#sev rc

You shouldn’t have let him take the detonator.

But here you were—sprinting down a blackened corridor on a Separatist cruiser, the air behind you thick with smoke and laughter. His laughter.

“Scorch!” you shouted, coughing. “That was not what I meant when I said ‘make a distraction’!”

He turned, grinning under his helmet, shoulders relaxed like this was a holiday and not a mission gone sideways. “Come on, mesh’la. It worked, didn’t it?”

“You blew out two support beams and almost buried us alive!”

He jogged backward in front of you, still grinning. “Almost only counts in sabacc and thermal charges. You should know that by now.”

You skidded to a stop near a still-smoking hatch, chest heaving. The emergency lights flickered blood-red across the metal walls, shadows dancing. Scorch leaned one arm against the bulkhead, casually blocking your path like this was some kind of game. His visor tilted down toward you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.

His voice lowered, suddenly rougher. “Because you’re flushed, panting, and glaring at me like you want to kill me or kiss me.”

Your lips parted. “And if I do both?”

“Then I really hope you start with the kissing.”

The heat between you wasn’t from the explosions anymore.

You stepped forward, crowding into his space, fingers curling into the edge of his armor. “You know you’re a menace, right?”

Scorch reached up, tugged his helmet off with one hand and dropped it with a careless clatter.

“I’m your menace,” he said.

And then his mouth was on yours—hot, fast, unrelenting.

His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss, and you didn’t even try to hide the sound you made. It felt like falling into the middle of a detonation—chaotic and exhilarating and impossible to stop.

He tasted like heat and danger. The kind of kiss that burned.

You shoved him back against the wall and bit his bottom lip just enough to make him growl.

“You get off on this, don’t you?” you breathed. “The adrenaline. The explosions. Me pissed off and in your face.”

“I like the view,” he said, eyes dark and wild. “You in combat gear, cursing at me. Gets my blood pumping.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands didn’t leave him. One of them slipped under a loosened strap on his chest plate. “You’re so full of it.”

“I’m full of something,” he muttered, voice low.

You kissed him again—harder this time. His hands found your hips, grounding you like a storm. You didn’t have time to undress, not here, not now—but Maker, you wanted to. And he knew it.

Instead, you just stayed locked together like that—gripping, kissing, devouring—until the hallway filled with smoke again and the comm crackled to life.

“Scorch, where the hell are you?” Sev’s voice snapped. “Extraction in four minutes.”

Scorch broke the kiss with a low groan and leaned his forehead against yours, breath hot on your skin.

“Guess we’ll have to finish this later, sweetheart.”

“Assuming you don’t blow us up first.”

He smirked. “Now where’s the fun in playing it safe?”

You grabbed your blaster and turned down the corridor. “You coming?”

He slipped his helmet back on, voice crackling through the filter. “Behind you, always.”

And as you ran, side by side toward the drop zone with the scent of smoke and something wilder still clinging to your lips, you knew this was how it would always be with him.

Fast. Fiery. Unpredictable.

A joyride with a lit fuse and no brakes.

The Senate landing pad still stank of charred durasteel when the four commandos in Katarn armor strode out of the dawn mist. Boots hit duracrete in perfect cadence, and every aide around you startled, skittering out of their way like spooked tookas.

The one in the center stopped in front of you.

“Senator,” the vocoder rasped, calm as a metronome, “Delta Squad assumes your protection detail.”

You’d asked for one discreet guard after the Separatist torpedoes punched holes in your shuttle last night. Instead you’d been delivered a miniature shock battalion.

“I requested subtle,” you said dryly, sweeping your gaze over identical T‑visors. “Instead I’ve been issued four portable war crimes.”

A bark of laughter crackled through the comms. The clone on the left—armor scorched black at the shoulders—tapped two fingers to his helmet. “Portable war crime, that’s a new one, Senator. I’m Scorch. Demo expert. You break it, I blow it.”

“Stand down, Scorch,” the leader murmured. “I’m Boss. These are Fixer and Sev.”

The tallest—Sev—inclined his helmet a millimeter. “We’ll try not to stain the carpets.”

You almost smiled.

⸻

Your suite looked less like a workspace and more like a forward operating base. Scorch crawled through the ceiling vents, humming while he tucked micro‑det charges behind every ornate sconce. Fixer was wrist‑deep in the security terminal, ripping out obsolete boards and muttering about “code that predates the Jedi Order.” Boss paced, mapping angles of fire that only a clone commando would notice.

Sev took the window.

He didn’t move, didn’t even sway—just stood with the DC‑17m sniper attachment snug against his shoulder, visor tracking the boulevard five stories below.

You returned from the kitchenette with a tray of caf. “I assume troopers run on caffeine the way senators run on spite.”

