Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They said conscripted but the act they hid beneath that slimy word was theft.

Theft of people, unapologetic and unyielding.

The harvest from the reaping of that hungry Empire maw compiled full queues of worried glances and frenetic tension, huddled humans shuffling wearily among each other. Some kept their heads down while others openly stared at the brutal architectural ribcage housing the cavernous heart of the Center for Military Operations. Many were wounded, scuffed and scraped with defensive wounds, but just as many were bruised from their uncradled drop to the ground, a single stunner opening the liminal space between their old life and the new.

Kidnapping was never before condoned with such tact. Not even the Jedi snatched from the systems with such vigor.

“Your daily exercise allotment is fulfilled,” the little droid chirped over the sniper’s shoulder. “You are required to return to the medical bay.”

From his view on the narrow walkway, Crosshair could see everything and yet everything the scene had to offer failed to serve enough. The visual meal was paltry, squalid, and the clone’s upper lip curled in a weak snarl. So much fear churning below him, too much hesitation to serve… The people below deserved little more than the opportunity to be of use to their ruling body and still they protested. He watched the latest delivery with feigned little interest, the rare bit of color in the clothing of strangers a temporary offense against the stark palette of greys and whites.

The Empire, in their unchecked xenophobia, left little doubt as to their perceived value of humans in their new army; Crosshair couldn’t see a single obvious exception as he skillfully scanned the motley assortment. The Senate—what remained—hadn’t yet passed the Defense Recruitment Bill but the actions of the new governing body flaunted their own powers to act without permission. This was the sixth delivery of at least two dozen new recruits in as many days and Crosshair had yet to find an inconsistency in the routine.

“CT-9904, your daily exercise allotment is fulfilled,” the medical droid chippered in his ear. “You will now return to the medical bay.”

If the droid bothered to act upon Crosshair’s extensive health records, it would find even repeated repairs on the sniper’s right eardrum hadn’t fully restored clarity in comparison to the left ear, and Crosshair knew he could call upon that little detail as witness to any trial upon hesitation to do as he was told. The droid could wait a moment longer and let Crosshair look his fill. Building his strength after the harrowing experience that was Kamino proved to be his only distraction each day; the sniper fought slipping into his own mind with every minute he spent on that cold medcot and yet had nothing to do between the various procedures and mental aptitude tests the medical droids assailed him with since his rescue.

Despite his damaged hearing, Crosshair could still prickle at the faintly annoyed buzz of the droid’s voicebox before the unit threatened to shift from giving direction to filing a report of noncompliance. The sniper shifted his weight on his cane and gave the conscripted citizens of the Empire one last arrogant glance before a laborious turn back towards the medical bay.

Good soldiers follow orders.

---

Stassa II was a thorilide-rich moon with little else to offer except its people. Rashala was one of three the Empire took from the village and one of two who stood in the vast theatre of mundane procedure. The third, younger than Rashala but not so much a boy as to not have known better than to run, was lost forever. Noncompliance wasn’t an option.

The stormtroopers left Kinshin where he fell while the others shuffled, manacled, into the transport. She hoped the snow would coat him quickly, hide his body from any who would investigate the site after the Empire’s departure. The gusty storm was little more than a breeze for the cramped transport to navigate before clearing the moon’s atmosphere. Rashala caught one last glimpse of home, a sliver of hazy blue through the pilot’s front shield, before stars pulled into an impossible blur and troopers pushed the two remaining Stassians into the tight holding cell.

Their new prison was disguised as a bureaucratic facility but, to the stolen, was simply a nightmare. Rashala had no doubt any one of them would be shot the moment they broke from the group. The air on whatever planet they’d been taken to was thicker, heavier, than on Stassa and tinged through with a mechanical glint that oiled on her tongue. Hardly anyone glanced at the group as they were escorted without ceremony through the holding bay and ushered from hallway to hallway. The Command Center—overhearing a trooper—was a maze. Rashala quickly lost what little hope she had that maybe she could escape, run out into that hint of sunlight beyond the hangar doors and hide until she could secure transport home. The twists and turns through so many hallways left her disoriented, deepening her confusion.

Why was she even here?

“Line up,” a trooper barked, tapping his blaster barrel against his plastoid-clad thigh and dividing the human plunder with little more than a wave of his hand. Most scrambled to comply, having seen what that blaster did to one of their own just hours ago, but the eldest Stassian among them stood fast and stared firmly at the trooper. His bright overcoat and thick miner’s scarf reflected in the helmeted visage with all the foreign asymmetry of a Stassian on a foreign planet. Those who didn’t know the man like Rashala did couldn’t have understood how his fellows stared in horror, one clutching a hand to their mouth to keep silent as ordered. This was a leader in their colony, a village elder in the making if only he had more time to hone his knowledge into wisdom and insolence into patience. The half dozen Tionese and a lone Saleucamian stared at the Stassian with reserved wonder.    

No, don’t do it, Nish, Rashala’s mind spun words from her gut-deep fear for the man. Don’t do it. Don’t.

“We’re citizens of the Republic,” Nishtian said firmly, his baritone announcement rolling from his thick beard. “We’re not soldiers. We will not be treated like this!”

The other troopers in the room looked to their commander for direction, to understand how to follow the inevitable response. Rashala watched as one seemed to rock uneasily on their heels before resuming their impassive stance. Is this what they’d be turned into? Hidden behind military blacks and plastoid shields, weapons in hand as they enslaved others just as they themselves had been caught and transformed?

Troopers used to be a rare sight on Stassa II, the occasional patrol deployed by the Republic to ensure the thorilide so valuable to the Grand Army’s spaceships was protected from Separatist interests. The Mining Guild was known to be heavily influenced by the Techno Union and, despite Stassa II’s insistence of neutrality, the Republic did well in swaying the little moon in favor of galactic democracy. The clones would sometimes distribute snacks to curious village children, stop and talk with the mayor and community elders, even join a card game before returning to their routine mid-rim scours. Visits were brief, non-invasive. The white armor was never feared until all too recently.

The sudden news that the Republic had fallen and a self-proclaimed Empire was rising from the ashes of the Clone Wars was a short-lived report. All information to the Stassian moons and their anchor planet was cut entirely and not even Rashala’s comm tech team could restore the signals. The first few rotations brought no change and so instilled a false hope that perhaps this new Empire would forget about backwater mid-rim moons… but anyone with two fingers to snap together knew thorilide was too valuable for the novelty of anonymity. It took less than a mooncycle—35 rotations—before the first ship pierced the crisp blue skies and ripped Stassa II in half.

Rashala wasn’t the first to be stolen but was one of the few who didn’t expect to be taken; she wasn’t a prized mind, like the mining engineers, or one of the strongest to pry the delicate pockets of thorilide from the caves under the Sahaslia Mountains. That the troopers who once traded quips with her brothers shoved past their muscular bulk to seize Rashala’s arms was as much a mental disconnect as if a loaf of bread began to sing. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, blame her brothers for doing little more than shout at the troopers as the family was separated: Kinshin wasn’t the first to be left as a body in the wake of struggle. That her hot-tempered brothers reserved themselves just enough that their little sister didn’t have to see them shot down was a bittersweet parting gift.

But Nishtian, her eldest brother’s best friend, was not as generous in sparing her a second taste of the horrors of disobedience under the Empire’s control.

“We’re citizens—”

“Line up!”

“I have the right to speak to someone, anyone, who can explain why we’ve been brought here against our will!” Nish continued, voice booming in brittle echoes through the holding chamber. Various officials, badges and ranks untranslatable as little chips on their drab uniforms, peered over the grated walkways lining the slick concrete walls before continuing on their way. “We’ve done nothing wrong. We’re not prisoners with cause!”

“You will comply.”

“We have rights! Until we’ve been told what’s going on—”

The stunner everyone dared expect was instead a lethal shot and Nishtian folded to the ground without so much as a grunt. Even the stoic Tionese, none of whom had spoken a word the entire transit despite Nish’s attempts at diplomacy under pressure, stifled a collective scream.

“Those who attack a soldier will be dealt with accordingly,” the trooper stated aloud, as though clearing the collective hallucination that Nish hadn’t so much as taken a single step forward. “Now, line up!”

Rashala pulled her shoulders tightly against the cold metal wall and took a shuddering breath. She tried, desperately and honestly tried, not to look at Nish’s body but caught herself looking for the rise and fall of a breath. Anything to prove she wasn’t alone, the lone representative of a moon she already feared she’d never see again. That hope lodged in her throat as a choking stone she couldn’t swallow down.

Nish was dead.

Her brother’s closest friend, the one who had the bravery to spare her a smile as he tried to make the best of whatever terrible situation this was and strike up conversation with the other prisoners. Because that’s what they all were, prisoners of the Empire, but Nish made that transport holding cell as much of a collective as he could in the few short hours he had. The loose and untidy knots tying the group together slipped away as everyone distanced themselves in their attempt to survive.

If survival was lining up, they’d all line up, and maybe they’d keep themselves from joining Nishtian on the cold grey floor.

“You’ll receive assignments momentarily,” the trooper announced. “Any non-compliant soldier will be corrected. You’ve been given a great honor to serve the Imperial Army of the Galactic Empire.”

What honor was there in dying on a strange planet after being seized from your very home? Rashala wondered in the closing confines of her panicking mind. I didn’t sign up for service. I didn’t agree to this!

“Report to your commanding officers after decon and redress,” the trooper ordered, the blaster remaining as a silent threat at the clone’s thigh. “Now, move.”

It took everything Rashala had to keep from looking back at Nish’s body as she numbly shuffled into an uncertain future.

---

There was no time to feel indignant or embarrassed, the entire process of decontamination moving all too rapidly to pause on any particular insult. The stolen undressed under the continued presence of troopers, their clothes left in piles to be shoved into incinerators by small utility droids. A pungent soapy mix needled at Rashala’s pale skin before a chilling wash expunged the anemic suds in a collective foam swishing around her bare feet. Heated blasts of air quickly dried them all and Rashala resisted an instinctive duck as several mechanical arms swung out of the low, bright ceiling. Each arm swiveled and swung on thin tracks and all were tipped with gleaming razors. Several freshly washed humans cried out in alarm but none fought back as the blades swept with surprisingly gentle ease across scalps.

Rashala trembled with shivers as one metallic arm calibrated a trajectory around her head and she had the good sense to keep still as the narrow razor shaved off her long hair. The white-silver strands, the same color most Stassians were born with and the identical shades as her brothers, eddied as comet-tails across the slick black tiles. Rashala bit back a swift and ridiculous worry that she might not be recognizable if anyone were to come to rescue her. Those who didn’t stand quietly to lose their hair were lightly scraped, the blades failing to dance entirely out of the way before cutting skin; the Saleucamian’s cheek leaked a thin rivulet of diluted crimson and their face seemed vulnerable after involuntarily losing their wide, dark beard.

Shelves of identical clothing, a grey tunic and pants of identical cut regardless of size, were labeled in Galactic Basic. Thin-soled shoes that could never resist outdoor elements were more like a slipper than anything resembling her lined boots; Rashala clasped them at the ankle and worried for her toes before a crackling realization physically hurt her: she didn’t have to consider the intense cold when dressing. The generic, bland uniform didn’t quite fit right for her size and left too much space at her wrists but at least covered most of her. Rashala was tall, of average weight and build for a woman who had yet to see twenty nine rotations of Stassa II’s perpetual waltz with the planet Risedel around their sun, and she felt like she towered over the short Saleucamian struggling in their too-long pants. The thin fabric hung from her narrow chest and she felt just as naked dressed in what felt like military-issue pajamas as she did back in the communal wash.

A medical droid hovered at the single narrow door, an amalgamation of probing tools fitted to its rotund body.

“Left hand,” the droid ordered in an impersonal monotone, each of the stolen humans obliging with a perfectly clear vision of Nish’s resistance stirring immediate obedience. The droid pricked each individual finger and swiped a petite scanner over the blood beading at the tips before giving an order. The trooper at the door directed the Saleucamian down the left hallway, two of the Tionese following before the third was told to go right. There were no escorts. Rashala tried to peer past the trooper to catch one last glimpse of the Saleucamian but she couldn’t see them. They had talked easily with Nish on the transport, including Rashala in the petty conversation that came of communal helplessness and confusion. The last shaky bond was finally broken with the droid pulled blood from Rashala’s fingers and gave the trooper directive to turn Rashala right.

“Take the farthest open door,” the soldier ordered. “Await escort to Medical.”

Rashala’s eyes widened and she caught a bit of their blue in the impersonal helmet reflecting her own shock back at her. Unbidden, unwanted, the recent memory of Nish on the ground shone back at her, too, and she stepped around the trooper with deliberate space. Behind her, one of the Tions audibly winced at the blood test and was directed left. Rashala doubted she’d ever see them again.

The hallway was empty, absent of any hustle or sign of humanoid life. A single mouse-like droid chattered indignantly as it wheeled its boxy frame around her hesitant step. The grey, shiny chassis scooted by and quickly left her in its hurried wake. Harsh geometry carved doorways from the walls, each with a firmly closed slab on a simple electronic trigger, and the hallway was soon lined with potential paths. A harsh alarm buzzed when Rashala attempted to open one of the more promising doors, a blue emblem painted near the top of a wide pair that seemed like they’d slide open at a glance but instead triggered a warning against every surface until she withdrew her hand.

Finally, the long hallway brought her to a single open door: a spartan cell, with only a rigid cot built into the wall. The room’s floor was metallic and cold, a chill seeping through the thin soles of the army-issued slippers as Rashala tentatively entered. The door slammed shut behind her with little warning and the single overhead light, roughly diffused, did a poor job of illuminating the corners of the small room. The white light was painfully artificial and was nothing compared to the warm, soft tungsten glow of her bedside lamp back home.

Home.

Cautiously, the Stassian crept along the edges of the walls, looking for anything that could prove she was being watched. Surveillance seemed guaranteed but Rashala frowned through her weakening composure as she nearly failed to fight through her unexpectedly sudden tears: either the Empire had monitoring she couldn’t fathom or her cell was clear of technology that could be used to spy on her. A small but not insignificant gain: no one was watching her cry.

‘Never let them see you upset,’ Rashala remembered her brother chiding after she came home in tears from her first failed monitoring exam. ‘They’ll always treat you less for it, even when the tears dry.’ All three had given their sympathy despite her frustrated outburst, despite Nish waiting on them at the pub. They were going to celebrate Nish’s promotion in the Chemist Guild, all of them still sporting their limbs, fingers, and toes at that point, while Rashala hadn’t yet passed her entry test to join the Technical Guild.

The Guild. The mines. Her village. All of it, home.

Her brothers and their friends were specialists, skilled at what they did despite their youth, and it took years for Rashala to feel like she could keep up with their contributions to the mining community. A steady export of thorilide meant a thriving village, investments in healthcare and education, improvements to the hydroponic systems and fuel for the field-heaters. Her brothers were engineers, Nish was the youngest chemist to ever be trusted with the xenoboric acid compounds so crucial to refining unstable thorilide crystals, and Rashala did her best to improve the transmission systems critical to safety and communication. Even while the Empire shuttled them across space against their will, tensions high and fear skirting the edges of her very vision, Nishtian had cracked a joke. He had given her first bite of the nutrient pack he had tucked away in his jacket, expecting to have shared it with her brothers on their way to their shift rather than as illicit cargo on the Empire’s latest snatching of their people.

How everything had changed within moments…

“Oh, Nish…”

Rashala curled up on the cot, trembling despite her will. There were no blankets or pillows, no comforts whatsoever, and she wrapped her arms around herself despite being used to a cooler temperature. The stark walls and poor light made the cell feel colder than it was and loneliness only amplified her chill. Everything she knew was gone. The one person who might have provided any sort of relief or gifted a modicum of hope was murdered before an audience, killed as quickly and cleanly as one might dispatch a rogue ilium rat. Her brother’s best friend was gone and Rashala wondered if she’d ever have the opportunity to tell them how it happened. What would they think? What must they think now? Did they miss her? She knew she was loved, protected and supported after their parent’s untimely death of advanced Shilmer’s Syndrome, but Nishtian was like a fourth sibling in their already tight family. They’d grieve for their sister and adopted brother both…

The light cut abruptly, a faint mechanical snick accompanying the sudden visual silence as Rashala found herself very much alone. She couldn’t see her hand in front of her face and her fingers pulled back from the cot’s edge as though losing their balance on the precipice of a vast drop into oblivion. On the cot, she was safe from whatever was humming in the floors, a strong electrical current strumming a quiet tune that promised more than an audible alarm should she investigate the source. She was too exhausted, too diminished, too wary to find out.

If she closed her eyes, she could see the stars as they wheeled over Stassa II, a mesh of constellations dipping to kiss the mountaintops before leaping a slow but steady path back into the heart of the sky. Thick threads of stardust wove across the black expanse and soothed the sharp edges of Rashala’s tired mind. Pulsing glimmers and iridescent waves rippled across the night sky, sparks of phosphorescent greens and vibrant violets telling fortunes and shortening the shadows of lovers wandering the village streets. Barely a hint the farthest stretch on the eastern horizon was the glistening scratch of a pulsar. The sky was a symphony in her ears: the pitch of radiation, the timbre of cosmic debris, the rich resonance of Stassa II’s own ionsphere and harmonization with Risedel’s own unique sonification.

With that remembered melody of her own night sky, Reshala strung together the words of a mourning song she hadn’t heard since she and her brothers buried their parents in the icy mausoleum beneath Krennis Peak. Here, in the cold depths of the Empire’s Command Center, she felt perhaps she could be buried herself. Quietly, she sang through sobs until sleep took her.

---

In the blessed darkness, the soft cadence of new routine lulled the sniper to the brink of true rest. The medbay had been too loud, unpredictable, droids coming and going and beeping and chittering. Other patients groaning, rolling, even snoring. The only sleep since his rescue was pharmaceutically induced, dark pits of absence from reality. Crosshair’s body craved chemicals it temporarily forgot how to make on its own, struggling through pockets of time as healing continued a sprinting marathon. He was still ravaged, weak. The clone resented as much as admired his own ability to survive.

Unfortunately, the first bit of freedom from the medbay—and constant supervision—resulted in a less than soundproof room in the private barracks block.

Someone was singing.

Chapter Text

Before she was stolen, the Stassian worked in the most advanced communications facility on her home-moon, NATSIC M.

Utilitarian and sparse in design, the concrete building slung low against the edge of the Lepsha Mine entrance, sometimes nearly hidden under immense drifts of snow at the height of winter. The core tower stretched from the center and was so thoroughly designed for Stassa II’s harsh weather conditions that human comfort was an afterthought at best; the zig-zagging stairway was a hike to get from the ground floor to the top observatory deck and the building was heated only to the point of preventing essential pipes from freezing. Only newcomers and the foolish failed to wear numerous layers and Rashala forwent the alleged honor of her managerial desk in favor of working in the Control Center with her team only partially because the servers and equipment generated copious amounts of heat.

