not at all.”
Fox approached quietly, handing you a fresh water flask.
“You didn’t have to jump out of a speeder,” he muttered.
You took a long drink. “Didn’t want you to miss out on another tragedy.”
He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall beside you. “You’re the worst role model, you know that?”
You nudged his shin with your boot. “Yet somehow, you turned out alright.”
He gave you a rare smile. “Welcome home. At least for now.”
⸻
The speeder explosion had rattled the city, but Satine had emerged alive. Shaken, but composed.
You hadn’t left her side once.
Now, with the Senate’s mess behind her—for now—Satine prepared to return to Mandalore. You stood outside the diplomatic chambers, speaking softly with Fox while waiting for her departure documents to be signed. That’s when he said it:
“They’re here. Wolffe and Bacara. I told them you were on-planet.”
Your breath caught.
“I wasn’t sure if I should have, but—”
“No,” you said quickly. “Thank you.”
He didn’t press further. He just gave you a nod and walked off to oversee the Senate Guard rotation.
You didn’t wait.
⸻
The military side of Coruscant always had a different air—colder, louder, filled with tension that clung to the skin like storm-wet armor.
You found them in a quiet corridor beside their departing ship. Wolffe leaned against a crate, arms crossed, helmet at his side, expression unreadable as ever. Bacara sat on a lower bench, hunched, hands folded between his knees.
They looked up at the same time.
It took less than a heartbeat before Bacara stood and crossed the space to you.
“Buir.”
You wrapped your arms around him before he could finish exhaling the word. It was like hugging a rock—solid and unyielding—but you felt the slight tremble in his breath. That was enough.
“You’ve grown,” you said.
“You say that every time.”
“Because you always do.”
Wolffe approached more cautiously, arms still crossed, but the faint flicker of softness in his expression gave him away.
“You didn’t think to send a message?” he asked.
“I couldn’t,” you said honestly. “Too much would’ve come with it. You boys had to become who you’re meant to be without me hovering.”
“We were better with you hovering,” Bacara muttered.
Wolffe gave a grunt. “I thought you were dead, for a while.”
“I know,” you said, quieter. “That was the idea, at first.”
Wolffe stepped forward, finally breaking that last bit of space between you. His brow was tense, eyes shadowed.
“We talked about you. Even now. When things get bad.”
“You remember the lullaby?” you asked.
Bacara scoffed. “You think we’d forget?”
You grinned.
“Where are you headed?” Bacara asked, nodding to your sidearm and armor, half-concealed beneath a diplomatic cloak.
“Back to Mandalore. With the Duchess.”
Wolffe gave you a long, searching look. “Back with the pacifists?”
“No,” you said. “Not as one of them. As her sword. Her shield. She’s not perfect—but her fight is worth something. And if Mandalore’s going to survive this war, it’ll need more than weapons. It’ll need balance.”
Wolffe’s jaw ticked. “And if you’re wrong?”
“Then I’d rather die standing beside hope than kneeling beside zealotry.”
Bacara snorted. “Still stubborn.”
“Still your buir.”
You embraced them both, tighter this time.
“I’m proud of you,” you whispered.
They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to.
As you turned to leave, your boots echoing against the durasteel floor, you let your voice rise—soft and familiar.
The lullaby.
Altamaha-Ha.
A haunting thread of melody that followed them into war before.
Now, it lingered behind you like a ghost in the mist.
Wolffe didn’t look away. Bacara closed his eyes.
They would carry that sound into every battle.
Just like they carried you.
⸻
The return to Mandalore was quiet. Satine had dismissed her guards—except for you. You stood at her side now, not as a threat, not as a rebel, not as a Death Watch traitor, but as a Mandalorian, reborn in purpose.
It hadn’t been easy convincing the Council to allow it. The Duchess had vouched for you, which meant more than words. But still, whispers followed in your wake. Once a warrior, always a weapon. You heard them. You ignored them.
Inside the domed city, pacifism still ruled. A beautiful, cold kind of peace. No blades. No armor. No fire.
You wore your beskar anyway.
“You’re unsettling them,” Satine said quietly beside you, overlooking the city from the palace balcony.
“I’m protecting them.”
“They don’t see it that way.”
“They will, when someone decides to test your boundaries again.”
She looked at you, eyes soft but steeled. “You’re still so steeped in it. War. Blood. Even your presence is a threat to them.”
“I’m not a threat to you, Satine.”
“No,” she said, voice nearly a whisper. “Not to me.”
A pause. Her hand rested gently against the railing. “You could have joined Vizsla. His path would’ve made more sense for someone like you.”
“I did,” you admitted. “But sense doesn’t mean truth. His war is born of pride. Yours… is born of hope. That’s harder. But stronger.”
She turned toward you. “You really believe that?”
You nodded once. “Only the strongest shall rule Mandalore. And I’ve fought in enough wars to know that strength is more than the blade you carry. It’s knowing when to sheathe it.”
A long silence settled between you. She looked away, clearly fighting some retort, but in the end… she let it go.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Satine said softly.
You didn’t smile, but your silence meant everything.
⸻
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