Fixer declined with a grunt. Scorch popped down from a vent to snag two cups—one for himself, one he tried to hand to Sev by clinking the rim against the sniper’s elbow. Sev accepted without breaking sight‑line.

“Thanks,” he muttered. The voice behind the filter was low, gravel under ice.

You leaned against the sill beside him. “How long can you stare at traffic before you see stars?”

“Long as it takes.”

“Healthy.”

He gave a quiet huff that might have been a laugh. “Health is secondary. Mission first.”

Your lips twitched. “Let’s keep them aligned, Trooper.”

He finally turned his head. The visor reflected your own weary expression. “Call me Sev.”

“So,” you ventured, “Sev. What’s that actually short for? Your brothers keep calling you ‘Oh‑Seven.’ ”

A low rasp filtered through his vocoder. “Serial: RC‑1207. Clones don’t waste syllables—turns into ‘Zero‑Seven,’ then ‘Sev.’ Vau tried to rename me once—Strill‑bait—but Sev stuck.”

“Efficient,” you mused. “I was hoping for something poetic.”

“Closest thing to poetry we got,” he answered, “was Sergeant Walon Vau reading after‑action reports aloud and marking every missed shot in red. I preferred numbers.”

You huffed a laugh. “Numbers never filibuster.”

“Exactly.” He tipped the caf under his helmet, then added with a shrug you felt more than saw: “Still, seven isn’t a bad omen. Seven Geonosian snipers on my first real op. They’re the stripes.”

Your gaze dipped to the dried‑maroon slashes across his plate. Those kills were in the official record—no campfire exaggeration, just Sev doing Sev. “Better trophy than a Senate commendation,” you said.

“Commendations don’t stop blaster bolts,” he agreed. “Armor paint might. Enemies aim for the bright bit.”

“Note to self—add high‑visibility stripes to every lobbyist I want removed.”

He chuckled, deep and short. “You handle it with speeches, I handle it with DC charges. Same outcome; mine’s louder.”

The ceiling vent banged open and Scorch—all riot‑yellow hazard marks—dropped in upside‑down. “Louder? Did someone say louder? Because I have a three‑det primer that’ll make democracy sing.”

Sev kept his rifle steady, unamused. “You done wiring the vents?”

“Finished! Whole place is a merry little grave waiting to happen.” Scorch swung like a loth‑monkey. “What’s the banter—numerology and murder? Count me in. My favorite number’s forty‑seven—arms, legs, whatever’s left.”

Fixer snapped from the terminal, voice flat. “Scorch, your ‘festive’ cabling is shorting the main feed. Touch another conductor and I’ll teach you binary via blunt‑force trauma.”

“Harsh love, Fix.” Scorch saluted invertedly…and clipped a coil. Screens died, lights cut; the building’s distant alarm groaned awake.

Pen‑light clicked—Sev’s, white beam spearing the dark. “Stay with me, Senator.” He toggled comms. “Boss, primary’s down in the principal’s suite—unknown cause, probably Scorch.”

Boss answered, calm and clipped. “Assume breach until proven Scorch Error. Fixer: backups. Scorch: vent lockdown. Sev, keep the package intact.”

“Copy.” Sev shifted, square in front of you. Above, Scorch’s grin hovered in the torch.

“Bright side,” Scorch quipped, “if hostiles come now, they won’t see the scorch marks!”

“Touch that wire again,” Fixer warned in the dark, “and the next blackout’s permanent—for you.”

The auxiliary kicked in; light flooded back. Scorch fled up the duct, chastened but humming. Boss appeared in the doorway, orange visor band bright.

“Clear. Scorch is off det‑detail,” he declared.

Sev’s low chuckle rumbled. “Discipline, Delta‑style.”

You toasted him with the caf. “To functional anarchy. First amendment: electrified committee chairs.”

He gave a tiny nod. “Second amendment: motion passes with high‑explosive majority.”

A distant “I CAN SUPPLY THOSE” echoed from the shaft.

Side‑by‑side at the window, you both let the city’s neon river roll past, sharing bruised humor and the mutual certainty that, whatever happened next, you’d handle it—whether by votes or by very precise blaster fire.

⸻

Sleep never really came. You were half‑draped across a stack of datapads when every pane of transparisteel in the lounge shattered inward at once—a prismatic roar of sound and stinging air.

A glare‑white projectile streaked through the breach, thunked against the far wall, and bloomed into a spiderweb of crackling ion static. Lights died. Grav‑conduits hiccupped. Gravity itself seemed to wobble.

“Contact, east aspect—breach charges and ion!” Boss’s voice snapped from the darkness, all business. He’d been on silent watch in the corridor.