The Control Center was the heart of the communications operation required to support the mining industry Stassa II was known for all over the galaxy. Thorilide, rare and unstable before processing, was never so pure from any other source in any other sector and Stassa II thrived. Most of the moon’s small but stoic human population was employed in some form of work related to thorilide and Rashala was no exception. The entire Affinesonn Family was woven into the mines—an uncle was responsible for inventing part of the prototype machine that would go on to modernize extraction and a cousin was one of the moon’s most revered prospectors until an untimely accident took her life before Rashala was born—and the young woman herself was very proud to overcome her struggles passing her entry exams to eventually be trusted with the immense responsibility to keep the Control Center fully operational.

The CC was a wonderful place Rashala thought of home as much as her own small cottage in the village. The same people patching relays and securing cargo transit paths to and from the moon’s mountain tundra surface were childhood friends. Engineers swapping data cards and soldering new connections were mothers and fathers of some of the brightest miners working leagues below the CC’s grand tower. Rashala’s favorite tower technician, Scopsen, was an eccentric and immensely cheerful man who turned down a spot on the village council so many times everyone unofficially named him an Elder anyway. She always made sure Scopsen had first access to new shipments of communications supplies in the chance he might replace his battered old set of tools but he’d only ever wink at her with a blue-eyed twinkle and suit up in his thick, worn harness-suit she was pretty sure he’d been born in. He climbed the transmission towers at the top of the observation deck in any weather and could fix a power issue faster than it took the team to identify the root cause of concern. Rashala loved him for how he watched out for her and her brothers after the death of their parents and he wasn’t the only one to have taken care of the Affinesonn kids: the entire village did their best to support the victims of Shilmer’s Syndrome, the rare but brutal potential outcome of thorilide exposure.

The CC’s equipment, of course, was spared no expense. Some of the best transmission technology to rival that of the Grand Army of the Republic found a place in the NATSIC M and Rashala reveled in the smallest of detail. The Techno Union didn’t allow Guilds to release faulty product and equipment failure was a rarity, a joy for all the work she ended up directing to repair droids and update data systems. Stassa II participated in a research agreement with a Technical Guild to allow their video data engineers access to some of the most brutal windchill conditions within atmosphere in exchange for equipment and service, a project Rashala herself oversaw. The rest of the team would laugh good-naturedly at the Guild visitors when, without fail, guests would huddle next to the immense generators and let the ice melt from their extremities before making the arduous climb up to the CC; a Twi’lek nearly lost his tips to frostbite once, underestimating the moon’s conditions and failing to hide every part of himself from the bitterly howling wind. The Guild always extended invitations to Rashala, offering to shuttle her back and forth in order to see the production facilities on other planets and ask questions in person of some of the smartest inventors and technicians in her field, but she never accepted. She’d never been off-moon before, not even to the parent planet Risedel, and sent others instead when denying a repeated offer would be insulting.

There was nothing the galaxy could offer her that Stassa II didn’t have.

Some days, when the wind hushed and the pewter clouds cleared and the land was reprieved from the frequent dusting of thick snowflakes, Rashala would stand against the glass of the observation deck and feast her soul upon the heartachingly beautiful landscape. The Sahaslia Mountains, perpetually snowcapped, were bold with quartz veins shimmering under dark veils of evergreen bough. Clouds sculpted by iridescent wind currents tangled in pastel light, smeary with pale blues and oranges against the sky’s bold palette. Herds of elk and fathier and six-prong lopes moved through the ice valley in languages written only in their hoofsteps; she saw a lone musketen once, his enormous cup-shaped horns tangled with hotsprings weeds, once made his way past with steaming fur, a smoking plume until the mineral-rich waters hardened into icicles to clang like a hundred long chimes from his long tresses. The hotsprings were home to otter and the occasional pack of arctic whelmers and stray motmots, animals coming and going at the gently steaming stretch of open water. Skulks of vulptices glimmered in the pink dawn, breaking light into a thousand rainbow shards as they pounced at mole mice burrowing under the snow’s crusty surface.

Stassa II was unparalleled for richness, perfect in every way, and Rashala thought she could never be parted—even temporarily—from such bliss.

But as she sat in the cold, brutally stark medical bay on an unknown planet and tried unsuccessfully to keep from trembling, Rashala knew she had to try to survive if only to get back to Stassa II for one last sunrise.

She would not end up like Kinshin and Nishtian, dead by an impersonal hand wielding a brutal weapon.

She’d live.

First, she had to determine what this Empire was and what they wanted with her.

An FX-7 assistant droid whirred near her examination table, the dull glint of its tall tubing sporting a circumference punctured through with candy-colored vials. Sockets rasped as it poked at her with a short metal arm, testing her reflexes, and the Stassian kept her annoyance to herself as she allowed it to jab her knees and flex her elbows. To avoid looking too closely at the disturbingly stationary probe droid charging with an insidious hum near the door, Rashala assessed the immense expense of the various machinery throughout the room. The droids in this strange facility were the most advanced Rashala had ever seen and this room in particular seemed built to their purpose.

Everything was sterile, nondescript, packaged neatly and locked away with droid-only port locks. There was no human element in any purpose the room had to offer. As with the long hallways between the cell block and the medbay, she was surrounded by more glaring surfaces with imperfections, ripples providing only the slightest reflection with any hint of accuracy. Color was limited to extremes—blacks, whites, sharp greys—and Rashala felt not only terribly frightened but completely out of place. She was the only patient in the medbay.  

The bright, blue-tinged lights permeated her corneas, as sharp as midday sunlight on hardpack snow; pressure, starting as a nagging tingle under her eyebrows before swiftly amplifying to a headache, built to a pitch only temporarily diminished by flexing her facial muscles. Puffiness from crying herself to sleep cushioned her features and her eyes prickled: oblivion was short-lived and hardly restful. Rashala didn’t know how long she slipped away or how many iterations of the mourning song she sang before finally succumbing to exhaustion. The trooper who opened her cell door and silently expected her to follow them to the medbay scared her closer to an untimely demise but ultimately left her in the dubious care of a busy AZ unit and an FX with an enthusiasm for testing reflexes.

After yet another visual scan, the droid had the good sense to beep a warning before sticking Rashala with a small injection but the needleprick was more insult than injury. She studied it as the FX whirred in a hint of a chuckle at her indignity. This injection could have been anything—she could drop dead in just a few moments or turn purple or sprout wings from her ears—but the droid ignored her questioning. The indignity at becoming a test subject was amplified by the lack of response from the FX; Rashala personally maintenanced quite a few droids in her time and none of them, not a single one, had ever been so rude.  

Keeping her emotions to herself, Rashala fought a tremble as the door opened in a heavy whish. She momentarily feared the trooper who shot Nish was the same who retrieved her from her cell, the same who was coming back for her now to put a blaster to her head as a failed test subject: her jailers all looked alike, all dressed in that white plastoid that once meant routine patrol for a law-abiding, resource-rich member of the Galactic Republic but now seemed to guarantee death for guilty and innocent alike. Instead, a thin, looming, scowling man limped through the door, his joints pushing at the folds of the same generic cut cloth Rashala wore. The AZ unit chittered at the back of the room where it seemed to be calibrating a rather large and intimidating piece of equipment. Most worryingly, the probe droid smoothly, sleekly, lifted into the air at the man’s passing and followed him with a low sequence of vocalizations that chilled Rashala down to her marrow.

The probe droid’s black frame and insectile appendages were even more terrifying this close than the first time she saw one just a handful of mooncycles ago, shortly after the holofeeds and news trades shut off completely but before word of the Empire yet spread as far as Stassa II’s citizens. Rashala had been monitoring terrestrial transmission feeds that day, browsing for spare signals and smoothing the usual wrinkles in the multifaceted patterns of operation on a mining moon when she first heard the clicking call of the probe droid in her headset. She hadn’t known to be afraid of them yet and barely identified the Sisrai communication as intelligible language before her own translation systems stepped in to assist. Spoken languages were never her strongest skill but Rashala was more fluent than most at anything to do with communications data, especially if it embedded video as part of its grammatical flow. Identifying two droids was easy, intercepting the communication just as smooth, but the message imprinted itself on her brain forever.

When she grabbed the binoculars and ran across the CC to the observation deck, it didn’t take long to find the swift black spots soaring over the glimmering ice valley below. Worse yet was the pinprick of red, a single drop of blood across the white linen landscape, that could only be the human the droids defended themselves against.

Timp, a naive guard on his third week of duty at the edge of the Lepsha Mine, had shot first and intended to ask questions later.

The droids took swift retaliation.

Rashala watched through the zoomed scope as one of the multilegged monsters tapped at the edge of the bloody puddle with a delicate reach, the dark eye temporarily flashing as it confirmed the calculation from the first droid’s sample. Her removable audible monitors, two petite marvels of technology nestled in the curves of each ear, synchronized with her scope direction just in time for the clicking chatter to imprint itself in her brain. She didn’t understand the word, though: midi-chlorians. It meant nothing.

Rashala couldn’t even scream, cry, alert her teammates Timp was dead in the snow – and he was dead, the two surviving droids confirmed as the third unit lay useless – and instead watched the two spindly orbs skirt the slope and disappear behind a snow-crusted ridge. Their dark bodies carved a path across Rashala’s vision, becoming a nightmare to seize at before waking with a gasp. The dead unit was brought to the communications base with dried blood flaking, along with orders for identification and data extraction.

Out of nine technicians, Rashala was the only one with enough decoding skill to work through the droid’s intensely layered compression. In a few short hours, she had data she didn’t understand. She herself quantized the unique vectors that would spill the Empire’s plan for the investigation of Stassa II.

The first shuttle arrived by nightfall, the village four fewer by daylight. The second shuttle came a few rotations later, as though for arriving Rashala herself.

The FX droid beeped a rattling sequence and seized her wrist, smearing a disinfectant in a cold swirl before punching through with another needle, connecting itself to her with a narrow tether of tubing. Rashala jolted at the invasion and attempted to still her rapid breathing lest the droid administer an unwelcome sedative. Her lip quivered from stress and she tried to pull herself together, pulling her lips between her teeth and breathing through her nose, heartbeat racing an irregular pattern around the spiral track of her ribs. She was too late to calm herself and the FX moved to jab her with another injection. The Stassian tried to shift her arm away and the droid simply redirected the needle from her forearm to her thigh with a swift adjustment of a hinge joint. She thought she was surprisingly fast but the droid was faster, anticipating her resistance and preparing accordingly.

“Ouch!” she admonished stupidly, unsure why she even spoke aloud when the droid made it quite evident earlier it had no programming for bedside manner. The FX whirred and tested the intravenous connection with a flush of cool saline. Rashala rubbed at the top of her thigh where the droid stabbed her, indignant through her fear.

“You’ll have to be quicker than that,” the man said with a mocking cluck punctuating the chiding drawl. His sharp brown eyes followed the push of blue-tinted pharmaceutical from the FX droid and into Rashala’s wrist. She felt the cold flood in her veins before entirely understanding what the stranger said.

Rashala resented the complete loss of autonomy yet again as her short-lived captivity already involved the murder of a dear friend, the loss of her hair and own clothes, and medical administration by a bot with an efficiency for response. Severity in that order. With a constant wash of fear threatening to drown her if she didn’t keep mentally moving from thought to thought.

Pieces of her heart would die a hundred—a thousand—times with every thought of Nish and the inevitable murder of more Stassians. She only regretted that she had an audience for this latest proof she was a human with cartwheeling emotions, not all of which were in her biological control. The pale man continued to watch as the medicine flowed between woman and machine, glancing at the AZ droid fluidly entering manual commands on the large machine.

Crosshair tried to hide his own worries by focusing on the obvious unease radiating from the tall, bald, trembling woman a few medcots away. All the conscripts came in like this after processing: confused, stripped of everything they had, torn from everything they knew. The sniper would pity them if their resistance didn’t anger him as much as it did. He gave little thought to the searching eyes and panicked movements of the newcomers to the Imperial Army: slipping death’s grasp was a battle even after his rescue from Kamino’s watery wasteland, a fight he could little afford to distract himself from.

Against her will, Rashala felt her heart slow to a manageable state and the blood release from her muscles to flow once more to starved organs. The panic subsided but her wariness remained, especially as the man sat on one of the nearby examination tables with a probe droid for a guard. Rashala’s only response was a flicked eyebrow, a minor acknowledgement as she tried to place his potential origin. He wasn’t one of the prisoners she came in with but something about him seemed familiar nonetheless, like she recognized him in a parting shadow or passing in the quiet hush of snowfall.    

The man’s smirk was dismissive, a twist at his thin lip pulling any warmth from his large brown eyes. His skin was ashen, hair a short silver cap peppered with remnants of black across a scalp that bore more than a few glancing scars. He had yet to shave for the rotation but no amount of stubble could soften the bladed jawbone. Before whatever wasted his muscles and sagged his skin ate its fill at his physical form, he might have been athletic. The man held himself with a reserved arrogance that hinted at pride diminished to a severe self-awareness of his appearance. The faded tattoo—a crosshair—over his right eye marred the insolent visage the stranger set into an indifferent mask as Rashala studied him closely. She’d seen those eyes before, in the warmth of her village, kindly and yet calculating all at once… But this brutally cynical stranger couldn’t be...

“You’re a clone?” she asked, momentarily disturbed that her tongue was starting to feel heavy in her mouth and a static vignette began a steady encroachment on her vision. The man’s dark eyebrows flattened, an answer confirming Rashala’s suspicions not all clone troopers looked alike after all.

Her mind muddying rapidly, she thought she’d stash this realization until she could share with Malivde on their next shift together; teasing her teammate about the woman’s severe crush on any trooper who so much tossed a glance their way without his helmet on was a favorite pastime. They’d taken several very inappropriate bets on what exactly might be similar or different from soldier to soldier, mostly while heavily inebriated at the village tavern. She was always too uncomfortable with the prospect of actually doing anything but flirt poorly when Malivde caught a clone trooper’s attention, her bright golden hair and laughing, teasing, sensual expression distracting a trooper on the rare night of sabacc intersecting with a patrol. They’d always smile back, charming and rugged, and Malivde would always take her pick of the best grin without an ounce of shame or inch of embarrassment. Rashala was never so comfortable as Malivde was with her biological needs but loved her friend regardless of how many nights out ended early because the comm tech found an attractive distraction.

The droid’s powerful sedative caused the memory to flicker in rapid dissolution as Rashala recalled how radiant Malivde’s smile was their next shift, how warm and busy their favorite tavern was, how soft her own bed felt and the secretive pleasure she was alone there instead of sharing for pleasure with someone else.

The blue-tinged sedative kept flowing and the droid had too strong a grip on Rashala’s wrist for the Stassian to pull away. She swayed lightly for the attempt anyway, working her throat in a dry swallow as she resisted panic when the medicine tasted like copper coins at the root of her tongue. The droid would knock her out entirely if she didn’t stopper the terrible urge to run away; even as she knew she should give into the lull of tranquilizer, part of her wanted to fight, to escape while she still had bravery enough to try. The clone trooper smirked coldly as he seemed to read her mind faster than even she could in this state.

“Not much of a smile,” Rashala slurred as the droid whistled a transition from blue medicine to orange. That was a bad color, a potential last-sight-of-your-life color, but the communications technician from Stassa II simply continued a weak and lazy attempt to pull away as her body got heavier and heavier.

“Sweet dreams,” the clone replied cynically, crosshair tattoo bending at his cheek and eyelid as the smirk widened in an obvious rare delight. She was a distraction from whatever that AZ-readied machine was doing to cause him to tense up so stiffly and the Stassian resented being someone else’s entertainment when she was so terribly frightened. Rashala couldn’t come up with a quick, quippy response before feeling herself slump into the FX-7 in the vague moments before completely drifting into glittery silence.

---

A copper sunset hammered into a thin sheet to ripple across the last of the cerulean sky. The Foljada Falls reached a shimmering arm over the rocky mountain ridge and lit as a long wick of fire in the caress of dusty purple granite ridges. Rashalania, the mythological celestial maiden Stassians traced in stars for generations, rose above the jagged peaks in a graceful stretch and shook out her hair in a plume of iridescent stardust. Teal flares pushed against the last of the day and millions of white pinpricks pierced the bronze sheet into memory as night sighed over the land. A plushy drift of glistening snow dusted Krennis Peak. An elk stretched his neck and sang out a whistling roar, a chromatic bugle in offering to the cathedral altar of nature, and a choir of arctic coyote launched a canticle chorus in prayer.

Rashala woke, shivering on her narrow cot, to a strangled cry nearby.

The muffled shout was masculine, a tenor warble masked beneath layers of steel supports and plastoid panels. In her drugged haze, she had to check if the cry came from her, wrapping her chilled hands around her throat to feel for anything her ears might transform into deception, but she wasn’t the one moaning in muted agony. Rashala’s fingers were brittle with cold but she went to knock on the wall between her cell and the next—and they were cells, not private barracks, she was sure of it—but the action was sloppy with the last of the anesthesia blunting each movement. Whoever was shouting… they were in pain, terrified. She had to get to them. She had to help.

Despite her intention, in spite of her numbed fear, Rashala unwillingly slipped again into aurora-tinged dreams, fingertips pressed against the divide. 

---

All too quickly, she lost sense of time.

Rotations inevitably passed, unmarked, transforming into entire missing mooncycles. Rashala’s body struggled as much as her mind, the latter surging between severe depression and exhausting rage while even her bones hurt on a daily basis. Whatever was taken from her hip during that visit to the medbay failed to replenish itself, a lingering hollowness she couldn’t describe as anything but instinctual knowledge proving something crucial was stolen. The medical droids hadn’t just taken from her body but gave to it against her will, as well: two miniscule scars scraped her otherwise unmarked skin: one scratch under her collarbone, another at her hip. Rashala probed the tiny implant embedded in her upper thigh, a grain shifting through fatty chaff at her insistent touch, and her deduction of some form of contraceptive was proved when she failed to bleed at her best approximation of her cycle.

She couldn’t touch the outline of the other implant, a hint of swelling within her chest scaring her whenever she poked and prodded too long; there was something sinister, essential to her survival, in how deep and secretive whatever foreign object lay buried within her. She’d ask someone if she could but Rashala hadn’t spoken to anyone directly since the clone in the medbay. Troopers ordered her, droids directed her, but no such thing as a conversation or even simple explanation ever formed.