Sev materialised out of the gloom between you and the ruined window, rifle already hot. “Droid jump‑squad—minimum six. Senator, with me.”

You barely had time to register the whirring hiss of BX‑series commando droids vaulting the balcony rail before Sev’s gauntlet closed around your forearm.

Boss kicked the apartment’s panic door open with enough force to shear its hinges, emergency chemlights flickering along his orange‑striped armour.

“Fixer, Scorch—status?” he barked into squad‑comms while shoving a palm‑sized beacon into your hand. An amber arrow blinked on its surface: PROX‑CODE DELTA.

“Dining area’s a toaster, Boss. I’m boxed—two droids.”

“Vent shafts compromised—make that three,” Scorch added, laughing like it was Life Day.

“Hold and delay,” Boss ordered. “We’re exfil Alpha with the principal.”

Sev herded you down the service hall, DC‑17m coughing scarlet bolts that popped droid skulls as they rounded corners. A ricochet sizzled past your ear; you felt the heat, smelled scorched upholstery.

“Keep your head ducked,” he growled. “That helmet budget of yours is still pending.”

You shot back, breathless, “Filed under agricultural subsidies—nobody reads those.”

“Smart.” He clipped a spare vibroblade from his thigh and pressed it into your palm. “If it comes to close‑quarters—stab the gap at the jaw hinge.”

“Charming bedside manner, Sev.”

“Better than a funeral eulogy.”

The maintenance lift doors yawned open—just in time to reveal the empty shaft beyond. Gravity stabilisers flickered; wind howled up the vertical tunnel.

Boss lobbed a glow‑stick; it spiralled downward, showing two hundred metres of nothing before emergency nets. “Main lift’s offline. We rappel.”

A cable launcher thunked against the upper frame. Sev snapped the line to your belt, then to his own. “Clip in and step off on my count. Boss goes first.”

Blaster‑fire rattled down the corridor—Fixer’s voice on comms: “Third droid down, corridor secure.”

“Copy, Fix,” Boss replied. Then to you, calm and steady: “Three… two… one.” He vanished over the edge.

Sev guided you after him. The world flipped; you were suddenly running down a wall of permacrete, black void on either side, cable humming overhead. You focused on Boss’s glowing armour below, and on Sev’s hand firm between your shoulder blades.

Halfway down, a BX droid leaned out a blown‑open access door and fired upward. The cable near your hip sparked.

Sev twisted mid‑descent, rifle spitting crimson. The droid’s chest plate caved; it pinwheeled into darkness.

“Cable integrity?” Boss called.

“Nominal,” Sev grunted. To you: “Still with me?”

“Not filing that helmet request after all,” you gasped.

“Good. Would’ve been a waste of paperwork.”

Boots hit deck plating beside Boss. An auxiliary hangar gaped before you—service speeders, loading cranes, and, at the far end, a battered LAAT/i gunship painted civilian grey.

Boss punched the hatch codes. “Borrowing that. Scorch, Fixer—vector to my beacon.”

Scorch: “Roger—bringing the fireworks!”

Fixer: “And the repair bill.”

Sev swept the bay, visor pinging heat‑sigs. “Two more droids on the gantry.”

“I’ll drive,” you said, surprising yourself.

Sev angled his helmet. “Can you?”

“Committee on Combat Logistics. I made sure senators kept their pilot’s certs current.”

Boss tossed you the cockpit datakey. “Then fly it like you filibuster—fast and ruthless.”

⸻

The gunship thundered out of the sub‑level exit just as Scorch vaulted aboard, demo‑satchel first, Fixer broken‑armed behind him. Sev slammed the side hatch; Boss took the troop bay guns.

City lights blurred past. Sirens dopplered below. Somewhere behind, your shattered apartment flickered with fresh explosions—Scorch’s parting gift.

Sev crouched beside the cockpit, shoulder braced against the bulkhead. “Secondary safe‑house is eighteen klicks. We’ll clear traffic for you.”

You tightened your grip on the yoke. “Appreciate it. Next housing allowance better cover blast windows.”

“That, or we install the windows we like—three metres thick, transparisteel.” His tone was almost light. “Adds character.”

You glanced back, met his visor. “And here I thought I was the expensive one in this arrangement.”

“Worth every credit, Senator,” he said—and for the first time you heard a smile in RC‑1207’s gravelled voice.

Outside, the dawn line crept over Coruscant’s horizon—crimson, like Sev’s war‑paint—while Delta Squad regrouped in the hold, bruised but intact. The war would send more droids, more nights like this, but for now you flew toward the rising light, the commando’s words lingering like an unspoken promise.

⸻

The scarlet bloom of predawn still clung to Sev’s visor as Delta Squad escorted you across the durasteel bridgeway toward the Sienar Senatorial Cutter waiting in docking cradle G‑43.