The only thing resembling kept time was the single light in her cell that blinked a silent warning before turning out entirely, reversing the process to blink to alert an impossible amount of time later. What constituted as ‘lights out’ varied but Rashala was willing to admit perhaps her sanity was shifting questionably in the long stretches of solitude. Sleep slipped in elusive sways and Rashala struggled to find rest even when her closed eyes convinced her body to do something other than shake. The occasional muffled shout still woke her in the night; she’d press her ear to the wall and listen to the panicked gasps, the strangled cry, but no cue of opening doors or varied voices.

Sometimes she was taken from her cell just once in the space between flashing darkness. Sometimes she was escorted to the testing room several times in rapid succession. Sometimes she was left alone for what could only be rotations on unceasing end. Those were the worst days, as she had little to do but think and explore her narrow cell for the dozenth time. Her mind was a dangerous place if she didn’t want to risk curling up on that slim cot and devolving into innumerable fantasies of returning home.

After the light cracked and cast the walls of her cell into dark oblivion, Rashala would sing. Quietly, for herself, but sing nonetheless. Sometimes she hummed, words crumbling to make way for a reassuring thrum in her throat as she recalled Stassian myths and moon-village legends in the notes her grandfather used to sing to her and her brothers. She turned to mining chants and sledge shanties on rare occasion but one particular song brought her strange comfort and she found herself on a regular and mumbling chase into sleep on the lilting repetition.

Within what Rashala could only assume were the first few rotations into her imprisonment, she found the circuitry for the audio system proving her room was monitored. The varied wiring was hidden but accessible behind the panel next to the retractable toiletry unit that could slide in and out of the wall at the press of a button. That same slim, simple power source fed the sparse audio setup and Rashala quickly utilized the cell’s own induction loop against the monitoring system. Although she had yet to discover why, wiring circled under the floor, fed by a stronger current from a unit other than the simple low-voltage system accessible with just a few fumbling grasps behind the retractable toilet. With the cautious experience of someone who knew exactly what damage could be caused to both living being and machine by experimenting with unlabeled, untested power, she could only assume this was above her skill to hijack unless desperation could potentially drive her to ambivalence for her own safety.

A convenient section of iron-core wiring behind the pettily small antibacterial dispenser took hours to twist carefully into a tiny coil, providing an inelegant but withstanding induction loop. How many gifts low impedance could deliver was anyone’s best guess and Rashala spent several sleepless sessions in the darkness while wondering what punishment the Empire could bestow for stealing a little privacy. They wouldn’t shoot her for hiding her singing, that only way she managed to find rest and a modicum of comfort, but there were ways to harm that didn’t involve taking her life.

She knew, without doubt, she was of more value alive than dead. If the Empire cared she had defensively rigged her cell’s mic system, the discretion wasn’t enough to warrant the same punishment they bestowed on Nish. If they didn’t know, all the better. The Stassian had yet to configure the door locks and made careful note of the thick blue wires feeding more than just a simple panel switch: there was potential for a copious amount of power through those cords and she left them alone. If she triggered her own door lock, where would she even go? She hardly saw any of the facility, just the numbingly familiar path to and from testing, and her helmeted escorts never answered her questions. She learned nothing in the slightest about the Empire or what planet she was prisoner upon, completely at the mercy of whatever whim demanded her personal presence.

The rotations were long, dull, and sleep was a rare respite.

---

“State your name.”

“Rashala Affinesonn.”

The testing room was bare, an uncomfortably sterile bite in the air scorching her nose, and the floor was slick paneling under her thin soles. She saw her trooper escort in the reflection of the mirrored stretch set into the wall like a silvery scar but couldn’t make out any detail of her own features. Rashala was a tall blur, thin and ghostly in her boxy issued garment, with no choice but to stand and answer questions from the faceless voice blurting into the room.

“Planet of origin?”

“Stassa II, Risedel’s closest moon.”

She was too frightened to give them more information than the exact specific answer she believed they—whoever they were—wanted from her. Her voice trembled and she hated how frightened she sounded, how weak she seemed.

“Occupation?”

“Communications Technicial Lead, NATSIC M.”

An extended silence from the ominous, genderless interrogator.

“I- I didn’t distribute the data from the probe droid,” Rashala stammered, heart racing as she tried to guess at why she might have been taken prisoner. “The dayguard, they brought it to the tower. They didn’t know what it was. I was the only one who touched it! Please, I promise I didn’t share what I found. Please! Let me go home!”

She begged and clasped her hands tightly, fingers tight and knuckles white as she debased herself to pleas. Tears streamed to tap the corners of her mouth, nose running. She had never been so debased, never so humiliated, but her act of desperation would be worth every miserable second if she managed to move her captors to mercy.

“Please, let me go,” the Stassian repeated, feeling her face flush as her throat tightened around her words. “Please, I beg of you. Wherever I am, just let me know and I’ll go home. You’ll never see me again. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry- I’ll pay for your probe droid, I’ll pay whatever you want. I don’t have much but I’ll find whatever you ask, somehow. The data was wiped. I didn’t understand what it meant. No one else… I don’t know what midi-chlorians are! Just, please, let me know and I’ll never tell anyone about this place!”

She pushed the injustices of the path made of the dead—Nish, Timp, Kinshin—and vowed with all her heart she’d follow through on her word. She’d forgive the faceless jailers, prevent retaliation, hide everything this alleged Empire ever did to her or her people if only they’d let her go. Her sentences slammed together as Rashala begged as she hadn’t begged since she pleaded to the gods to make her parents healthy and whole again. They hadn’t listened then, either.

Only silence through the speaker, a brushing static as the comm line opened and closed before the interrogation began again.

“State your name.”

---

Whenever she was taken to the testing room, Rashala was always alone besides a trooper guarding the lone door. The wide room was blank walled, tiled in a dark and porous material, and her testing involved mundane investigations with no obvious point. Sometimes she was given a strategy puzzle, other times told to throw a ball at a target over and over again. Twice she was given a blaster permanently configured to stun. The first time, daring herself and fearing for what she’d need to reconcile within her very soul if she was incorrect in the type of weapon lay on the stark table, she stunned the escort where they stood at the closed doorway. A different trooper roughly entered the room, seized her, and placed her back in her cell with no kind ceremony. But the giddy remembrance of attempted escape kept her spirits up for an inordinate amount of time before Rashala turned back in on herself and sank back into motionless devastation.

The second time the weapon appeared in the testing room, she didn’t stun the trooper, instead electing to leverage the weapon against anything that could be vulnerable to electronic interference. Rashala considered putting the stun on herself, knocking away a half-rotation on whatever miserable planet in whatever terrible bunker she was trapped in, but the thought of a probe droid—specifically the hovering mass still charging in the medbay for all she knew—sliding into the room and hovering over her prone body stopped her. Rashala didn’t know who or what watched her behind the glossy span built into the wall across from the single entrance in or out of the testing room but she didn’t want to risk a probe droid sampling from her own pool of blood by voluntarily knocking herself out.

Some of the tests made no sense, including the order to move an object without touching it. The first object on the single bolted metal table had been a delicious citrus fruit, a rare treat on Stassa II, and she ate it instead. The meals delivered by a flighty MSE-6 droid once a day were bland mush, bitter with undissolved vitamins, and Rashala’s annoyance at the boredom of captivity momentarily outweighed her fear of punishment. After that daring act of disobedience, the objects in the testing room were small wooden shapes for many rotations. She was eventually provided another blaster, equipped with fake rounds that could burn a hole through paper but not so much as tickle bare skin, which provided the only amount of possible pleasure in the entire sequence of unannounced testing: she hit the center mark every time.

Sometimes testing was just interrogation by a faceless voice through tinny speakers, barking questions to which there were no possible answers. Rashala had never been off Stassa II, never even visited the planet her home orbited, and yet the voice asked repeated and countless questions about systems she barely remembered studying as a youngling. Questions about the Clone Wars, something Rashala hardly knew much about despite her involvement in news feed distribution, were particularly confusing. The interrogator seemed to wish to trip her in a faulty answer, to take a hesitation and emphasize the potential for lies; Rashala felt disbelieved and stupid all at once when she couldn’t even begin to describe what they asked her. Temples on other planets were of particular interest and the Stassian didn’t think they—whomever they were—didn’t like her response that she barely went to ceremonial services on her own moon, much less that she had no idea the location of alleged Jedi outposts. She dared an incredulous snort the first time the word ‘Jedi’ had slipped through the speaker.

The Jedi were barely more than a myth, such a rarity in the galaxy that her brothers openly doubted the Grand Army of the Republic was led by spiritual mischief makers and instead was a false front for religious cultists in control of the very Senate itself. Rashala always winced at these outlandish claims, as they always garnered enough attention for an eyeroll from even the most tolerant tavern patrons. Clone troopers were real, a flesh and blood presence she knew as a fact. But Jedi… they were fodder for children’s stories, ancient relics from a fallen era in which the only surviving tales with a modicum of possible truth were solemn allegories rather than widely spread entertainment. The generals of these armies were by popular belief little more than military officers doing their best to spur fame into legend, she was sure of it.

Perhaps the Empire was trying to push her into admitting something she hadn’t actually done, forcing her to admit to some crime she never so much as dreamed of much less commit, and Rashala offered up every potential indiscretion for review. If they passed judgement, they could sentence her and finally break her from the monotony of testing and tasteless gruel and stretches of time that dripped down her back in the same patterns as the nervous sweat that served as a blanket each false night. The modulated voice on the speaker never proved satisfied, emotionless and repetitive instead as it asked Rashala to unearth her shameful ignorance. She purposefully, rarely, ever watched the holofeeds and never partook in political conversation at the tavern: war, suffering, devastation… Her heart couldn’t take it. Now, she was convinced her continued existence depended on her ability to recite galactic newsfeed headlines and all she could deliver were fearful replies that only decreed her disinterest in anything but her career, her village, and her moon.

Participation in the galaxy’s affairs was limited to whatever she needed to know in order to do her job and live a peaceful life. Rashala noted the irony in now being uninformed and informationless as the stolen cargo from a quiet moon, interrogated with questions she had no idea how to answer. All of her own questions went ignored.

At what she could only assume was sunfall, as that was the strange liminal stretch of inconsistent time between her return to her cell and the light flickering out to allow her an opportunity for sleep that wouldn’t come, Rashala allowed herself a few brief prayers for her brothers. She never regularly attended services, didn’t know whether or not she actually believed in the power for Yrisadael to protect the miners and their families—Rashala was captured by the Empire, wasn’t she?—but her brothers were fiercely dedicated to the goddess of earth and stone. If there was a chance at all that someone or something was looking out for the beings on Stassa II, perhaps the reach of a goddess could extend as far as wherever Rashala was now.

And so the rotations crept on in a horrifyingly slow whirlwind of terrible nothingness.

---

A watery sunrise, pale and cool, crawled over the horizon’s edge in an anemic apology and sighed through the aluminum clouds. Bruised skies panted through dawn’s feeble appearance, gathering gasps of moisture and sips of salt-laden air in advance of another storm. The planet heaved in perpetuity. Swells of steel waves formed knife edges, forged blades, blunted and sharpened and chipped again at the rare and brittle appearance of a distant star that could never hope to warm the shallowest depths of the wild waters. Brackish minerals roared in a pendulum swell, sulfuric surges breaching on iodine eddies, brined bacteria flushed to the churning surface from leagues below. Wind moaned, an undulating roar washing to a whimper as waves sliced the thin atmosphere into a million shredded ribbons. Rain sought the heat of blood, the warmth of flesh within the wrap of smothering sheets. Hollow as an empty stomach, empty as a hollowed heart, dark water reached up enormous arms to gather the first shaking rolls of thunder into a brutal embrace.

With a single cry, Crosshair pulled himself to the surface of his drowning dream and willed the nightmare of his immediate past to pass over him with a mercy he didn’t deserve. The sniper made his lungs listen, forced his heart to obey, as his mind convinced his body he wasn’t on Kamino anymore. He wasn’t on that ocean planet, salt-encrusted, dying of thirst and exposure… He was on Coruscant. He was alive. He was rescued and recovering and that cursed planet he hated to think of as anything like home was nothing more than a nightmare.

The clone rolled to his side, fighting his bucking stomach against a writhing refusal to be still against the taste-memory of saltwater. His fingers balked and wrists ached as he refused to wrap his arms around himself for warmth; he missed his blacks, the warm comfort of familiar armor keeping him protected from the rest of the galaxy. These thin layers of standard issue garb only reminded him he was sickly, different in all the wrong ways, an invalid among soldiers. Every part of him was scorched and sour, a horrible metallic flavor of stale adrenaline and bile scouring the back of his throat. Crosshair clenched his eyes shut as another rolling wave of nausea swept the shores of his resistance in a foamy surge before retreating. He’d rather be shot a half dozen times in the same limb than to feel this helpless, this removed from who he knew he was before Kamino stripped him to his bones and clamored for his marrow. If he didn’t focus on the tight grip anchoring himself to the edge of his cot, the hungry memory of incessant rain threatened to carry him away.

Distant through the storm clouding his mind, muffled for the constant pain deep within his skull, Crosshair heard a song.

The words weren’t cipherable, the language unknown, but the low voice was feminine, mournful. He wasn’t used to the sound of a woman beyond the temporary praising gasps of the company his brothers sometimes kept, and the distant recollection of Shaak-Ti’s training modules on the testing grounds muddied with the rest of an accelerated lack of childhood, but Crosshair dismissed the first time he heard this particular voice as a medically induced hallucination. The single cells were little more than modified prisons, brigs converted to barracks as the Empire found a need to keep the unique and maladjusted separated from the rest of the clones. Why the Imperial Army did what they did was none of Crosshair’s concern, including who their prisoners were and where they kept them, but the voice slipping through the narrow wall was the sniper’s inadvertent problem. He wanted to lash out, warn them away, keep them from offering anything any sort of accidental comfort when no comfort would ever make a difference in the wide, cold, uncaring expanse of the universe. Even though he knew the song wasn’t for him, Crosshair wanted to pretend for a moment it was if only to shatter the offering.

He heard a dozen different languages rise in song within his time as a soldier in the Grand Army of the Republic. Songs of triumph from Ryloth’s frontier and songs of despair from Ringo Vinda, melodies purred by Wookiee healers over wounded on Kashyyyk and dirges of Dathomiri mourning their deceased warriors. Crosshair had no patience or interest in such things beyond the misfortune of Tech’s persistent curiosity in recording such cultural occurrences for the Republic’s xenological archives. Wrecker was always unusually touched, once admitting to Hunter within earshot of the others that he wished he knew the words in every language so he could always sing along. Once, after a mission to extract a Togruta spy and deliver him safely to his village, Crosshair sat at a campfire with the rest of the Batch and teased the big man for his soft heart but with no real malice as Wrecker mangled a Shili wedding song despite the father of the bride overenunciating each word for the clone commando to follow along. Music wasn’t a language Crosshair spoke nor a pastime most clones cared for but here, in the Republic Center for Military Operations of all places, a woman sang and the sniper listened.

Against his will, Crosshair listened and would never admit the way his mind calmed and body relaxed at the muted rise and fall of a song he was never meant to hear.

Chapter Text

The exercise facility was the first time Rashala had been escorted anywhere besides the clinically barren testing room and the droid-haunted medbay. Her heart raced in horrible hope for any change to the persistently fearful monotony as the silent, imposing trooper led her down unfamiliar hallways, past hurried lieutenants and harassed commanders and skittering little messenger bots. Rashala’s nerves vibrated against muscles and bone to set her whole body trembling in a rushing symphony of blood and terror only she could hear. Her eardrums caught her heart’s rapid tempo and pounded each beat with unfair voracity. She had to tighten her lips to keep from asking where they were taking her, knowing she’d find out all too soon if this Empire had tired of keeping her as a useless prisoner and set her escort as her executioner.

The Stassian was the sixth prisoner deposited in the enormous exercise facility and a trooper snapped for quiet when Rashala dared try to whisper to the Tionese man she recognized from the transport. He glared at her for bringing attention on them both and she couldn’t blame his fear because her own knees quivered in anything but bravery as the trooper shifted the weight of the weapon in his armored hands. She saw Nish in the back of her mind’s eye, a brutal collapse of suddenly flimsy joints and slack muscle as he died on his feet, and Rashala tasted a mineral sludge in the back of her throat at the inadvertent recollection. She failed to keep Nishtian out of her dreams, her friend falling alongside Malivde and Scopsen and her brothers under the impersonal blaster fire of faceless, nameless, unrelenting soldiers.

Grief was sometimes as mundane as distraction, as wrenching as breath-stealing sobs, and Rashala was never sure what would greet her minute to minute.

The gymnasium was enormous, as big as a thorilide reduction lab. Concrete walls speckled through with grit and gravel arched in architecturally impressive curves to encompass the space. The floors were a patchwork pattern of lined track, glossed wood, and flexible padding. Narrow metal trussing crisscrossed above, a webbed scaffolding giving shape where the room would have otherwise felt like a gigantic throat threatening to swallow everyone inside. Extraordinarily high ceilings pocketed with translucent panels let in ambient luminance, a matte wash of sunlight blushing the room littered with training equipment. Rashala stood on the soft mat floor and wondered why her cell cot wasn’t made of the same stuff, relishing her own audacity to be annoyed through her fear, toeing an invisible line alongside other prisoners waiting for commands.

Off-duty troopers gave the strangers a wide berth but their presence resonated through the gymnasium regardless. The sounds of running, panting, laughing, and the occasional dropped weight intermingling with the shuffling hustle of dodging training shots invaded the space to prove the clones were used to not asking questions or breaking routine over the appearance of a few newcomers. Many of the soldiers were stripped down beyond their blacks, bare chests and backs and limbs bearing innumerable scars. The Stassian kept her eyes down when she realized as many soldiers were looking at her as curiously as she was at them; everyone seemed wary, if not downright displeased to see the motley assortment trespass on their recreation space.

The air was woven solid with the unfamiliar blend of sweat and plastoid, Rashala aware without much care that she hadn’t had the opportunity to wash since her capture. The harsh antibacterial gel in her cell was sanitary but not at all similar to a sense of cleanliness. An oil-tinged overtone blasting from the ventilation system was little more than a muted thrum rumbling through the walls, vacuous metal guts spinning filtered but not entirely fresh air through the massive gymnasium. Constant sound everywhere she went—even in her cell—was a curse, weakening her spirit faster than any amount of isolation: wherever it was she was being held, the very planet itself was a turbulence of perpetual noise. Rashala’s jaw ached from clenching her teeth in constant anxious awareness.

In the impersonal arena, through the din clanking of metal and the taut snap of climbing ropes, she heard less than welcoming muttering but the dismissive, divisive tone was lost on her distraction:

Sunlight.

The first time Rashala had seen natural light since her capture.

Hot salt needled the corners of her eyes as she tried to look up through the grated holes so far out of reach as to be little more than chunky stars in a grey sky. If she squinted and convinced herself vehemently enough, the sun on her face was just as weak as the longest days of the deepest winter she could ever remember on Stassa II. The filtered pool of anemic sun warmed her all the same. This is likely a different sun, she thought suddenly. A different system, a different orbit… This isn’t sunlight I know.

Thoughts scattered each time she glanced up at the row of shiny white-clad troopers forming a barrier between the prisoners and the only exit, each of her wardens carrying a weapon and none of them shirking their snap to attention whenever the doors rolled open to admit more captives. Each unwilling guest of the Imperial Army wore the same boxy garments as Rashala, most prisoners thinned and some sporting bruises; the Stassian was suddenly grateful in the realization she didn’t fear her guards beyond their imposing presence as one individual, as bald as the rest of them, bore a scabbed wound across the back of their head that would undoubtedly become a vicious scar.

Six more prisoners were brought in, all human by assumption on appearances alone. Entire systems in the Empire’s reach, hundreds of planets and thousands of species represented in the Galactic Senate before collapse, but only humans huddled in the huge training room under the helmeted gaze of clone troopers. The Saleucamian wasn’t among the newcomers, nor were the other Tionese captives besides one old man, his wrinkles set deep into dry, flaking skin. The prisoners were all suffering, struggling through their own mental fog and emotional response, but the Tionese man was particularly strong in projecting his immense loneliness. Rashala tried to block him out but sadness, grief, fury radiated from him in overpowering waves. More difficult to ignore were the pockets of no emotion whatsoever, grey absences of anything more than brainwave and heartbeat from some of the prisoners. There was no fight, no hope or fear… Nothing. This lack of emotion created pits, deep and worrisome holes in the pockets of presence Rashala couldn’t ignore. As horrible as the absence of despair and disappearance of hope, the Stassian wondered at how some of her fellow prisoners had managed to shut out their heart and turn off their mind.

She couldn’t stop feeling her own emotions even if she wanted to.

Indignant fury tangled with fear and grief every time she thought about her home moon and she felt the troopers watch her clench her fist as she tried to banish Stassa II from her thoughts lest she do something completely stupid as to shout or cry. The guarding troopers, shiny in their white plastoid armor and terrible to look upon in their identical ranks of girth and height, seemed to know which prisoners were broken into compliance and which were willing to rebel against their circumstances. Rashala felt as though each helmet was pointed directly at her every time she glanced up. A masked soldier had shot Nish in front of his fellows, no mercy granted to a confused man doing his best to protect the others. Any of these guards could be the one who shot her friend: would they shoot her, too, for using her own voice? Would they murder her in front of the clones exercising nearby or drag her away first? Would any of the prisoners join in solidarity and protest openly to being trafficked across the galaxy or would she stand alone? The right thing to do, the thing Rashala believed in her heart was the true answer her brothers would give when faced with this very question, would be to speak up. They’d do as Nish did… and they’d all die for it.

Her desire to live long enough to return home by any means necessary overpowered any will to put up a fight for any greater good. The Empire was stealing people from across the galaxy and she was only one person, powerless to stop an army. The best she could do from moment to moment was simply survive her own fear. So Rashala waited, hair on her arms and legs prickling as she fought against feeling the horrible emptiness from the prisoners around her and keeping that hollowness from infecting her, too.

Suddenly, the troopers snapped to severe attention at the arrival of a man in grey, battle-worn armor. Tall and forbidding, he sneered at the shoddy row of prisoners even as he barely buried a satisfied glint in the depths of his dark brown eyes. Rashala glanced up at the approaching stride, following a foreboding line of dark plastoid and midnight-deep blacks to the pale visage of the man from the medbay. He was a clone, as she suspected, albeit different from the rest in the sort of way that spoke to more than just hardship of war: indeterminable and yet without doubt, this soldier was shaped with unique vision. He stood out as something sharper, colder than the rest. Soldiers around the room pulled their attention from the prisoners to stare at the aquiline glare, distrust and mangled loyalty obvious among their ranks. The Stassian felt their unease pressing around her.

He paused only briefly on Rashala as he swept the meager formation, gaze lingering even as he stepped steadily beyond her. She didn’t feel seen so much as studied, the clone just as calculating as she remembered from their brief interaction, and she paid him the same attentiveness as he assessed the shakily formed line of prisoners. He looked stronger than last she saw him, less haggard but even more scarred over his right ear; the patch of wounded skin was redder, larger than she remembered.

Rashala hadn’t thought about the interaction in the medbay as more than a passing memory blending with the other blurry, terrible memories gathered in the narrow variation of time since her capture. The FX connecting itself to her via long tubing was the true villain of her nightmares, joining the blood-touched probe droid in the snowy valley and the rending moment Nish hit the cold concrete floor. She understood, though, how this clone might be another’s custodian of terrible visions in the dark of the night. Rashala had mentally placed him alongside any of the other clones she had ever spoken with, marrying his image to a rippling waterway of dark features and charming smiles hidden behind grave expressions of duty. She remembered wrong, though, that much obvious as he stalked the prisoners with an underwhelmed demeanor. His physical differences were made even more apparent in contrast to his healthy, hulky brothers nearby.

This man was pinched, ashen skinned with hair like flint, and his narrow frame was a dark slice through the room. The off-duty clones engaged in conversation with one another, respectfully quiet but still talking amongst each other with comradery strung through with tension. Although the prisoners were positioned nearest the door and well away from the soldiers, Rashala noted their demeanor shift with the arrival of this particular clone. Whomever he was, he was as disliked as he was begrudgingly respected. Was he an officer? Held special rank or title coveted by the rest? Rashala hoped he wouldn’t come any closer, no heroic act stirring in the layers of crumpled spirit hidden between her ribs as he seemed to seek an example to be made.   

The faint reticle tattoo over the clone’s eye crinkled as he raised an eyebrow at the Tionese man, whose gnarled hands trembled at his side; he seemed to suffer a sort of palsy, uncontrollable and worsened by fear. Like other prisoners, he was thoroughly intimidated, eyes downcast and chin tucked into his neck as he shook. Rashala glanced at the clone’s utility belt, noting the blaster at his side was completely overshadowed by the weaponry slung over his back but present just the same. She focused on the clone’s gloved fingers, waiting for the twitch before the inevitable reach for his weapon, but her attention was split against the rest of his personal arsenal.

The Stassian didn’t have to turn around to see the clones watch the gleaming rifle as intently as the prisoners themselves; the tattooed soldier bore the weapon as naturally as a limb, the black barrel jutting over his right shoulder. She owned a simple rifle herself—most Stassians did—but knew little about weaponry. Her gun was a time-proofed basic affair, passed from brother to brother until their little sister was old enough to learn to shoot, and the rifle rarely received more attention beyond an occasional cleaning and the rare round of sknetchecht. The clone’s rifle, though, was a customized and obviously well-tended device with as much potential for lethal force as its owner; she watched it as though the weapon might find a target on its own.

Rashala barely kept her sigh of temporary relief to herself as the clone stepped away from the Tionese man and abandoned the line with one last arrogant sweep. He stood in front of them with judgement on his lips, tone as visceral as the blood on Rashala’s own as she accidentally bit soft tissue at her stifled startle when he spoke.

“Some of you might become members of my squad,” the bitter soldier warned, raspy tenor a piercing whisper from his throat, “but you’ll all call me Commander.”

His declaration was obvious and particularly pointed as one of the captives, a blond man who couldn’t have been much older than a university student—and looked the part with thick eyeglasses and an already thinning hairline—gulped audibly. The clone’s grimace was deeply cutting, rapid-fire flickers of something more than general dislike tightening the corners of his eyes. Rashala momentarily worried for the fellow prisoner, holding her breath as the clone paused for a tense moment in which what he was going to do next was anyone’s guess. Her eyes swept the holstered hand blaster at the clone’s side once more as the prisoner stammered an apology for no reason at all, a thick Coruscanti accent evoking little pity but for how youthful he seemed in his stutter. He was suddenly just a boy pulled from his exams and ground down between the Empire’s greedy teeth for little more than a whim. The commander held him fast in momentarily vicious, snarling, furious glare before releasing the captive attention with little more than a footstep. He clucked disapprovingly, just as he had in the medbay when Rashala failed to dodge the FX droid, and slowly reached for his belt.

That prisoners and troopers alike worried momentarily the action could reveal a terrible weapon more deadly than the well-tended rifle, as dangerous as the dark hand blaster at his hip, spoke to earned fear. That the clone simply rolled a wooden pick between his fingers before trapping it between tight lips felt like an unexpected gain against unfair odds.

“You’re now soldiers of the Imperial Army,” the dark-clad clone announced in little more than a hissing whisper. “Some of you might make the cut… with work.”

---

The only consolation to the fact Rashala was forced to run, besides her continued survival, was that everyone else struggled as much as she did. Thin boots weren’t much for support and the fabric of the prisoner’s garb did poorly when exposed to sweat, sticking and clinging uncomfortably as the captives ran laps behind a pacer MSE-6. For a droid to take such enthusiastic delight in slowing down just a few moments before speeding back to an entirely unfair sprint was proof it needed a memory wipe lest its developing sadistic personality evolve to greater ambition than teasing prisoners.

With each hitch in her breath, Rashala resented herself for leaning into a communications career that didn’t so much value physical activity as it did quick deduction and rapid response. She was used to daily walks, maybe a casual jog around the tech base with Malivde if her friend was feeling particularly restless with unsolved engineering concerns, but Rashala couldn’t remember voluntarily going for a run since she was a child trying anything her teenage brothers did. Sknetchecht was a shooting sport, little more than sentimental remnants of an older era when everyone in the village needed to hunt their own food in the narrow winter windows of clear weather or risk starvation; nothing about endurance, a quick pace on specialized snowshoes, and a sharp eye mandated a sprinter’s stride. She wasn’t toned the way the miners were, lacking consistent exposure to the necessity of lifting and dodging and placing her feet exactly so. For being a tall and relatively healthy individual, Rashala was never so aware she lacked muscular curves. The Stassian had no ambition whatsoever to be considered an athlete and so suffered along with the rest of the prisoners on their tortuous trek.

If she wasn’t so sure she’d be shot with at least a stunner should she protest or even slow down, she’d openly question the purpose of such banality as laps around a gym. Most clones politely ignored the prisoners as the meager group panted around the enormous room, one soldier even grunting encouragement as a conscript stumbled over his own large feet, but some of the off-duty soldiers watched with flattened brows and tensed mouths. These clones were so much different than those she felt she knew and the sting of their disapproval was lessened by realizing she never really knew them at all.

The soldiers who stopped by her cozy village on their sector patrols were just that: temporary visitors with as much knowledge about Stassa II as Rashala had about the universe beyond her own small moon. As the clones muttered while the prisoners ran, every brown-eyed twinkle when Malivde would tease and flirt became a farce. Each kindly glance as a child offered a trade of sap-sweets for the novelty of a GAR ration bar transformed into a lie. These men were created for the sole purpose of warfare, for killing and claiming and keeping under direct order of a higher authority. Shame for never questioning the status quo, for never educating herself on the Galactic Senate’s immense influence—especially their interest in the Mining Guild and Stassa II’s role in thorilide production—was a flush on her sweaty face as she ran under judgmental stares. Those who showed any support whatsoever to the prisoners dripping sweat under the duress of a lap of indeterminable count seemed to do so not because they authentically wanted to encourage the newcomer’s success but undermine any perceived support of the grimacing, intimidating, dark-clad clone commander stationed at the only exit.

His painfully obvious disapproval made Rashala want to slink away and hide, roll herself back to her cell and keep the commander’s brown eyes from following her around the track with such disdain. His presence was worse than the most openly curious stare from any of the clones she passed as she struggled in the pack of running prisoners.

My presence here isn't my fault! I didn’t want this!

Rashala didn’t want to be scared for her life and yet forced into stupid task after stupid task lest she risk her life by refusal to comply... The best she could do was put her head down and try to keep up with the mouse droid cackling joyfully as it sped along. Rashala urged her tingling hands and feet to keep in perpetual motion lest her legs forget how to swing one after the other. Running kept her mind off the terrible dark coronas of despair radiating from her fellow prisoners, bright flashes of fury and horrible blank canvases frayed with exhaustion blending into a background noise as pervasive but steady as the electronic hum echoing through the cavernous facility.

She couldn’t dare herself to give attention to the clone commander and his flanked troopers, too afraid she’d look up and see the narrow scowl directed straight at her with all the accuracy of the sniper he made himself out to be.

---

Crosshair watched the prisoners struggle behind the droid, that little black box the only thing squeaking in delight. It played a game of chase with delighted assurance no one could catch it, spinning and beeping in rare form. Even some of the clones stopped to watch the robotic glee as it led the new recruits on yet another lap of the training facility.

The conscripts would run until one collapsed, although none of them knew it yet.

All out of shape, none with a soldier’s proud posture and each reddened face drenched with sweat, the prisoners did their best to follow the little droid and ignore the attention from curious clones. Only the Coruscanti student and the older Tionese man dropped far enough behind the pack to become likely candidates for the first faint. The mouse droid beeped warningly as it passed them, both men falling behind the pack by a full round around the enormous gymnasium. The clones glanced between the sniper and the recruits, waiting for a cease order that wouldn’t come. Some watched him as carefully as they did the newcomers, long side-glances accompanied by disdainful frowns, aware the sniper pretended to ignore them with an aloofness not entirely feigned.

A member of the infamous Bad Batch wasn’t an everyday presence, especially not one who voluntarily left his squad.  

Crosshair slowly shook his head against the undesired attention and leaned against the rough concrete wall, kicking a foot back to steady himself in a false pretense of nonchalance. None of the other clones knew what exactly happened to him before his arrival at the Command Center medbay and none needed to know he was still recovering, still crawling from the precipice of dying on that salted planet. The sniper barely managed to run his first metric mile at his old pace just a few rotations ago, exercising at first access to the physical facilities and always before the other clones made their way to the gymnasium after first meal. Keeping an opposite schedule from the majority of the others within the limits of curfew wasn’t easy but Crosshair prided himself on never doing the easy thing when a better option benefited pride itself.

That he was able to clutch at some hint of return to any form of remembered normalcy wasn’t enough.

The sniper snarled at being little more than nursemaid to a snaggled troupe the Empire pulled from lazily cast nets. The entire galaxy in firm grasp, systems upon systems accessible with little more than a jump in a decently fast ship, and this was what the Imperial Army was to expect for recruits? Rampart warned him his first role as commander in this reformed army was to lead a Special Forces team partially comprised of recruits, some of whom would be more than reluctant to participate in the Empire’s trial of non-clone conscripts, but the Vice Admiral said nothing of the banality of sizing up old men to take up arms. This was petty work, beneath Crosshair’s status and skills. If Clone Force 99 hadn’t collectively deemed the awards bestowed by the Grand Army of the Republic a completely unnecessary waste of resources, his armor would glitter with medals and merits.

There was no reason to select a prisoner from this messy lot to fill the ranks of his own squad: he’d wait them out, inform Rampart none could successfully uphold an example of viability in regards to the Defense Recruitment Bill, and simply claim whatever clone troopers Commander Cody had to spare. The celebrated Clone War hero was flush with transfer requests to serve under his command and Crosshair mulled on Cody’s popularity with seemingly every clone who ever served in the former Grand Army of the Republic. Waiting for scraps from another’s squad was insulting but less so than the performative placation of those giving the orders Crosshair couldn’t simply choose to ignore.

He watched the droid give the Tionese man a firm zap with a tiny prod that swung in and out from its body on a swift hinge. The student caught him before he fell, the two slowest temporarily helping each other stay on their feet. The act of unexpected bonding, even temporarily and under physical duress, fed Crosshair’s misplaced disdain for that young man in particular. That the student pulled away to attempt to catch up with the others, leaving the Tionese to struggle just a few paces behind, twisted the sniper’s lip in a genuine grimace.

If the Defense Recruitment Bill passed in the embattled Senate, loyalty within the Imperial Army’s ranks would be hard to come by.

“They’ve had enough, sir?”

The commander ignored the vocoded request for guidance from the nearby clone trooper as the recruits struggled in the wake of the droid’s newly exuberant sprint. As though on cue, a short man with red eyebrows dropped unexpectedly from the middle of the pack, tripping over his feet and failing to find the strength to recover. The others kept running, spurred to a temporarily faster stride entirely borne of fear. The tall woman near the front of the group fell back just far enough to twist her head for a better look at the fallen man, sweat dripping down her neck; blonde fuzz muted the glisten on her bald head but her eyes were clear and full of sympathy for her fallen comrade. He placed her immediately when he walked in: the woman from the medbay, the only person he had talked to beyond necessity or order since his rescue from Kamino.

The sniper was initially amused by the novelty of a non-clone in the Command Center medbay, then aggravated he had not ignored her when the FX unit shot her full of anesthesia. Her indignity at being prodded like the test subject she was momentarily swallowed her fear and caught Crosshair’s attention as he fought to restrain his own disgust for what was to come next. Watching the droids descend on the unconscious woman reminded him of Geonosian raptors swooping from the rusty skies to feast on clone flesh before the battlefields were even cleared of residual smoke shields. He had his own personal war to fight and promptly ignored the single example of what the Empire hoped to make the future of their Imperial Army. She was gone by the time the assault on his skull was concluded and recovery took most of his mental effort in the weeks since. His head still ached, body still shaking with pain whenever the right side of his head flared in blindingly hot pulses from the amplified chip… That indomitable implant…

Yes, last time he saw this woman had been a very bad thing indeed.

“Now they’ve had enough,” Crosshair agreed, watching with a shielded grimace neither as neither the student and Tionese man paused to pick up their fallen comrade. The other clones in the room shared knowing looks, most disappointed. These new conscripts were all as feared, each as cowardly and self-serving as expected. Crosshair flicked the worn toothpick to the ground and put on his helmet in a smooth, easy manner that betrayed nothing of the flickering anger banking to an inferno deep behind his breastbone.

Another conscript hit the ground in a hard thud before Crosshair cued a trooper to give the cease order but the clone commander left the room without a glance back to see who had fallen. He’d read through their petty records later, no desire whatsoever to learn what they were called or where they came from before they were made his problem. For a brief moment, Crosshair dared hope he’d find something interesting in at least one of them, something reminiscent of bravery and loyalty in even simple adversity, but none of them proved worthwhile.

People, regardless where they were plucked from the galaxy and despite whatever conditions they were collectively dropped into, were all the same.  