You’d only decided an hour ago—papers signed, aide‑team recalled—that it was time to go home: to the domed foundries of your world, to the committees that actually listened. Coruscant could keep its marble tombs.

Fixer had already swept the cutter’s nav‑core; Scorch grumbled that the fuel cells were “too clean, suspiciously sober.” Boss, always by the datapad, had plotted the twenty‑six‑hour jump. Sev walked at your left flank, rifle slung but senses wired tight.

“I still think the Senate Medical Board could clear you in two days,” he said through the vocoder, voice low.

“And I think if I stay two days more, the war will veto me permanently.” You managed a wry smile. “Besides, your safe‑house couch is murderous on the lumbar.”

“Could requisition a better couch.”

“You’d blow it up for target practice.”

“Fair.”

A claxon whooped overhead, routine pre‑launch. Hangar crews gave thumbs‑up as they sealed the cutter’s boarding ramp, crimson Republic insignia catching the light.

Scorch jogged back from the refuel pylon, yellow armor bright against the grey deck. “All green—ship’s thirstier than a cadet, but she’s topped.”

Boss nodded. “Mount up. We launch in eleven.”

You rested a hand on the cool hull, exhaled. Going home. For the first time in weeks, the knot behind your ribs loosened.

A muffled whump—more vibration than sound—rippled underfoot. You frowned; Sev’s helmet snapped toward the cutter. An instant later a second, deeper concussion rolled across the ring. Cries echoed; deck crew scattered.

Sev’s shout hit like blaster fire: “DOWN!”

He tackled you behind a cargo skid just as the Senatorial Cutter blossomed into white‑hot shrapnel. The blast‑wave hammered the gangway, ripping durasteel like foil. Chunks of hull screamed overhead, flaming arcs against the pale sky.

Boss’s orders barked through squad‑comms—“Perimeter! Trawl for secondaries!”—even as Fixer dragged a stunned tech from the collapsing ramp. Scorch ran straight into the haze, thermal scanner up, searching for unexploded ordnance.

Your ears rang. Liquid fire licked the wreck thirty meters away; atmosphere pull whipped the flames sideways until emergency force‑screens slammed down.

Sev’s weight still covered you, armour shielding against stray shards. Heat washed over the two of you; the copper tang of scorched electronics filled your lungs.

He leaned close, voice pitched for your ears only. “Senator, you all right?”

Heart hammering, you forced a nod. “Yes.” The word came thin. “Our ship—”

“Gone,” he said, absolute. “Someone timed a shaped charge for pre‑board.”

You felt the knot snap tight again—rage this time, not fear. “That hangar was Level Three clearance. Only Republic personnel.”

“Or someone wearing their code cylinder.” Sev’s visor reflected the inferno. “Saboteur’s still out there.”

Fire‑suppression foam oozed from ceiling vents; med‑droids hissed down the smoke‑curtains. Boss herded survivors past you, every gesture clipped, professional.

“Saboteur planted thermal baradium in the starboard fuel neck,” Fixer reported, one gauntlet cradling his bandaged arm. “Timed off the pressure equaliser—no remote signal.”

Scorch skidded up, visor flecked with soot. “Found partial detonator casing. Separatist‑pattern, but tractable.”

Boss looked to you. “Senator, the ring isn’t secure. I recommend immediate extraction to Defender‑class corvette Vigilant—Command has a cabin we can hard‑seal.”

You opened your mouth—I still have to reach my planet—but Sev cut across gently, “Your world can wait eight more hours. You can’t if there’s a second bomber.”

You met his visor, saw your own shaken reflection. A breath in, out. “Corvette it is.”

The Vigilant detached from the ring on emergency vector, hyperdrives spooling. Through the small viewport the docking cradle burned, a smear of smoke against the stratosphere.

You sat on a cot, jacket singed, palms trembling. Sev posted at the door, Boss conferring with the bridge. Fixer typed one‑handed at a forensic padd; Scorch fussed, pulling charred slivers from his pauldrons.

“You know the irony,” Scorch called across the room, irrepressible even now. “Hangars scare me more than battlefields. Too many things that go ‘boom’ when they’re supposed to behave.”

Fixer grunted. “Statistically still safer than letting you cook ration bars.”

You managed a weak laugh, rubbing temples. “Gentlemen, please—one trauma at a time.”

Sev stepped forward, offered a flask of electrolyte water. “Sip slowly.”

You obeyed, then asked, “Anyone else hurt?”

“Minor burns only,” Boss answered, approaching. “But the Separatists just escalated. Cutter’s manifest leaked thirty minutes ago—only a very short list knew you’d leave today.”

“Which means,” Sev finished, “there’s a mole in Republic logistics.”

Silence pressed in, broken by the corvette’s hyperdrive howl—the stars outside stretched to lines.

You set the flask aside, straightened. “So we find them.”

Boss inclined his helmet. “That’s the plan.”

Sev’s voice dropped, meant only for you. “And until we do, no transports. No public schedules. We move when we control every variable.”

A beat. Then you asked, quietly fierce, “Does that include better couches?”

The sniper’s helmet tipped, the faintest nod. “And blast windows thick enough for a rancor.”

Despite everything—the smoke, the dead crew, the gut‑deep dread—you felt a spark of something steadier than fear. Delta had you. And you weren’t done fighting.

Outside, hyperspace opened like a blue fracture, swallowing the Vigilant—but not the promise Sev had made, soft as a sniper’s breath: They’d failed to kill you twice. Third time would never come.

⸻

The Vigilant slipped into hyperspace hours ago, but sleep never boarded with the rest of you.

When the muted corridor lights dimmed for ship‑night, you found yourself drifting—restless—until the muffled clank of a familiar gait guided your steps.

Most racks were dark, humming behind containment fields, yet one bench lamp burned low. Sev sat there, helmet off, the harsh light carving shadows along the scar that split his right temple. He was field‑stripping the DC‑17m with the same care a jeweler gives crystal.

You halted at the threshold. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

Crimson eyes flicked up—tired, alert, softening when they found you. “Blaster lubricant’s cheaper than sedatives.”

You ventured closer, palms tucked in your sleeves to hide the tremor still living there. “I wanted to thank you. You put yourself between me and—” You gestured at empty air that smelled faintly of ionized smoke. “Everything.”

He reassembled the last actuator, set the rifle aside. “That’s the job.”

“I know when duty ends and choice begins.” You lowered onto the next bench. “Saving me was duty. Staying here polishing gun parts at three a.m.—that’s choice.”

For a moment the only sound was the distant thrum of hyperdrive coils. Sev’s gaze dropped to your hands. “You’re still shaking.”

“Adrenaline’s a stubborn tenant.”

He reached into a med‑pouch, produced a flat stim patch. “Cortical calmative. Won’t knock you out—just tells the nerves the shooting’s done.”

You accepted it, hesitated. “Could put it on my own neck, but I imagine you’re more precise.”

His expression did something rare—softened into a hint of a smile. He peeled the backing, brushed your hair aside with surprising gentleness, and pressed the patch below your ear. Heat bloomed, then a slow coolness spread through muscle and marrow alike.

“Better?” he asked, thumb lingering against your pulse as if counting the beats to be sure.

“Getting there.” You studied the scar on his temple—white against tan skin, the kind Kamino med‑droids never fully erased. “Geonosis?”

He nodded once. “Turret ricochet. Left a mark. Reminds me to keep my head down.”

“You kept mine down today.”

A silence stretched, warm instead of awkward, until he said, low: “When the cutter blew, time slowed. Thought—if that’s the last thing I do, it’s enough.”

Your breath hitched. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” His hand dropped to the bench between you, open‑palmed—an invitation without expectation.

You laid your fingers across his. Armor‑calloused knuckles felt like forged durasteel, but the grip he returned was careful, almost reverent.

“I’m glad,” you whispered, “that ‘enough’ didn’t end there.”

His lips curved—a small, earnest thing. “Me too, cyar’ika.” The Mandalorian endearment slipped out before he caught it; color touched his cheeks. “Sorry”.

“Don’t be.” You squeezed his hand. “I speak fluent subtext.”

From the passageway came Scorch’s distant voice complaining about ration bars; somewhere Fixer muttered diagnostics. But inside the armory a hush settled—two steady heartbeats, the scent of cleaning solvent, the promise of unexploded tomorrows.

Sev reclaimed his rifle, but his other hand never left yours. “Stay a while. The patch works better with company.”

Your shift starts off surprisingly calm — too calm, really. Then comes the announcement over the PA: "Attention all residents! Today's entertainment is... a petting zoo! Animals and handlers will be arriving shortly!"

You glance toward the rec room where most of the elderly clones are slowly gathering. Some grumble about how this is "child's play" and "a waste of time," others just shuffle along, resigned.

Then the first animal handler appears, pushing a small pen with a chunky pig trotting beside her, snuffling like it owns the place.

She spots Wolffe standing nearby, arms crossed, scowling like the world just betrayed him.

"Sir, would you like to pet the pig?" she asks cheerfully.

Wolffe eyes her, then lazily reaches out — and pats her shoulder instead of the pig.

The handler blinks, a bit startled.

Wolffe, deadpan: "Good skin. Nice and warm."

You hear a couple of clones chuckle nearby. Even Rex snorts behind his hand.