---

When the clone trooper came for her, she had just collapsed into her hard cot after a grueling series of physical training exercises following the prolonged sprint behind the mouse droid, including a ropes course and a weights rotation that left the clones seemingly torn between laughter and pity for the conscripts and their poor performance. The young student shook so badly he couldn't stand and the man with the red eyebrows coughed until his sleeve was stained with bloody spittle. Rashala managed to keep her feet under her but only because she knew there would be no strength to get back up should she end up on the floor. The trooper opened the door to her cell barely minutes after her return from the gymnasium, jerking his head at her to follow as she bit back a groan. Fear became monotony whenever an escort appeared, terror turning routine, and her stomach flipped from equal parts dread and exhaustion as she followed the trooper down the now all too familiar hallways.

He didn't have to gesture at the blaster on the bolted table or at the unusual target hanging in the furthest part of the training room for Rashala to get the point.  

A slim bit of paper draped limply across the room, featuring some sort of battle droid outlined in thick black ink. The target was riddled with color and intersected with roundels at key points, backed with absorbent board. The droid's head, neck, and torso were obvious goals but, from what Rashala knew of basic ambulatory technology constructs, the antennae were just as vital: intercept the command by disabling all receivers, render the droid useless.

As she leveled the blaster at the target, Rashala wondered if she should throw the opportunity to prove she was a better marksman than most in her village. The grind of rotation after rotation wore Rashala’s fear to a sharpened edge not even she expected until grief temporarily parted in favor of a single reckless move. She was tired, oh so tired, and anything seemed like a good enough idea if only to break up the droning days.

"Why not?" Rashala breathed with a shrug, tilting her head in a rare demonstration of dangerous confidence. She didn't know who was watching or what this rare proof of competence would bring her but she was exhausted. Exhausted from exercise, exhausted of being afraid, exhausted of songs whispered as a solo in the dark instead of as part of the chorus of her people. Why not sink into the comforting familiarity of a target, of a trigger with a goal, instead of pretending she wasn’t terrified? Instead of lying to herself that she could get through this horror if she only took it second by second, minute after minute, rotations blending into an unending nightmare? 

Lies never brought her much luck, anyway.

---

"What do you make of this?" 

Rear Admiral Crennit laced her hands behind her back with the flow of her question, never taking her eyes from the view through the testing room window as the door whished a swift announcement behind her. Two sets of footsteps, both booted and one stride purposefully slower than the other, put the men in her peripheral as Crennit stared at the tall Stassian. The woman, as the prisoner wasn't quite a girl and held herself with a quiet dignity on reserve, was a puzzle Crennit had yet to solve. 

"The subject is stubborn, sometimes uncooperative to the point of disobedience, but understands we're testing her."

"She's foolish, not stupid," Vice Admiral Rampart drawled, taking a data pad from Crennit's worktable with a bored overtone and scrubbing through rotations worth of reports. "Any progress on sensitivity?"

"Yes, sir. Subject 12 is particularly adept with a blaster, with stronger than average coordination and exceptional testing stamina. This is the fourth accuracy exam in as many weeks."

The silver-haired clone stood at loose attention, watching the conscripted 'Subject 12' rip rounds through the same widening hole at the target's primary antenna. She was a decent shot but not without potential for correction, full of faults in her stance and breathing erratically. His eyes narrowed in an unexpected rush of interest as the recruit hesitated only a moment before selecting a new point on the target: a vulnerable circuit under the left arm of most battle droids that only a trained clone or highly specialized technician would know to look for.

"The backup receiver," Crosshair muttered through tight lips, unable to hold his silence in light of the discovery of a recruit that might be worth their cost. The Stassian was a curious subject, a study when he had little else to watch while the conscripts struggled to keep up with the mouse droid. She fought the sedative, too, resisting the FX-7 unit for an extraordinarily long time after an admittedly gutsy attempt to dodge the initial stick from that long needle. From the petty batch of conscripts barely worth his attention, hers was one of the only faces he dwelt on.

If the sniper looked away from the Stassian's obliteration of the unmarked section of the target, he'd have had to resist a scowl at the silent exchange between the Vice and Rear Admiral. Crennit glanced pointedly at the data pad, a glowing row checkmarks and thorough observation notes aligning with Rampart's list of requirements for all potentially viable candidates identified throughout the galaxy. His assessments were highly defined, created from documents claimed from Kamino archives, the Jedi Temple, and the struggling Senate itself. The Empire expected nothing less.

The Stassian took one shot through the exact center of every predefined shape on the target, a subtle bit of malicious compliance, before placing the blaster on the table and turning to the mirrored divider with bold resolution. She could have shot the trooper at the door but was smart enough to know there was nowhere to run. She could have shot at the observation window and perhaps put a bolt through Rampart's neck if the one-way monitoring pane failed to withstand the blast. She could have shot herself and been rid of a captive life. 

Crosshair recognized a steely glint of resilience staring back him, as though she could see him through the reinforced and heavily mirrored glass. He was almost sorry the trooper led her away. The perforated target gave the lightest flutter in the wake of her absence from the now empty room.

"SF-0012 she is," Rampart agreed, breaking the extended silence with a single chortle that held no honest mirth. He assigned the Stassian to a unique special force team with no more ceremony than wiping his nose. "Congratulations, CT-9904. Your squad is complete."

Chapter Text

Rashala’s nose bloodied on the hard floor when she sprawled under the severe slap. Even as she fell, her mind whirred gratitude over the continually pulsing fear surging at any trooper’s approach. At least she finally found out punishment for breathing a word of encouragement to a fellow conscript on their communal struggle with the exorbitant fitness routine wasn’t a blaster to the gut.

She was also aware she missed smashing her face on the side of the resistance training device by a mere hairsbreadth. Immediately, her wrists and elbows ached with catching herself on the edges of equipment and, vaguely, the tenor rumble of clone voices muttered an unwelcome amount of attention. She didn’t want their attention, avoided their falsely accusing stares and ignored their generalized attempts to pull information from the conscripts: the Stassian knew her worth wasn’t as a test subject but the Empire had yet to prove she wasn’t little more than a stolen good in their reap of the galaxy.

Rashala had nothing but her life and scraps of dignity. Precious commodities.

She’d protect both as long as possible.

The armored trooper stood over her, a heavy shadow pushing at Rashala’s shoulders even as the Stassian tried to push the sticky crimson back into her face with a cupped, trembling hand. Her cheek stung with the sharp backhand flung in her peripheral and momentarily blinded her with the intensity of the strike. The clones and conscripts around her didn’t need to watch her shiver and shake with fear and pain and yet she was aware of their presence, an unwelcome audience to her audacity to do nothing more but let a fellow conscript struggle to the point of tearful exhaustion.

Nerves trilled and teeth ached as Rashala took a deep gasp for air, the wind knocked out of her from the rapid succession of injury. The plastoid wrist guard cut her unexpectedly and the long scrape across her cheek stretched into the blonde fuzz of her hairline. Rashala’s brain moved faster than her limbs as she struggled to get back on numb feet. Fingers pushed against the harsh texture of the track, grit collecting under her thin nails, but Rashala couldn't force herself up fast enough. A rough hand—the same that slapped her—seized her upper arm and yanked her up with a painful pinch.

"Keep moving."

The trooper's electronic wheeze was a barked order threaded through with such insulting normalcy, expectations to follow a routine of abuse Rashala wished she could refuse to fall into, that the Stassian was momentarily speechless with the guard's callous certainty of her obedience before remembering exactly what the Empire proved itself to be with every minute Rashala spent in their control. The outline of a terrible memory itched in a sudden flare: Nish’s body falling to the ground, lifeless, after speaking up on behalf of the prisoners. She swallowed the bitter, shallow pool of broken words and useless protest lest she suffer a worse consequence than a bloody cheek.

There was nothing she could say to the trooper looming over her, his white plastoid a monolithic blockade between her and the rest of the conscripts looking on with wide eyes even as they stumbled in their run. She felt the soldier was waiting for her to respond, waiting for a reason to land another blow. Despite her lungs aching, her face stunned, her muscles sore… protest stuck in the base of her throat and refused to budge.

Even if she were allowed to speak, what would she even say?

---

Despite rotations rolling by in terribly long stretches, time writhing in confused coils at the back of Rashala's weary mind, part of her still didn't know how to fall into the role of adequate prisoner. 

Drills. Sprints. Unobtainable stretches. Over the harsh course of repetitive exercises and unfortunately familiar routine, the dozen conscripts were whittled down to ten, then eight, none of the missing yet returned to the group. They were all forbidden to talk to one another and each rotation brought the same certainties of immediate punishment upon the slightest failure. Their usual guard, a trooper in shiny clean white armor distinguishable from others only by a single long scratch down his left bracer, rarely spoke unless to bark an order in his booming helmeted voice or insult a conscript as they struggled at a task. He seemed to dislike each and every prisoner personally, for no reason at all besides their presence, and everyone tried their best to evade the nameless entity amplifying the misery in their lives. The Coruscanti student dared try on occasion to communicate with twitching eyebrows and hand gestures no one knew how to interpret; the trooper quickly threatened to break his hands if the young man didn't stop subverting expectations of complete and utter compliance.

The silver-haired clone in dark armor, the commander with a slippery voice and thinly disguised disdain, was a flitting shadow on the rare occasion he passed through the training facility. When he did observe the group, he stood as pale and grim as a skeleton; Rashala avoided returning his stare whenever possible. The commander never spoke to anyone, communicating with the trooper in charge by little more than a brief and suffering glance, and disappeared as quickly as he arrived.

Training continued relentlessly since that first rotation in the gym and, gradually, Rashala felt less like dying every time she was returned to her cell on shaky legs. She vomited fewer times in that miniscule toilet that never seemed to jut from the wall quick enough before she fell to her knees and wretched. The chemically filtered water was brittle, metallic whenever she took a few desperate gulps after a chunky rinse, but she was thankful nonetheless for anything to drink. A brief sonic shower and fresh change of identical clothing after each grueling workout were temporary reprieve, each conscript led away one by one the moment each had stood under the brief metallic blast of vibrating air and tugged on a new set of boxy tops, bottoms, and slippered shoes. None of the other prisoners were brought anywhere near Rashala’s cell and she would have guessed all the other narrow quarters near her own were empty except for the occasional muted shout through the thin panels separating her from the rest of the facility.

Sometimes all she did upon unceremonious deposit behind the swiftly locked door was curl up on her cot and hum herself to sleep, easier and easier once true physical exhaustion became a daily regimen. Sunlight, as faint and foreign as it was through the high skylight windows in the exercise facility, became Rashala’s singular comfort beyond the confines of her cell. She performed every exercise required of her lest even this small relief was pulled away.

Testing sessions were rarer and simpler, nearly boring as she stumbled through incomplete answers to more questions about unknown planets and mythologies she knew little about. Rashala continued to admit her ignorance of the Clone Wars beyond how Stassa II was directly affected, which was to say the moon was hardly touched by the burden of galactic war, and she proved she was incompetently unaware of even the most basic aspects of what the Republic and the Separatists each stood for. She didn't know if she was passing or failing, unsure which leaned in favor of her survival under the Empire's discriminatory and unpredictable plotting, but she offered neither more nor less than what she could.

In the longest stretches of mandatory darkness within that miniscule cell, Rashala wondered if she made a terrible mistake to prove her capability with a loaded weapon, waiting each rotation for proof she inadvertently sentenced herself to a preventable fate.

Through all this, homesickness clung desperately to each and every inch of who Rashala tried to remind herself she was. She was a Stassian, a communications technician, a friend, a daughter, a sister… Thinking of her brothers only made her cry and Rashala promised each of them she’d make sure, somehow, that they never died wondering what happened to their youngest sibling. Somehow, she’d find a way to send a message… She told herself in whispers between songs from home that her situation wasn’t hopeless. But she was desperately alone.

The only clone she recognized—the cynical commander in dark armor—couldn’t be an anchor for her. She didn’t know if she wanted his appearance just to prove he wasn’t a figment of a faulty memory or hoped she’d never see him again but the commander reminded her when she had the daring, foolish, ridiculous bravery to dodge the medical droid. It wasn’t much of a fight but she resisted nonetheless. The silver-haired clone was as much of a terrifying figure as anything Rashala encountered so far but at least he hadn’t looked right through her in the medbay, hadn’t treated her as though her life was reduced to the arbitrary number further dehumanizing her. He was terrifying and likely could order her execution as quickly as her release but Rashala couldn’t forget his own poorly disguised fear as the medical droids came for him, too. It was the only scrap of humanity she held onto besides Nish’s defense of the prisoners prior to his swift and sudden death.

In the bottom of her heart, grief threatened to take greedy hold of everything and anything Rashala owned of herself, a monster surging at the weak cage she made for anything that didn’t serve her to simply survive each rotation. Unbidden, between the notes of her self-soothing songs and edging at the corners of the liminal spaces between training, testing, and sleeping, the reminder she had yet to come up with a plan for escape gnawed with pointed, punching, glimmering teeth.

Continued compliance could only last her so long.

---

"Keep moving, SF-12!"

The trooper gave Rashala another shove and send her stumbling to her knees. Her spine snicked and snapped, a shoulder straining under the clumsy fall, and she grit her teeth into a bloody grimace as she unfolded her body into a stunted jog. Her fellows—only a handful of paltry conscripts, ‘shiny’ as the clones often muttered to themselves within ear shot of the motley assortment of stolen humans—were too far ahead to catch up to without effort and the MSE-6 was faster than all of them. She'd be lucky to snag onto the back of the pack without the little sadistic droid snapping her in the heels with a swift shock. The same brown gaze in every conflicting expression tracked her as she hobbled into a stride strengthened with every extended step.

The same trooper, the same backhand, another harsh cut across the scab that had yet to heal fully from the same petty punishment a few rotations prior. Or was it longer than that? Time was a brittle construct and defied truthful definition when each day was the same…

Out of the corner of Rashala’s eye, she watched her own blood glint as a pinkish smear on the white plastoid bracer.

Rashala pushed a bloody palm against her stinging cheek while clone soldiers watched her, a strange amount of admiration for trying to get to her feet tapping invisibly at her skin for her attention, but the Stassian swallowed coppery spit and kept running until the mouse droid whirred in frustration. When the armored trooper called for the conscripts to stop, the MSE-6 zapped the back of Rashala’s ankle in vindictive rebuttal to her perseverance. It muttered to itself over the whine of an exhausted motor as it sped away. Rubber treads climbed over the legs of a conscript who threw themselves to the floor in a sweaty sprawl the moment the trooper barked his order, the droid narrowly avoiding a retaliatory kick from a nearly-tripped clone. The armored trooper made their way to Rashala with a purposeful stride and the Stassian flinched back, crouching defensively.

“Let her up, let ‘er up. That’s enough.”

Rashala didn’t look up to know who came to her temporary reprieve. The clones sounded the same to her, looked the same inside or outside their white plastoid armor. She avoided them whenever possible and couldn’t—or cared to— tell them apart. The armored trooper moved off, to Rashala’s surprise, but only to shove at the Coruscanti student as the young man struggled to catch his breath. She didn’t need anything from the clones who, until this point, had only looked on with unwelcoming expressions.

She didn’t need their curiosity, their pity, or even their respect. But she’d be a fool to ignore help where it was offered.   

"You should get that looked at."

Rashala didn’t startle at the clone’s approach, watching him warily as she balanced her trembling hands on her knees to keep upright. This one looked and sounded like all the others, just a few independent features to figure from his brothers. Broad-shouldered and a little shorter than the other clones by just enough to second-guess his height wasn’t the uniform ideal, he smiled in the same disarming manner Malivde would have immediately honed in on as an aiermoth to the flame. The muddy edge of a blocky tattoo hinted at the collar of his blacks and the webbed scar on his chin was pebbled with the remains of a lackadaisical shave. Rashala didn’t reply, aware of the cooling trickle of blood gumming on her cheek, and worried for the attention a conversation might bring; none of the clones had ever approached one of the prisoners and the prisoners had no reason or time to talk to the clones. This felt like an invisible breech of decorum, a sluffing of some unspoken expectation for complete separation, that this man would say a word to her.

“I’m CT-8381. Router.” The clone introduced himself, tentative and friendly in what he obviously hoped was disarming charm. “What’s your designation?”

Rashala mouthed the word with a frown. Designation? The number the guard trooper sometimes barked at her when returning her to her cell? The Empire took even her name from her, hadn’t it? And this was the proof. The soldier waited expectantly, each passing second racketing the tension higher and higher until he rubbed the back of his neck with a broad hand. Rashala struggled to find an answer even as it became obvious the clone was going to be insistently friendly despite the danger to Rashala herself.

“SF-0012,” she muttered, glancing away so she could ignore the moment she admitted her defeat to even this scrap of personhood claimed by the faceless entity she was forced to acknowledge with every breath. The man made a gruff sound of acceptance, as though he understood her reluctance, and she found herself surprised at the disgust of her own resistance to any sort of interaction with anyone, fear continuing to guide her through everything she did.

Speaking without being commanded to speak seemed foreign, anything but a slipped whisper of a simple word to a fellow conscript—that little act of defiance that had yet to prove fatal despite the immense risk—was too much. Rashala recognized she barely remembered how to speak to anyone but herself, silently or in musical phrases before falling asleep in her cell, and blinked at the rapid onset of sudden tears.

How long had she been here, wherever here was?  

“Need some bacta or it’ll scar,” the clone offered, tone softening as he saw Rashala tense up when he reached into the thin band of his blacks. Pulling out a tiny blue packet from the pocket at his hip, he tossed it to her and she caught it instinctually. A pad of cool gel squished beneath her fingers and she didn’t know what to do or say beyond a shallow nod of what could pass as appreciation. She felt like a child catching a piece of candy from one of the village elders, a tiny treat falling into her hand as an unexpected passing gift in a holiday season.

Bacta? How would this help her? Why did this clone give her this? Did he expect something in return?

The Stassian felt an elementary confusion push at her rationality and was as disoriented as she was uncertain; she continued staring over his shoulder rather than look directly at him. He could be a test and anyone could be watching.

“Got more than you signed up for, yeah?” he asked congenially, watching Rashala as she caught her breath. The Stassian folded the little packet into the palm of her hand, unsure what to do with whatever bacta was and wary of the soldier’s blasé attitude. For him, this was undoubtedly just another rotation doing whatever it was clones did when they weren’t deployed on a mission. For her, speaking with him was a calculated risk that might cost her her life.

“You, you, and you, stay here,” the armored trooper barked, pointing at prisoners where they caught their breath on the pebbled track. “The rest of you, out.”

Rashala didn’t know if it was a good thing that the trooper pointed at her to stay. She watched the others leave through the single exit, the Coruscanti student tracking the Tionese man with a concerned frown as the older man followed the group without a glance back. The third prisoner ordered to remain glanced between the boy and Rashala, no obvious reason why they should be left behind forming confusion on their pinched face.