The pig, completely unbothered, waddles over to Rex and nudges his leg, looking for snacks.

Rex grumbles but pats the pig's head like it's a fellow soldier. "Alright, you win."

Sev wheels by with a squirrel perched on his knee. "My new tactical advisor," he says proudly — before the squirrel bolts into the bushes.

Monk's trying to convince the handlers to let him take a baby goat for a stroll. "I just need some fresh air, officer."

Hunter eyes the pig suspiciously. "You never know what diseases those things carry."

You step in, hands raised. "Alright, folks, let's keep the animals safe — and me sane."

Wolffe leans in and mutters, "Next time, bring a blaster. These critters don't scare me. The handlers? Maybe."

You sigh, bracing yourself for the rest of the day.

The handlers begin wheeling out the next batch of animals, and you brace yourself. This is not going to stay calm.

First up: a pair of porgs, those squawking, fluffy little birds from Ahch-To. They hop around nervously, causing quite a stir.

Wolffe narrows his eyes, muttering, "Fluffy annoyances. Give me a bantha any day."

Cody, sitting nearby with his ever-present cane, grins slyly. "You know, I once ate one of those. Starvation's a powerful thing."

The handler gasps, shaking her head. "Sir, that's illegal—and highly unethical."

Cody shrugs, waving a dismissive hand. "Lady, when you're stranded on a remote moon with no supplies, anything is edible. Even fluffy troublemakers."

You roll your eyes, but a few clones chuckle at Cody's 'tactical survival wisdom.'

Next, a Nexu cat prowls around, sleek and predatory — more intimidating than the previous critters. Hunter eyes it carefully, whispering to you, "Reminds me too much of our missions."

Sev grins, "I'll take that over porgs any day. At least it fights back."

Meanwhile, Monnk is trying to charm one of the handlers, offering to "train" the animals like they did the beasts on Felucia. The handler isn't biting.

Suddenly, a Womp rat scurries across the floor, sending some of the clones into a mild panic. "You want me to pet that thing? No thanks!" one clone shouts.

Wrecker, ever the wildcard, tries to pick up the rat, grinning wildly. "I'm gonna name him Snuffles! He's gonna be my buddy!"

The rat, unsurprisingly, doesn't share the sentiment and bolts under a table.

Tech adjusts his glasses, noting, "The rat's biological design is optimized for urban survival. Its presence here is illogical and inefficient."

You sigh and remind everyone, "Let's just keep the animals calm, folks, and try not to break the place."

Then the handlers wheel out a Kowakian monkey-lizard — a mischievous creature known for stealing small items. It immediately scampers up Wolffe's leg.

Wolffe snarls, trying to shake it off. "Get this pest off me!"

Echo chuckles, "Careful, that little guy might be the only thing keeping you humble."

The monkey-lizard snatches Cody's cane and disappears into the crowd.

Cody growls, "That's my cane, you little—"

Wrecker laughs, "I think it wants to play!"

As the chaos escalates, you catch sight of a Jawa peeking in, eyeing the shiny gadgets lying around with obvious interest.

"Great," you mutter. "Now we've got scavengers."

Just then, a pair of Tusken Raiders (actors in full gear for a cultural demonstration) arrive, further confusing the clones.

"Are they here to capture us?" Monk asks nervously.

"No, Monk," you say, "They're just part of the entertainment. Please don't try to fight them."

The clones grumble, but the presence of the Tuskens somehow calms them down... for now.

You lean against the wall, exhausted but amused. "Just another day at the Sundown Heights Clone Retirement Village."

⸻

Feeding time at the petting zoo starts off deceptively calm — until the animals get hangry and the clones get restless.

You're just about to hand out some carefully portioned snacks when Crosshair, eyes narrowed and arms crossed, steps up. The handler offers him a small fruit to feed a curious little loth-cat — a feline native, with big eyes and a twitchy tail.

Crosshair barely glances at the creature, holding out the food with an almost irritated flick of his wrist. The loth-cat sniffs, then, suddenly, nips at Crosshair's fingers.

Crosshair snaps back, baring his teeth in that all-too-familiar scowl, "I'll bite you back, you overgrown furball."

The handler jumps forward and smacks Crosshair's arm firmly with a rolled-up feeding schedule. "No biting, soldier! This isn't the battlefield."

Crosshair glares, rubbing his hand, muttering, "Overgrown rodent."

Meanwhile, Hunter watches with a mix of amusement and disbelief, whispering to you, "Typical Crosshair. Even animals aren't safe from his sniping."

Wrecker, not missing a beat, chuckles loudly. "Hey Crosshair, maybe the loth-cat just wanted to test if you're as tough as you look!"

Echo shakes his head, "Crosshair doesn't do well with surprises."

The feeding chaos continues as the bigger animals start getting restless — a nerf herder nearly knocks over a table of snacks, while a pair of mynocks hover annoyingly close to the ceiling lights, causing shadows that make the clones jump.

Suddenly, a rancor pup (just a baby, thankfully) lets out a loud yowl, startling the elderly clones into mild panic. Monk grabs his teeth, waving them like weapons, while Tech carefully calculates the pup's stress levels.

You take a deep breath, already planning how to handle the aftermath. "Okay, everyone, maybe let's keep the biting to a minimum — on both sides."

Crosshair grumbles, still rubbing his hand, "Next time, I'm bringing my blaster."

The handler looks horrified. "I'll make a note of that."

⸻

The animal handlers have packed up, carting away all the critters and saying goodbye with promises to return. The facility breathes a collective sigh of relief — until you notice a suspicious crowd gathered outside Bly's room.

Curious, you edge closer and peer inside.

There, nestled on an old blanket, is the rancor pup — a squirming bundle of teeth and claws far too large to be cute, but somehow still managing the "awww" factor.

Bly, sitting stiffly in his chair, eyes sharp despite his age, glares at the crowd. "I'm not giving it back."

The clones murmur in approval, their voices low and conspiratorial.

You raise an eyebrow. "What's the deal? Why keep a rancor pup locked up in your room?"

Bly's gaze sharpens, voice gruff. "That pup's my guard. Keeps that damn Bacara out of my space."

You tilt your head. "What is it with your beef with Bacara?."

"You're too young to understand."

A ripple of quiet agreement rolls through the group — not a single one willing to elaborate.

You blink. "Great. I'm surrounded by mysterious grudges and cryptic old men. Just perfect."

Bly pats the pup, who responds with a toothy yawn that somehow looks threatening.

"Don't test him," Bly warns, voice low.

The clones shuffle away, still murmuring, leaving you to wonder if you're dealing with a retirement home or a low-key warzone.

You grab the comm and call the animal handlers, only to get their holo-message.

The handler's cheerful face flickers to life, their voice chipper but firm.

"Hey! We're currently off-world on an extended mission, but don't worry, we'll be back in a few days to collect the rancor pup."

They pause, then add with a note of concern, "Make sure it's fed the right amount of meat every day—no skimping. These little guys need their protein to grow strong and keep their bite deadly."

You glance toward the rancor pup, who's happily gnawing on a chunk of meat Bly tossed its way.

"Well," you mutter, "this is going to be... interesting."

The clones nearby exchange amused glances, while Bly beams, already planning the pup's daily feast.

You sigh, realizing the next few days are going to be a full-on 'rancor wrangling' adventure.

⸻

It was halfway through your next shift when the calm hum of Sundown Heights Retirement Facility was shattered by a furious yell that carried down the hall like a blaster shot.

"GET THIS KRIFFING RANCOR OFF ME! I'M NOT YOUR DINNER, YOU OVERGROWN LIZARD!"

You nearly dropped the datapad you were holding. A commotion like that could only mean one thing—someone had finally had a run-in with Bly's stolen "pet."

Sure enough, Bacara came barreling around the corner, armor plates rattling against each other, one hand clutching at his arm as though he'd just survived a rancor wrestling match. His normally neat hair was sticking up like he'd been electrocuted, and his expression was the perfect storm of rage and disbelief.

Hot on his heels, looking far too smug for someone who'd just unleashed chaos on the facility, was Bly—strolling casually with his arms folded, as if this was all part of his afternoon entertainment. And trailing just behind him was a Twi'lek woman with striking blue skin and lekku tipped with elegant white markings.

You blinked. "Uh... is that—?"

"Aayla Secura," Bly cut in proudly, like you'd just pointed at his prized speeder. "My Jedi wife."

"Your what?" you asked, but your question was steamrolled instantly.

Bly threw a thumb over his shoulder toward Bacara. "This rancor is exactly what I was talking about! This—this bantha-brained relic thinks he can just waltz into my room whenever he pleases. Now my guard beast is doing his job, and he's crying about it!"

Bacara spun around so fast you swore you heard vertebrae pop. "Doing his job?! Bly, it tried to eat me! I barely got out with my limbs intact!" He jabbed a finger toward his arm. "Look at this! Bite mark! I'm gonna have to get a tetanus shot or whatever the kriffing space equivalent is!"

Aayla sighed, her calm Jedi voice smooth but strained. "Gentlemen, please. We can settle this without—"

A ceramic mug came sailing out of Bly's room, barely missing Bacara's head before shattering against the wall.

Bacara ducked, his face twisting into a grin that was half amusement, half bloodlust. "Oh, it's on."