The armored trooper waved her over with his blaster and Rashala obliged without hesitation, still catching her breath from the shock of being hit and the sprint she managed before that. The soldier stared at her, perpetual expectation for some sort of return obvious on his face, disappointment wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Didn’t sign up,” she said quietly as she passed him, lining each word with meaning. She couldn’t check to see if the clone understood, daring to trust him with an iota of the only truth she could share in the only way she could share it. She knew he stared at her on her way to join the two other prisoners but, just like the Tionese man she doubted she’d ever see again, Rashala didn’t turn back.

---

The three prisoners were led into a bright room with low ceilings: an obvious shooting range, equipped with undoubtedly expensive technology and long bays with deep dividers. A shimmering forcefield dampened the noise of blasterfire as others, hidden by solid grey sheets from stall to stall, aimed—and most often missed—at electronic targets. Cold radiated up to Rashala’s knees from the metal floors and the air circulation let in a coppery, dusty scent that, while not entirely unpleasant, was certainly unexpected. The rest of the facility, even Rashala’s own cell, was pungently sterile, astringent and clean in only the way excess chemicals left residue in the very air. This room was plain and functional but immediately pulled Rashala’s attention not only for the change in smell but for the accessible technology. There were things to look at, things to touch and study and decipher: Rashala was reminded of some of the simpler consoles in the communications command center on Stassa II and her heart lunged toward the soft pulse of color under thin plastishield caps.

“Each of you, in. Target practice.”

The trooper ordered every conscript to a stall and uselessly directed each to hit the target blinking at the end of the range. A modified blaster rested on the narrow console, a smattering of crosspoints dully illuminating the narrow space. The trooper didn’t give any other command, turning from her to give the Coruscanti student a shove into his own stall, and the guard’s plastoid-clad boots clapped against the hard tile floors as he retreated. Peering around the dark opaque dividers, Rashala watched the trooper settle into a loose attention at the exit, hands wrapped around his blaster. Target practice wasn’t necessarily welcome but perhaps not entirely unexpected after her recent performance in the testing room.

Tossing the tiny packet of bacta onto the console, she wiped her sweating hand on the flimsy fabric of her pantleg, feeling as though she had smuggled contraband. She’d deal with the unexpected object later, thoroughly indulging herself in studying the control panel. The actual commands themselves were disappointingly simple, switches and settings for the electronic target box at the end of the gally, but Rashala appreciated the springy response and subtle clacks as she exercised her options. She itched with anticipation to return home, to get back to the familiarity of the NATSIC-M. A vivid reminder she used to do something besides eat, sleep, and exercise on command made her grit down on her back teeth to keep from feeding the growing fire of fury that threatened to inferno in what would undoubtedly be a beautiful blaze of defiance before she was snuffed out just like Nish.

What use was dying for a hint of fruitless rebellion?

Rashala pushed down her feelings with no little amount of difficulty and studied the weapon before picking it up—another modified stun blaster, nothing more than a teaching tool—and gave a test shot to the distant target. Hitting the bullseye easily enough, she rattled off a dozen shots, then a dozen more, mulling thoughts of how many weakened stunners it would take from her crippled weapon to get through the trooper’s armor to properly knock him out.

As Rashala shot, her thoughts drifted away from her, spinning ephemeral threads of poorly conceptualized escape. Even if she did manage to swing out and hit the trooper, could she rely on her fellow prisoners to execute a breakout? Were there surveillance systems in place that could identify them before they even left the room? How many troopers would they send after her? How many droids would stand in her way? Could she navigate the maze of identical hallways or would she find herself back at the gymnasium, back at her cell? Would that gentle-voiced soldier help her, understand her meaning that she was a captive of the Empire and not a willing replacement to the fallen within his ranks, or would he hand her over to the nearest armored soldier? What would the commander do when they caught her? Would he give her to that that dark monstrosity of a probe droid and would it chirp in delight at a test subject in the medbay?

No, there were far worse things they’d do to her than just the limited boundaries of her own fear-riddled, rage-fed imagination…

The electronic target beeped with an almost petulant chatter, a meaningless tally racketing useless data as Rashala glared at the wide shot grouping on the red splay across the room.

Fear was a constant companion, sadness and hopelessness occasional invasive partners in her crammed and tired mind. Anger, though? Anger was dangerous, especially as she had nothing to do with the energy anger brought. If she rushed the door in some half-baked plan to somehow weave her way out of a seemingly endless fortress riddled with cruel droids and impersonal personnel, she’d undoubtedly never see Stassa II again. Calming her thoughts and trying to convince herself she was doing all this of her own accord, anger continued to mix in her gut.

The Stassian leveled her blaster at the electronics and aimed at the control box instead of the target, assigning herself petty tasks to bridge time over the dangerously dark pit widening more and more every rotation:

Determine how the blue wires were fed behind the bottom left panel of her cell wall.

Recite as much of the Stassian epic Neitomas as she could remember.

Peel away two layers of red insulation around the control panel at the cell door.

As quietly as she could, sing all parts of every song she could recall from the village hymnal.

Unassemble and reassemble the miniscule microphone she unpatched from the array behind a wide cell panel.

Anything, everything, to keep her busy...

Whatever it took to get her through one moment to the next, to keep her encouraged to move one foot in front of the other… It wasn’t hope but it fed her just enough to remind her she’d find a way out, she’d find a way back home, if only she stayed alive—or at least out of the Empire’s way within its labyrinth of undisclosed intention—and those meager tasks were enough. For now.

Rashala determined this rotation’s unspoken goal within a few moments of assessing the target system at the end of the lane after a few lazily sighted shots: discover how many rapid-fire stunners it would take to short the circuits.

Not two hundred and forty-six, Rashala discovered, stopping only when she grew bored of the count.

She leveled the weapon once more at the target and fired a shoddy round, trigger finger threatening to spasm, the undeciphered scoring mechanism chirping once and falling as silent as the Stassian’s urge to throw the blaster as far down the range as she could nearly overtook her common sense. On the edge of a whimsical fit, she imagined she felt the blaster’s meager weight fly from her hand. Had she actually thrown the weapon, the scraping skitter before it spun to rest would be as satisfying as a scraped knee. The shiny forcefield thrummed a low warning against the Stassian’s daydream.

Rashala ran her hands through the extremely short crop of hair that dared grow back after the unexpected shaving upon her arrival; she had no way of telling if it was still blonde or harbored the same penchant for untidy waves. The loss of her hair was only one of many indignities but bothered her the most, as the Empire was unlikely to understand what it meant for a Stassian woman to shave her head and likely didn’t care if they did know. Perhaps it was best if the Imperial Army didn’t understand anything about Stassa II whatsoever. Rashala desperately hoped she wouldn’t manage to find her way back to her home moon only to find tattered remains of her village.

A rare and blinding slip of control pushed Rashala to rise from her self-pity instead of drowning in perilous tides of helpless wishing for home. Her last shot failed to hit either the control box or the target itself, bleeding into the oblivion at the end of the range. Her emotions left her on the edge of a sobbing breath, nostrils flaring and hands shaking as she slapped her blaster on the console and braced herself; the cold metal soothed her chaffed palms and she eyed the tiny bacta packet against the thin row of pulsing green target control buttons. Her cheek stung terribly and the bruise pressed an echo of her heartbeat under her puffed skin. She hadn’t even aimed in that last trip of the trigger, just shot…

The petty little games she distracted herself with wouldn’t last. She felt her emotions welling up stronger, slipping control more and more often as rotations went by. Rashala felt eroded, corroded by the toxic captivity and harsh reality she didn’t know what would happen to her or why she remained when so many other conscripts were gone.

What would bring an end to this floundering helplessness? How long until she lost herself?

“I expected better.”

The commander’s thin tenor timbre rasped startlingly close and Rashala flinched in surprise as the dark-armored clone trooper stepped casually between her reach and the blaster on the console. She knew he heard her sharp inhale because of the low bemused huff she received in response as she involuntarily stepped back. His narrow frame pressed too close into the stall to be anything but threatening. A thrumming unsteadiness rippled across her skin, prickles rising through the watery sluice of sweat she inadvertently made in her steady focus on the circuit box; salt stuck the thin fabric of her grey cloth uniform to the pressing edges of joints and layered in a thin sheen across her neck. The clone stood still, a steady barrier, and Rashala didn’t know if he expected her to apologize or grovel or even speak at all. She had to look up to meet the man’s caustic expression despite her height, her chin barely level with the yoke of armor above his collarbone. He was tall, intimidating, and Rashala thought once again that she had never before encountered a person with a presence quite like his.

“Not to your liking?” he asked in little more than a whisper, raising an eyebrow as he flicked his brittle brown stare to the blaster on the console. The Stassian felt each imaginarily thrown blaster as a blazing brand at the back of her head, every proof of her insolent boredom and intense grief encapsulated in whipped weapons. Her weapon was no more severe or dangerous than those given to younglings in group athletics—practically toys for basic target practice—and yet she wondered if she could seize the blaster and press it against this clone’s neck to stun him directly. His grim visage narrowed as though he could see exactly what Rashala was thinking but he did nothing but study her for a long moment before speaking.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a soldier by now?”

Rashala simultaneously quaked and bristled, aware all at once of her breathing and the sniper’s unyielding glare.

“I’m not supposed to be here at all,” she answered, tacking on a quick “—sir.”

“And yet…”

His drawl left no interpretation.

A daring little whisper in the back of her head wondered if she really cared whether or not this clone had anything to say about her whatsoever. He might be in charge but of what? Of who? Because she was no soldier, that much was clear.

“Disappointing behavior in the presence of your commander,” he admonished, watching every move as Rashala stuttered her hands into an uneasy fold at the small of her back. She struggled with attention as taught by the trooper guard to start and end each lengthy session in the training room. She pulled her shoulders up to match the tilt of her chin as Crosshair swept a tight circle around her, the sniper’s curiosity peaked as her blue eyes tightened. She stood silently, lips pinched to keep her questions from spilling out beyond her will, and Crosshair looked down his thin nose at the audacity of her stare.

“Why am I here?” Rashala dared ask, standing still as Crosshair prowled over her shoulder, taking her blaster with him as he slipped around her. She felt him sweep her with a cold and cynical stare, sizing her up. He hovered behind her and she couldn’t twist to see him. Finally, he stepped back in front of her and Rashala did her best to avoid staring at the vicious ripple of tortured skin and brutal scars stretching across the side of his head.

“Why am I here, sir?” she asked again after a long moment, choosing to stare across the sniper’s left pauldron rather than confront him directly. The clone’s intensity was overwhelming in the short distance between them.

With a motion too quick to track, Crosshair unclipped his own blaster from the holster at his side and seized Rashala’s arm, dragging his grip down to her wrist to force her hand between them. His touch was hot on her skin as long fingers placed the weapon in her palm. He moved with determined finality and wrapped her fingers around the metal barrel before she could drop it.  The sniper’s unflinching grimace only set deeper at the corners of his mouth as Rashala stared down at the blaster with surprised horror. This was more than a training weapon, beyond a simple object unable to do anymore more than stun: the metallic weight in her forced grip was something authentic and awful, polished and kept not as decoration but as a tool of battle, and it didn’t belong to her in any way. Crosshair folded his arms across his narrow chest, satisfaction slipping through his toxic veneer as Rashala took an inadvertent step back, rocking away from him as she stared at the hand blaster like it was a poisonous creature preparing to strike.

“Take a shot with a real pistol,” Crosshair ordered softly but far from kindly, nodding once at the electronic target behind Rashala. “Training blasters do all the work for you.”

“But-“

“And you obviously need a challenge.”

Rashala’s protest interrupted itself on a choke as Crosshair’s brows flattened in further disapproval at her insubordinance. She half expected the commander to unsheathe the knife at his hip should she take so much as one more disobedient breath; turning her back on him felt like a final rite, acceptance of the unknown and much feared end to her unwilling residency in the Empire’s hands. She held the weighty blaster with a lack of familiarity, nothing changing but that this weapon belonged in the possession of the man behind her. Stun pistols were nothing like this, truly, and yet Rashala couldn’t explain why.

With a shuddering exhale, she lined up her aim and fired without pretense, barely preparing her shot and entirely aware she failed before she even pulled the trigger. The forcefield-paneled wall behind the electronic target absorbed the bolt of energy with little more than a hissing scorch mark. Rashala didn’t dare turn around to see the commander’s response. If she had, she would have turned straight into him as he readjusted her stance.

As though he had done so a thousand times before to a thousand others, Crosshair knocked her feet apart and tapped one foot into position, grabbing her elbow and straightening her arms where she had curled in after her lackluster shot. His frustration was obvious as he pushed a hand between her shoulder blades to force her posture into alignment with his expectations.

“Again.”

His order was hot on her wounded cheek and she didn’t know if she made the shot, tugging at the trigger again with hardly enough time to aim. Another scorch mark on the wall and another snort of derision from the sniper at Rashala’s shoulder.

“Your questioning gets in the way of what you’re supposed to be doing,” he admonished, knocking at her bending elbow with sharp knuckles. “Where’s the accuracy?”

Rashala opened her mouth to protest but the clone cut across her impatiently.

“You’re distracted.”

 Crosshair readjusted her arm yet again and ordered a third attempt.

Another miss.

Rashala bit her lip and fought herself against better judgement, feeling words topple from their messy stack on her dry tongue as Crosshair crowded her.

“Why was I taken?”

Her question was rushed, childish, and Rashala pulling from the clone’s constant adjustment of her arm to step far enough away to feel the air cool her fevered neck.

“Is that what’s bothering you?” he sneered dismissively, leaning against the opaque divider and quirking an eyebrow at her. “The Empire has a plan, intent for you and those like you—”

“Like me? Stassians?”

The clone held his position for a moment, assessing her plea.

She didn’t know.

Maker help her, she didn’t know.

Crosshair wasn’t sure if her ignorance bothered him or if the way she held his blaster at her side in a loose grip annoyed him more. The woman stood there and stared at him and he stared back at her, looking for the fierce glint in her eye and determination she showed in the training room. She had practically glared into the mirrored barrier between them after proving there was more to her than what the Jedi had sensed when she was just a child. He watched as she leveled hundreds of blaster shots at an extraordinarily precise sliver of electronics above the target itself, doing so without quavering or breaking her attention. He saw the storm of thought behind the blue eyes that had yet to lose their questioning spark despite the breaking and discarding of those around her in daily ritual of testing and training.

Now, in this space between them, infinitesimal and yet so intense, the sniper realized the weight of his command regarding her importance in the Empire’s grander scheme.

He thought she knew why she was here, why she was taken. How did she not know?

Rashala tried to keep her breathing steady, fingers gracelessly wrapped around the weapon in her hand, and a wild thought of shooting this imposing man with his calculating stare flared through her head with the blinding brightness of a comets tail. In the unsettled stretches of night in her cold, tiny cell, when songs failed her and memory slipped any familiar stories from home into some tight and unreachable crevasse in her exhausted brain, she wondered if she might start to fear herself as much as she did her captors if something didn’t change soon.

She had to get out of wherever here was. She had to find a way home.

Until someone answered her questions, until one of the conscripts weakened their own resolve and spoke a forbidden word to her or each other, until she knew why she was taken… she’d persevere. Rashala could wait that long. She could hold out until someone else slipped up and disclosed if there was ever a chance at a return to a normal life or if she’d be a toy of this new Empire until they tired of her. When they disposed of her, Rashala at least wanted the dignity of control.

Just as suddenly as these terrible thoughts flashed in her mind, they were gone, leaving her cold and trembling. She didn’t know how she was going to get home but she wasn’t going to scare herself out of any last shred of hope she might escape her circumstances. If Stassa II was in the Empire’s crosshairs, she was going to get back if even just to warn them of what the moon already knew: undoubtedly, thorilide wasn’t the only resource being harvested by this new galactic power.

She felt the commander’s weapon slip from her fingers as he firmly but gently removed the blaster from her loose grip. Rashala didn’t see him, couldn’t see anything for the unfocused, blurry stare as she focused on her own breathing. So much was slipping away and she had no answers, no sign of hope, no plan, nothing but the confusion of why this was happening to her. Of all the sentient life in the galaxy, why her?

Without a word, the sniper took the tiny bacta pack and ripped open the top with a quick bite, a white incisor glinting between his thin lips as he mimicked a snarl in the motion. He didn’t have to take a full stride to slip the pistol from Rashala’s hand, disguising his disarming of the exhausted woman with a fluid motion of his thumb against her cut cheek. The bacta tingled wetly against the damaged tissues and smoothed away the dark cloud of her deep, repeated bruise. Rashala filled her lungs with a long sigh; this first kindness was as unexpected and welcome as a ray of sunlight after weeks of storm. His knuckles brushed against her jaw and she felt the bacta tickle the edges of the cut with an unexpected effervescence. 

“Which one of them did this to you?”

Rashala had no loyalty to the trooper who hit her in the gymnasium but knew that, short of shooting her, whatever that armored soldier could do wasn’t nearly as vicious as what this man was capable of. Her eyes flickered to the exit, through the thick divider as though to place an invisible target on that white plastoid breastplate, and the sniper understood immediately.

“He’ll be dealt with.”

The commander wiped the remnant bacta against the armor at his thigh, stepping aside and disappearing from the stall with a long stride. The space was chill in his absence and Rashala didn’t dare peek around the dividers to witness the swift but certain commotion at the exit. She stood, staring at the control panel with a blind gaze, willing herself to remember how dangerous it was to hope for an ally in a hopeless place. This terrifying commander wasn’t protecting her, he was protecting the Empire’s asset. But the way he looked at her for just a moment… a flash like pity had cracked the surface of those hard brown eyes.   

She didn’t need pity from a nameless commander of an army she never agreed to serve.

Picking up the training blaster, she fired six exact bolts into the center of the target, diminishing the trickling doubt she’d done the right thing by pretending at inaccuracy. The way her fears fed on the loneliness and faint thread of doubt pressing their presence even in his absence proved nothing to Rashala beyond her own exhausted mind creating invasions. With the first hint of bitterness she may have ever shown in her life, Rashala aimed true—every shot—until a new trooper, one without her blood on his armor, came to take her away.

---

“And that goes on like this,” the gruff old man said as he snapped another plastoid plate onto Rashala’s arm. The Stassian held completely still as the armormaster fit the light piece against her forearm through the boxy top of her daily uniform. The armor was dark, a dusky grey with a deep red streak down the center of the breastplate, a narrow and painted river guiding the miniscule boats of electronic diodes beneath the armor to flow from collarbone to the bottom of her ribs. The systems were foreign to her and completely inactive, hollows of absent light waiting to flare bright, but Rashala knew she’d have access soon enough. She didn’t know the first thing about armor but she knew nearly anything there was to know about communications systems: there would be a way to call for help, to get a message to someone outside the Empire’s control if only she had an uninterrupted stretch of time with the electronics.