He disappeared into his quarters across the hall and re-emerged with a pillowcase... which, upon closer inspection, had several metallic objects clunking around inside. Without hesitation, he hurled it at Bly like a thermal detonator.

Bly sidestepped effortlessly. "You're gonna have to do better than that, old man."

"Oh, you want better?!" Bacara growled, vanishing back into his room like a storm brewing behind closed doors.

Within seconds, the hallway became a war zone. Cushions, boots, ration packs, and Force-only-knows-what-else came flying through the air in a chaotic crossfire. Bly lobbed an old helmet—Bacara returned fire with what looked suspiciously like a dented caf maker.

You caught sight of Commander Cody down the hall, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching the whole thing with an approving nod. "Y'know," he said casually, "I've seen firefights quieter than this."

Wolffe shuffled up beside him, holding a cup of tea and looking thoroughly unimpressed. "This is why we need assigned seating at mealtimes. Separate these two before one of them actually kills the other."

Aayla looked to you again, clearly hoping you were going to step in. "Well?" she asked, arching a brow.

You froze mid-step, meeting her gaze. "Uh... this is my first day," you lied without blinking. "Pretty sure this is a senior staff's problem, not mine."

"You work here," she deadpanned.

"Exactly," you said, and with that, you turned on your heel and retreated to the staff lounge like a coward with a healthy sense of self-preservation.

Behind you, Bacara roared something about "settling this once and for all," Bly yelled back about "how you've always been jealous," and Cody started taking bets with Wolffe on who would win the battle.

Somewhere in the mix, you heard the rancor pup's happy little growl—apparently enjoying the chaos as much as everyone else.

⸻

Sundown Heights Retirement Facility – Incident Report

Filed by: [Your Full Name]

Date/Time: 1730 Hours

Shift: Afternoon (a.k.a. The Longest Two Hours of My Life)

Department: Clone Enrichment / Chaos Containment

Incident Title:

Domestic Dispute Between Residents Escalates Into Rancor-Related Disturbance

Summary of Events:

At approximately 1620 hours, loud shouting was heard from the residential wing. Upon investigation, I observed Resident CT-5052 (Bly) and Resident CC-1138 (Bacara) engaged in a heated verbal exchange regarding a "trained guard rancor" allegedly biting Bacara without provocation.

In attendance was General Aayla Secura (visitor – blue skin, polite, doesn't deserve this level of nonsense, Bly's Legal Wife) who attempted to mediate. Mediation failed. A mug was thrown. This was followed by retaliatory launch of a pillowcase filled with unknown hard objects. Both residents displayed questionable aim but alarming commitment.

The altercation escalated into a full-blown item-flinging battle. Witnesses (Commander Cody and Commander Wolffe) were observed spectating and, in Commander Cody's case, taking bets.

At 1630 hours, the juvenile rancor in question (approx. 1.5 meters tall, species: trouble) escaped containment during the melee. The rancor was last seen trotting down Hallway C toward the cafeteria, dragging a slipper in its mouth and growling at anyone who approached.

Bly sustained significant damage to his pride after Bacara allegedly "won" the fight by pinning him in a doorway using an overturned armchair. Bacara then declared himself "Champion of Sundown Heights" and began parading through the hall shouting, "WHO'S NEXT?" Bly was heard muttering, "Not fair, I was distracted by my rancor's feeding schedule" while General Secura attempted to soothe him with gentle shoulder pats.

Property Damage:

    •    One ceramic mug (destroyed).

    •    One caf maker (non-functional; still smells like burning).

    •    One pillowcase (structural integrity compromised due to smuggling kitchenware inside).

    •    Several walls dented from thrown objects (maintenance has been notified).

    •    Emotional damage to staff (unquantifiable, but severe).

Injuries:

    •    Bacara: superficial bite mark (claims it's a "battle scar").

    •    Bly: bruised ego (severity: critical).

    •    Rancor pup: no injuries, but seems emboldened.

Current Status:

The rancor is still roaming freely. As of this writing, reports indicate it has chased at least three residents into the laundry room and is "standing guard" at the entrance. Feeding time is in 15 minutes. The animal handlers have been contacted but are off-world and will not return for another three days. They have advised "ensuring the rancor eats the required amount of meat" in the meantime.

Given that it is the last hour of my shift and I am off tomorrow, I have chosen to leave this task to the next shift. May the Force be with them.

Recommended Action:

    •    Confiscate all throwable objects from residents involved in altercations.

    •    Invest in rancor-proof doors.

    •    Mandatory mediation session between Bly and Bacara (or just throw them in a training ring and see who survives).

    •    Extra hazard pay for all staff on rancor duty.

Filed by:

[Signature Here]

(Very tired, counting the minutes to freedom)

⸻