The armory was brutally unwelcoming, a piercing white illuminance stretching from wall to wall in the vast, echoing chamber. Rows upon rows of white plastoid stretched unending, a veritable army in empty uniform, each hollow soldier strung up limply with thin, noose-like cables. The helmets swayed as the armormaster passed each row, kit boxes tidy black rectangles underneath each uniform. When Rashala was brought to the immense room, the armory door a series of blast shields and heavily guarded by three troopers in addition to the trooper escorting Rashala from her cell, she didn’t know immediately where she was. The stale scent of her own sweat as she feared this was indeed the day the Empire had no use for her clung to her as the gruff old clone grumbled among the hanging stacks of basic white armor; once she realized the room wasn’t full of firing squads standing by a brief, brisk command to end her life, Rashala could focus on the worn red jumpsuit as vivid as a flag among the harsh black and white maze.

The escort said no word, briskly handing a tiny datapad to the bald clone before stepping outside the room without a glance at Rashala. She barely felt her trembling knees as the clone—and he was undoubtedly a clone despite the wrinkled skin and bulging gut—pointed to a short, grated platform. She felt him watch her, studying her gait as she obeyed the silent command and stood upon the dias, daring to stare at the armor around her with the wide-eyed questioning of how all these uniforms could possibly be filled with undoubtedly more to spare.

“Takes a lot to make an army,” the armorer said when he noticed Rashala’s curiosity despite her ebbing fear. “Someone’s gotta fit ‘em all with a kit.”

By the time the clone finished reading the orders from the datapad, the Stassian wondered if there wasn’t some mistake. She didn’t like the way he glanced over the pad at her, an unexpected gentleness pushing past the gruff exterior of a soldier wounded beyond use on the battlefield and yet not entirely useless. The clone from the training room—Router?—looked at her the same way with the same brown eyes, a sort of humanity in the depths where Rashala expected there to be nothing but warlust. She didn’t want to think of the clones who frequented her village on her cold little moon, the visitors her friend took to bed like trophies, the members of the Grand Army of the Republic fighting a war Rashala knew such little about through blissful ignorance and pointed avoidance of any communication that wasn’t relayed in data language through her control room. She wanted a mask to place on the villain that was the Empire and found it in the deep bronze skin and dark hair of the average clone soldier. This man, the one in charge of the plastics and fabrics and weaponry of it all, couldn’t be anything more than a potential threat to her continued survival against all odds and so Rashala pretended to ignore every word he said while secretly hoarding each and every utterance as the clone went about his work.

The scarred clone uttered a curse as his remaining fingers struggled to fit the piece to a clasp at Rashala’s shoulder. She tried not to stare as he nearly fumbled the clip and yet knew he felt her watch him by the way he fussed. Something terribly inefficient had taken enormous chunks of muscle and bone from his hands and Rashala was reminded so much of the brutal wounds her youngest brother sustained that she breathed sips of air through clenched teeth. Nothing scared her as badly as that transmission through the control room years ago, knowing who would be among the injured in that tragic malfunction...

“When you fight in as many battles as I have, let’s see how many fingers you keep,” the old clone said, hints of a joke skirting around the reality of what warfare might actually bring her. Rashala repressed a shudder.

“I know someone with hands like yours,” she replied quietly, failing to inject any warmth into her words.  “He’s a miner.”

“What planet?”

“A moon. Stassa II.

“Thorilide,” he said. “Volatile. Doesn’t care what it takes when it destabilizes, does it?"

Rashala agreed before she could stop to assess who she was talking to.

She thought of how carefully she helped the doctors mend Olten’s damaged hands after the explosion in West Sector 7, how carefully she tended the stumps of fingers and missing chunks of flesh down to the very bone. She was little more than a girl barely transformed to young woman at the time, in her first full year of employment in the command center and struggling with her own sense of being an imposter in a room of experts when she took the terrible relay from the mine. The grotesqueness of his remaining lumpy knuckles in the otherwise skeletal thinness of Olten’s weakened hands had scared her even when healing waters and poultices removed all chance of infection.

Later, when he was restored to health and she was less afraid of what his injuries meant to his future, he teased her with new shadows on the walls. He hadn’t made shadow puppets for her in years, not since she was small and their parents were still alive, and the novelty of it despite she was too old for such things made healing comedy where despair could have given way to tragedy. A disabled miner was no rarity but Olten seemed untouchable, strong and wise and healthy, the youngest of brothers but fierce protector of his younger sister, until misaligned machinery tangled limbs and twisted bodies in a blaze of thorilide-fed disaster.  

“What- what do you know about Stassa II?” Rashala dared ask through a dry, clenching throat. The armormaster glanced at her over the shinplate he patiently worked over her leg, brushing the loose folds of her pants away with no more difficulty than swatting away a thrispfly.

“Well, it wasn’t like I wondered if we’d see a conscript from that backwater glacier,” the old clone said, a hint of geniality smoothing the potential insult. “Seems we’ve had about a dozen species from twice as many planets come through here since the change of command but only the humans really seem to make it through training, if you get my drift.”

“But what do you know about Stassa II?” Rashala asked impatiently, ignoring the Empire’s xenophobia and greedily looking for any bit of information she could about home. “Are there others? Have you seen others?”

The armormaster shook his head as he used a short tool to carefully bend the shin guard into the right shape, a tickling sensation brushing over the edges of the armor to tingle through the fabric. He continued to work as she spoke, Rashala’s disappointment palpable.

“You’re the only one, so far,” he said, clucking in disapproval at his own work and reshaping the piece with a precise touch. “And be thankful for it. You Stassians have a look about you, all the same hair, all the same eyes. Don’t like leaving—not many do, I understand—and not many visit. Too cold, for most.”

Rashala tightened her lips as she wanted to retort all the clones looked exactly the same to her, too, but bit back the useless slight against the stranger fitting her for battle. The soldiers she was forced to fight alongside were supposed to look the same, made that way, although she didn’t understand why or by who. The armorer wasn’t necessarily wrong in his assessment: her people weren’t exactly reclusive but it was the rare member of a Stassian village who left the moon, even rarer when a Stassian didn’t come back. The villages were in close communication with one another, each family supporting the functions of their community in a clannish confidence. Everyone had a place, a role to fulfill, a sense of pride in who they were not just as individuals but as Stassians.

“Not a lot of outsiders know what it takes to survive on my home moon,” Rashala said instead, trying and failing to keep a hint of pride from her otherwise soft voice. “We’re not in the habit of tourism.”

“No, that’s for sure,” the armorer said with a deep chuckle. “First and only time I rotated out on Stassa II, I had to check my shebs weren’t frozen straight off.”

“You-“

“Yup. Right before I was sent to Geonosis and really did leave parts behind,” he said, tapping at the finished shinplate and setting it aside. “Three of us, coming off a rotation around the mid-Rim before the war really got going. We were looking for seppies and the Techno Union was hot and heavy on Risedel. Thought maybe they were going after thorilide, even though it would be damn fool of them to try, what with all the trade negotiations for the Republic’s protection—no one really forgot what happened with Naboo, you see, even years later—so we went down to check in with, what was that village called? Consord? Con-?”

“Concord,” Rashala offered, overwhelmed by the font of conversation the otherwise stoic armormaster became. She was out of practice with conversation but buzzed with eagerness to be near someone who even knew a thing about her moon, much less visited. “On the southern hemisphere.”

“No less cold, that’s for sure,” the clone chuckled. “Where’re you from?”

“L-Lepshenston,” she stammered. “I work in the CC. I’m an Affinesonn. Rashala Affinesonn.”

The old clone looked up at her for a moment and Rashala felt suddenly ridiculous, obviously overeager and unable to hide the break in her voice when she spoke her name directly to someone’s face since her capture. The armorer pursed his lips in thought, the coarse hair of a small but bushy moustache pressing up against the bottom of his wide nose. He knew nothing about what she just said but understood enough to give her the kindness of polite silence.

“Never made it up that way,” he eventually said after going back to his work. Rashala was both immensely disappointed and enormously encouraged, her very bones seeming to vibrate in excitement as the clone continued speaking. “We stopped for a rotation, near lost our breath every time we stepped outdoors. You folks ever heard of summer?”

“We have a growing season,” she shot back before thinking.

“Yeah, for growing more icicles,” the clone grumbled, bending a thigh plate around the bottom of Rashala’s hip. “Pretty friendly folk, though. Had a kriffin’ good stew. Strong drink, too. Beautiful place when the sun comes up— Now, don’t cry.”

Rashala didn’t know her eyes had teared up until she hastily brushed the fat drops away before they spilled, frustrated and embarrassed with herself. She was being actively outfitted for battles she had yet to name, toned into some semblance of fitness after unknown rotations upon rotations of struggle, left alone to diminishing mental health and spiritual wallowing when she wasn’t being manipulated in testing she didn’t understand… and the mention of a hearty meal and aldervin ale in advance of a flaming dawn sparkling in the snowcapped quartz of the Sahaslia Mountains could have brought her to her knees if she thought on the sight for one more moment.

“None of that,” the old clone said, gruff in the fatherly way Scopsen sometimes was when he caught her hyperfocusing during particularly busy day in the control center. “None of that, now. Your commander isn’t gonna like that one bit.”

Rashala swallowed, running her tongue over her teeth, pulling her head back and letting out a sigh of weakness as she desperately wanted the armorer to continue telling her of a distant memory of her home moon. In his words were proof someone else in this enormous universe knew where she came from. They flew the flightpaths into her atmosphere, landed on the icy terrain, stepped foot into a village bar for food and company, and that this visit was a singular experience lived long before meeting Rashala herself didn’t matter to the Stassian. Sometimes she felt as though she had dreamed her life until the armored troopers grabbed her and tossed her in the transport and brought her to this awful, barren, torturous place.

“Where are we?” Rashala asked quietly, daringly, after she regained her control. “What is this place? What is the Empire?”

“That's a lot of questions.”

The armormaster set aside the thigh plate and stood to stretch his back, a muted pop pushing through the thick flesh of his neck as he rolled his chin to his jumpsuit collar. Deep scars pitted his remaining ear and dug divots from his forehead. He watched Rashala watch him and seemed to judge her, assess her not as a number but for the perceived quality of character no one could quite define for themselves to share voluntarily with another; he looked at her, not through her, and for the second time in as many rotations she felt unbearably seen, as though she was no longer a ghost made of a stolen woman.

“They didn’t tell you?”

Rashala shook her head against the clone’s quiet question, his hush seemingly betraying a secret even he wasn’t supposed to know. He weighed consequences against actions, a calculation of risk verses reward, and Rashala could have begged him if only to get him to speak faster.

“You’re on Coruscant,” he said eventually, folding his arms across his barreled chest. Rashala was a tall woman standing on a platform and still had to look up at him as he stretched to his full height with a sigh. His back crackled and she wondered just how many battles this old clone saw, just how many more injuries he had that weren’t visible. “This is the former Clone Command Center for the Republic. Now we serve at the Empire’s pleasure.”

“Coruscant,” Rashala mouthed, blinking rapidly.

She was so far from home…

“You don’t know what the Empire is?”

The clone looked at her as though she had just admitted she didn’t know how to breathe air or chew her food. He seemed to pity her, the same look Router gave her when he handed her the bacta packet, and Rashala hardened under the assumption pity was what she needed from her captors rather than freedom. Her silence, though, betrayed her true need: information.

“Look,” the armormaster said, pulling his bottom lip back in an expression that told of his uncertainty. “You didn’t get this from me. I’ll deny it if you say anything. There’ll be a datapad in the bottom of your kit trunk. There won’t be much on it, whatever I can download from the Holonet before deactivating the unit so it can’t be traced within the Command Center, but you’ll at least have more than nothin.’ Put these on—I won’t turn til you’re done—and hurry up about it.”

The armorer pulled a set of slinky, stretchy dark material from the bottom of a small bag near the empty kit box and pushed it at Rashala even while he took the tiny datapad from one of his enormous jumpsuit pockets. The Stassian could have laughed, and did in the wake of disbelief and sparkling hope numbing her veins, but the clone frowned under his thick, overhanging eyebrows.

“If you’re caught with this, you’ll be worse off than before,” he warned, tapping a command onto the screen with a blunt finger. “Change. We’re almost done.”

Rashala couldn’t help but stare over his shoulder as the armorer turned to give her a modicum of privacy while she slid into the soft material. She felt neither hot nor cold despite the thin weave and, although the top had a high collar and long sleeves, she didn’t feel smothered like she did in the now all too familiar boxy uniform she was forced to wear to this point. The leggings were footed, not too tight around her midsection, and clung rather than sagged around her knees, unlike the old bottoms she failed to adjust to. She fumbled with the clothes despite their simplicity, though, ignoring any potential discomfort at being temporarily naked for all the focus she placed on watching the clone navigate the Holonet with surprising rapidity.

“You good?” he asked gruffly as Rashala audibly stumbled off the platform while adjusting the seam of her top against the broad band of the bottoms, so focused on the flashing of datapages and holostreams across the sparse utility screen of the small device that she almost fell into the clone. “You’re gonna need to figure out your right foot from your left before Cross sets you to march.”

Rashala frowned, watching the armorer slide a shovel-like nail under the datapad port and pull out the transmission dock with no more effort than digging dirt from a crease. The datapad flashed and went dark, going low-power now that the task of connectivity was no longer part of the battery’s burden; the device wouldn’t require a charge for years to come should it never need to connect to another transmission dock.

“You ever use one of these?”

She nodded. She didn’t own a personal datapad—no need—but used them often enough in her daily work in the CC that there would be no difficulty navigating the basic commands. Rashala already stirred potential plans: if she could get another datapd, even steal one just long enough to take its transmission dock, her potential was limitless. She could send messages, receive unlimited information, plan an escape! The old clone hesitated at the eager gleam in her open expression before Rashala reigned herself in.

“If this gets back to me, I can’t help you,” he said. “And don’t let anyone know you have this. Guard it like the most dangerous secret you could ever imagine keeping. Because this is it, kid.”

Deliberately, the armorer placed the datapad in the small bag he pulled her new uniform base from, wrapping the device tight and burrowing it under the thin layer of protective foam at the bottom of the kit trunk. He avoided her searching gaze as she felt like the first amount of color entered her world in all her seemingly endless time spent in this stark, intimidating maze called the Empire.

“Thank you, um, --”

“Dex.”

“Dex,” she finished, sure she’d never forget the simple, short, sweet name of the only person on Coruscant she might ever trust.

“Now, we just have your helmet and Cross’ll be here before that’s done so you’ve already gotten me in trouble,” the old clone gruffed without any true malice. “Put these on, now, like I showed you. Or have you already forgotten?”

Rashala silently confirmed she hadn’t been paying the slightest bit of attention when the armorer initially showed her how the pieces fit together and Dex raised an unimpressed caterpillar of an eyebrow.

“I’ll show you once more, just once,” he fussed, handing her the breastplate. “Kriffin’ shiny…”

As she paid attention to Dex showing her the various clasps and listened to his speal about cleaning each piece to regulation standards, Rashala understood the old clone indeed had more experience in warfare than anything else; he spoke of armor with intent, pushing purpose into each piece and insisting Rashala not only give him the basic respect of attention but understanding of why the armor was important beyond the obvious protection it would give her in whatever the Empire expected her to be doing. Dex spoke with the warmth of a good heart under the intimidating surface of his sheer size and obvious experience in battle. She felt impossibly small next to him but full of potential, his hope for her survival giving her hope for herself. But the datapad called to her from the bottom of the hidden space Dex made for it in her kit trunk and she fought between the excitement to get back to her cell—an unbelievable feeling as a prisoner—and the growing dread of realization she was being fitted for battle armor.

“Dex,” she asked, trying to keep from holding her breath as the familiar fear crept back from the crevasses temporarily capped by the promise of information held on that contraband datapad now within her desperate possession. “Am- I’m actually a soldier?”

“Sure hope so,” he said, giving her a brief glance in a once-over that spoke to his doubt. “The Empire doesn’t keep conscripts as officers, not that I’ve seen.”

“I know nothing about battle,” she admitted, as though this was a preventable fault and not a consequence of living on a peaceful moon with no ambitions to stay anything but remotely connected to the galaxy as a whole. “I- I don’t know how to do this.”

Dex gave her a long, hard look and Rashala straightened up under his assessing gaze, aware he looked almost as harsh as the severe commander in this moment.

“Look,” he said with a heavy sigh, “I can’t tell you what to do. I don’t know what you’re up against or why you’re here or what the Empire wants from you. What I get is a number, a commanding officer, and a squad designation when you walk in here. Every one of you shows up terrified, silent, stripped down and scared out of your minds. Last kid in here couldn’t stop shaking. And you’re all kids to me, no matter us clones aging before the rest of you.”

Rashala frowned, biting the back of her bottom lip in sudden realization she knew such little about the clones themselves that this newly found bit of information disturbed her. Dex seemed like he could be her grandfather, definitely a village elder, not someone reasonably within any sight of their youth. Rashala wasn’t yet middle aged in any sense of the definition but she was no child, either: how rapidly did the clones age compared to an average human? Dex continued on as though he couldn’t see Rashala’s obvious confusion.

“But this happens to us, too,” the armormaster said without pause, implying the clones themselves. “We’re just kids when they give us guns and teach us how to duck and dodge and shoot. We might be from Mandalorian stock but we didn’t stand a chance in a war without the Jedi. There wouldn’t be a war without us!”

Mandalorians? They were a warrior race that meant little more to her than a fantastic children’s tale, much like the Jedi themselves. Oh, they existed, Rashala knew that much, but she only read about them in fictionalized serials. Who were the clones?

“So, if literal children can be sent to fight a war, no matter how we’re tweaked and tailored, a grown woman like yourself can make it through at least your first battle,” Dex finished, those expressive eyebrows flattening as though entirely unimpressed with the nervousness staring back at him. “What’s being done isn’t fair, no. None of you newcomers are so much as regs in our world. Weird stock for the job, if you ask me. But you can’t do anything about it by being scared. Your commander— well, Cross knows what he’s doing. He’s from strange stock, too.”

Rashala took the helmet Dex handed her, the last piece of armor that hadn’t been customized to every curve and dip of the feminine form the grey plating hid. He handed it to her with the solemnity of a ritual, placing her hand on the rounded crown and tapping it with the same satisfaction he had with each piece of armor before handing it over to her possession.

“Who is C-Cross?” she asked, stumbling over the name. “Is that the commander?”

“Crosshair. Your commander,” Dex nodded, as though she were a young student in a difficult lesson. “He’s… different. Clone Force 99 didn’t really get along with the rest of us but Crosshair was the one to watch out for. Listen to him. Trust him.’

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” Rashala said, disbelief evident in her tone. “He can’t stand us—”

“Yeah, well, he can’t stand losing men, either,” Dex retorted in a gentle correction. “You’ve been taken by the Empire for a reason, girl. Crosshair, he’s been assigned to you for a reason. They’re testing you both, testing all of you. If you ever want a chance to get back to that ice chunk, you listen to him.”

Rashala didn’t know what to say but felt extremely obliged to Dex, nodding an agreement no matter how acrid and poisonous the silver-haired commander seemed, she’d listen.

“Get through this first battle, okay? They’re sending you to a desert planet, based on your squad orders for next rotation. Water, okay? Keep sand outta these filters best you can – karking coarse stuff – and don’t fall behind. Listen to Cross and don’t let me see you back here for replacements,” Dex rambled, tapping at the top of Rashala’s breastplate with the sort of misplaced fondness the worn and weary gave the overexuberance of youth. “Got it?”

She nodded again, feeling disarmed and yet more like herself than she had dared hoped to feel in such a dark, devious place as the Empire’s control.

“Good. Cross’ll give you your standard issue before launch tomorrow—you don’t keep ‘em, not like we do—and you hold onto that thing until you’re back on this side of this planet, you hear?. You’ve shot before? Good.”

“Are you quite finished?”

The blaster doors slid open at the commander’s annoyed announcement of his presence, a firm grimace at Dex’s sentiment obvious on his long face. Rashala couldn’t imagine the commander—Crosshair, as she now dared know him instead of the nebulous memory from the medbay or the brief but intimidating appearances at the edges of the training center—aging to match Dex as a brother in any way. He looked different than the other clones and, next to Dex, seemed so entirely removed as to be a conscript himself if only he didn’t wear his armor and his sneer so comfortably. Dex raised his emotive eyebrows in wordless greeting, giving Rashala one last tap on her bracer before moving off to the low table spread with tools, dismissing them both from his armory without another glance. Rashala saw him check her kit trunk as he passed it, though, ensuring quickly and briefly that their secret was safe before nudging the lid closed with a large boot.

Crosshair briefly studied Rashala and she could do nothing but let him, acutely aware he scanned her cheek for proof the bacta, that slimy but potent medicine, had done a proper job. He swept her a second time and something hinting at the slightest amount of satisfaction gave Rashala pause as she nearly fumbled her helmet under her arm while trying to mimic how the sniper held his own specialized helmet. He followed the red line at her breastbone and the fit of her blacks under the grey armor so similar to his own, a flickering under the icy surface of those impenetrable dark eyes. He was used to a very small sect of the former GAR wearing these colors, a few brothers and brothers alone outfitted in the dark plating and red flashes denoting the squad as something Different, something Other. For this stranger—this woman—to stand there in a mirror to his own uniform and hold herself with such discomfort, such callous obliviousness… The sniper’s expression flattened.

“Follow me,” he snapped as Rashala failed to keep up, grabbing for her trunk with no amount of grace whatsoever.

Dex watched them as they left the armory and checked a sigh as he hoped he placed trust in the right person.

---

In the privacy of her own cell, long ago assured no active video surveillance monitored the tiny room, Rashala curled around the datapad as though it were a source of warmth, a flameless fire holding perpetual darkness at just enough bay to breathe. Crosshair had taken her back to the training center immediately after the armory, leaving a trooper to take her kit to her cell and assuring Rashala such a thing would never happen again. She spent the entire lengthy session at the firing range worrying the datapad would be found and confiscated, that she’d face immediate and severe punishment alongside Dex the moment the trooper searched the kit, but Rashala returned to find the kit trunk hadn’t been opened. The blinding closeness of normalcy made the troopers complacent and Rashala shed the tiring hours of Crosshair’s demanding precision for new shores of information that might very well save her life.

Never again would she remain ignorant of the planets beyond her moon, the Stassian swore as she confirmed the pad indeed couldn’t connect or transmit in the slightest, disappointment slight in the face of the sheer amount of information Dex was able to access for her. Never again would she leave the rest of the galaxy to ambivalent chance. Her life was no longer simple and predictable, exactly the way she wanted it and exactly how she imagined it. She was a prisoner on a planet she only heard about in passing holonet broadcasts scanned for quality control, a victim of an Empire she barely knew anything about beyond the rumors and chatter between colleagues within earshot of her console.

With trepidation, she read about the clones and their creation at the order of the Jedi, Kamino and the recent collapse of the capitol city on the stormy, oceanic planet. She read about the Jedi, the sort of information available to all passing curiosity the average citizen of the galaxy might muster but most certainly nowhere near the amount of knowledge Rashala felt she needed. Temples, rituals, sacred weaponry, the Force? None of it seemed real, much less truly impacting her life as she lived it in this moment. She read about the alleged end to the Clone Wars, the dastardly schemes of the remains of the Republic, the recent fall of the Separatists and the Empire’s benevolence in wrangling the deviants to Order and Control in the recent rise to total power. The Emperor seemed a terrifying but allegedly compassionate individual, public announcements regarding law and sentencing assuring the new chain codes and system-wide curfews would be reinforced with fair vigor. Nothing to hide ensured nothing to worry for the vast majority of those living in the Empire’s ever-expanding boundaries. Rashala didn’t necessarily participate in media itself, despite her skills in relaying transmission data and particular talent for complex media packet relays, but knew enough to understand everything she was accessing had been scrubbed thoroughly for rapid consumption by the general masses.

This was propaganda, thinly veiled and so seemingly persuasive that Rashala knew immediately to be cognizant of source and intention.

The Empire wasn’t what it claimed to be, that much was clear.

And she was deep within their grasp, one of the unwillingly collected under the command of a dark-robed Emperor rising from the ashes of a failed Republic. Rashala didn’t understand her place in any of this until it was too late to arm herself with information that could help her avoid capture but none of the data she poured through gave her the slightest inclination why she was captive to begin with. The information Dex pulled for her on Stassa II seemed to give her no obvious reason why the moon would be targeted for people rather than simply rare and valuable thorilide.

She fought sleep as long as she could, squinting at the dim screen even after the cell plunged into crimson-tinted darkness. Awareness she was going into her first battle tomorrow, the potential for escape and even the possibility of her own death flooding at the edges of the dam she made in her mind.  A single image on one of the holopages brought a celebration song to the tip of her tongue and the rim of her lips as she stared at it before finally drifting into uneasy sleep.

An image from her home-moon lit on the holopad well after she drifted off: a sparkling snowscape in hushed blue whispers, ice fields stretching for infinity if not for Risedel balanced on the horizon’s cusp in tentative grace.

Chapter Text

Vice Admiral Rampart was not such a slave to his ego as to go as far as hide where the weak edges of Project War Mantle crumbled.

Despite a few setbacks, the seed of initiative had germinated into the hearty vine that would choke out the remains of the old Senate under the Defense Recruitment Bill. The law was a formality at this point but propaganda was a construct not to be ignored in favor of the flashier bits of the Empire’s full capacity. The vice admiral had no doubt Tarkin would speak only in good favor of the project Rampart spun from the ragged remains of bioengineered soldiers leftover from the Clone Wars; there could be nothing but fame and fortune for a man who revolutionized a military as powerful as the former Grand Army of the Republic, at least as far as the far-reaching boundaries of Rampart's own opinion of himself, should the Emperor declare the vice admiral truly a key piece of his new galactic vision.

Yes, by all appearances, Project War Mantle was a rousing success. Enlistments were up a hundredfold, voluntary inductee documentation flooding the administrative offices with more work than could be handled without data droid assistance. New faces gave the clone ranks a breath of variety, a breeze of change from the surly expressions and flattened brows and judging brown eyes of distrustful veterans. Of course, those enlistees who found themselves outside of the mould of what the Empire believed tasteful and reliable were placed elsewhere, plied with enough Imperial credit on a new chaincode to stand watch on Outer Rim outposts. Shiny badges and an armful of weaponry decreed and enforced new laws where trained soldiers would be wasted. Tall humans, preferably without obvious interspecies genetic influence on their appearance, were kept to bolster the ranks clones could never fully fill again.

And where only he knew War Mantle had failed, well… He had wiped Kamino’s security packets from existence after watching Crosshair shoot his own Elite Squad troopers in that training room on Tipoca City. The footage was proof enough he selected the proper clone for War Mantle’s launch, even if the soldier proved occasionally unreliable.

CT-9904’s chance at redemption was proof enough Rampart was benevolent in the face of failure, capable of turning an initial loss into a recovered success.

Rampart stacked his data pads before selecting one and scanning the contents of the latest report on Project Serenity, skimming the faces and designations of those who were not voluntarily enlisted. No, these were conscripts, unwilling initially but bending fast enough to the firm will of the Empire they now served. Governor Tarkin impressed upon him the need for secrecy for this sub-initiative, admitted the Emperor himself had both unfailingly high expectations and a personal interest in the success of this particular program. Since the day the Republic fell, once the bodies were cleared from the Jedi Temple and the library media assets seized under secret clearance, the vice admiral had done little else but handle development and integration of this latest and highly classified project.

Rampart was rather proud of himself. After all, the best way to hide a secret was in plain sight.

As the vice admiral flicked over page after page of progress reports, he sipped his cup of caf and leaned back in his chair with the certainty of a man whose home was wherever he was able to work uninterrupted. The first hint of dawn sidled around the rim of the thick, wide window separating his office in the Military Command Center from the rest of Coruscant. Pink smears of filmy clouds skittered across a maroon sky as anemic blue night gave way to a hesitant gradient of color, pale compared to the neon shiver of the insomniac city-planet.   

A beautiful morning for a productive day to send the most promising conscript out on a mission.

Time for the commander and his specially assigned squad to prove their value.

The clone wouldn’t get another chance.

Rampart smiled a faint, sardonic grin against the rim of his cup as he scoured the Stassian’s file. This conscript consistently proved to be a strong candidate to claim a preemptive success on the sub-initiative. Pliant enough she hadn’t fought back as to make her useless like some of the others, clever enough to disable most of the monitoring tech in her cell but wonderfully naïve as to believe she found it all, and just enough self-preservation to know when to keep her distance from trouble.

An ideal soldier if she could be convinced of the Empire’s motivations. That would be easy, one way or another. 

Or she’d be disposed of, like so many of those who came before her.

Best of all, she didn’t even seem to know what she was.

---

The cafeteria was entirely unfamiliar as to be its own battleground, all poured concrete and harsh lighting, full of soldiers with no better task than that of staring at Rashala from the moment a guard escorted her from her cell to deposit her in the unwelcoming, utilitarian space.

She had kept close during the whole journey through the new hallways and clutched her helmet in front of her like a child carrying a heavy basket, reluctant to place the contraption on her head until or unless absolutely ordered to do so. She hadn’t had the chance to pull apart the technology yet, barely skimming anything but the most obvious devices in her breastplate and the communications bracer for her right forearm.

During her brief and impersonal journey through the monochrome labyrinth, Rashala had temporarily convinced herself she could be just any other soldier, a nameless entity trained to serve.

Now, in a room of clones, Rashala wondered how she ever thought she could rely on blending in.

Rashala took her tray with purposeful dignity, ignoring the curious looks and muttered commentary from the troopers nearby as she forced herself to move with pretend fluency in her dark armor. This wasn't her choice, she wanted to tell each and every whisperer but keeping silent had done her no disservice so far. Better she not stop to explain to every single onlooker that she was a prisoner of the Empire, better she resist the urge to swallow her shame and shyness to jump onto a table and announce she was forced against her will into the Imperial Army. Just thinking of standing in front of all these soldiers and managing a single word strangled her guts and launched her pulse into orbit. She had never been much for announcements or attention on Stassa II, either.

Acceptance didn’t matter. Belonging wasn’t welcome. Rashala reminded herself she only had to survive until she could escape and that looked like keeping her head down while injustice rolled over her.

She walked with her serving of rantha milk and pale oats in time with the perpetual overhead announcements, a tired administrator reciting a dry roll of announcements across the echoing cafeteria. Wearing something other than the papery tops, pants, and slippers she had been forced in and out of each rotation felt novelty, unique enough that Rashala was slightly disgusted with herself that even wearing the armor of the Imperial Army in front of others felt better than those flimsy excuses for clothes. Her blacks, as Dex had called them, were softer and fit her as a second skin, helping regulate her temperature better in the cold cell; she didn’t have to hold her feet in her hands to keep her toes from numbing while she slept. The armor didn’t pinch as she worried it would but her helmet threatened to slip from under the clumsy squeeze of her arm against the carapace of her breastplate. Admitting she was worried enough she might not remember where all the pieces went if she took them off, Rashala had slept in the bulk of her gear and must have seemed a fool when the trooper opened her cell.

The brief flare of realization there were more than just clones in the cafeteria was a brief flicker of hope that died as soon as she realized the sparse variety of non-clone soldiers weren’t what they initially seemed. At first glance, the men appeared human, nondescript and some of them much leaner or larger compared to the clones, but Rashala quickly noted the callous guffaws and rough camaraderie between them. Though they wore the standard white armor with their helmets balanced precariously on their meal trays, they didn’t hold themselves with the same baseline dignity as the other soldiers. None of them had shaved heads or seemed worn worse for training and treatment by the Empire. There was a camaraderie that reeked of patriotism. She felt immediately that trusting them would be a mistake.

Rashala almost dropped the helmet as she tried her best to avoid fumbling the tray into a group of passing soldiers, apologizing with a quick, soft word. Her gut wrenched at her own carelessness. The offended clone looked her over once and let out a small huff through his broad nose, a tight-lipped and disapproving expression leaving no doubt Rashala failed to make a single positive impression. His glower darkened further when he stared at her armor: the deep grey plastoid was new, fresh, fitted and absent of any sign of battle. The clone’s armor was a stark contrast, pitted by blaster shots and riddled in scrapes, some pieces permanently stained by mineral-rich mud from any number of the numerous battles he obviously fought on any number of strange planets. The soldier muttered a glottal insult—and it was obviously an insult—despite the Stassian not understanding the language in which he swore at her.

Unfairly, nothing being fair in the Imperial Army, Rashala bore the weight of Crosshair's burden of exclusion by her mark of his armor formed to the topography of her unique body. Although her blonde hair was a close crop to her scalp and the plastoid plates flattened her few curves, the Stassian was undeniably far from a clone made for the Grand Army of the Republic. She was as new and fresh as her armor, yet to be tested by battle and fire and flood, and seemingly no one had time to see past their own distrust to understand she was here against her will. The enlistees divided their attention between their own chaffing noise against the cafeteria’s fading din and the inevitable fight brewing between a clumsy newcomer and an overstressed clone soldier.

Feeling a stare boring into the back of her neck, Rashala barely kept herself from returning her commander’s gaze.  

In her peripheral vision, she saw the sniper watching with a sharp wait, intent on seeing for himself what she’d do in the face of insult while pretending he wasn’t watching her at all. Even the clone inches away from her, a splash of her drink dripping down his bracer where he inadvertently jostled her into spilling on him, raised a defiant eyebrow, standing his ground and waiting for any excuse to escalate the situation. They were garnering a small crowd and Rashala’s lungs crumpled against her racing heart.

“Hey, Twelves!"

Just as she was acutely aware she was unable to stand there much longer without choosing an undoubtedly terrible response, Rashala heard her number called from across the room, a trooper yelling with rare and genial exuberance. The familiar clone partially stood from his bench, ignoring his brothers trying to dissuade him from drawing her attention with hushed disagreement. A mottled tattoo peeked from the top of his collar. The closest thing to a friendly face she might ever see outside the armory itself, Rashala could have breathed a sigh of relief if she didn’t have to suck in her already slim frame to step around the offended clone with all the grace of a prey animal slipping into the brush. She glanced at her commander on her way to the alleged safety of a clone who was slightly less intimidating than what felt like a literal army staring her down.

Crosshair didn't even turn to look at her as he abandoned his tray at the empty table. She suddenly knew running to safety made her look weak in her commander’s opinion and Rashala watched as he stalked out, unsure if he was simply disappointed in the resolution or if his particularly grim expression simply deepened with the action of having to stand.

Although he moved with his usual slink, Rashala noted the same sort of repressed hiss that came with other clones when they moved around the exercise facility with aggravated joints and muscles worn from war. Rashala had little else to do on her innumerable laps and excess training splits than observe her fellow conscripts and the clones around them; the clones as a whole seemed a stoic bunch, unwilling to do more than grit their teeth and pull through, but, for as obvious as it was that her commander wasn’t the typical clone, he was still a man and vulnerable to all the same pains. His scars were mottled, bruised compared to the rest of his thin, weak complexion, and the unforgiving artificial lights proved the sniper's shorn silver hair didn't grow properly at the edges of his terrible wound. She wasn't the only set of eyes to watch him walk away but was the only one with a slip of empathy for the cold commander.

"Hey! Twelves!"

Rashala sat next to the smiling clone and his wary company, weaving her way through the cavernous space and trying to stay removed from the reactions her new armor spurred as she passed white-clad clones with their own meal trays. With the tension of a potential fight disbursed, chatter resumed as a loud cover over Rashala’s ducked head.

"Boys, meet Twelve,” he formally introduced, adding a handshake Rashala barely managed. The clone knew she hadn’t remembered his name and reintroduced himself as he sat. She mumbled Router’s name back at him, barely hearing the round as he introduced his brothers.

Router skimmed her armor with a critical but not unfriendly friendly eye, obviously looking for a way to break through Rashala’s intensely self-protective defensiveness.

"Didn’t expect you in his kit. Decided white doesn’t suit you?”

Router’s conversational tone hid an edge. With absolute certainty, she understood no one trusted Crosshair but had yet to know definitively why. Rashala cared for nothing but getting back to her home moon but, aware her own ignorance failed to serve her, started to feel a potentially crippling doubt that blindly trusting her commander to simply lead her into her first battle could cost her her life. She had two blaster training sessions, only one that was in any way productive to honing any potential chance of survival, and absolutely nothing beyond that. No combat training, no strategy planning, not so much as a brief overview of how her armor electronics worked. She wasn’t a soldier and had barely been trained as one, conditioned into running around an exercise facility and answering faceless questions in a testing room.

Certainty that she wasn’t going to make it through this upcoming battle settled as a cold stone in her shrinking gut.

The other clones stared at her, waiting for a response from the newcomer, and Rashala felt pinned by the same set of eyes from so many different faces. The Stassian calmed her breathing enough to form words.

"He’s the commander," she managed to say noncommittally, watching a clone pour his milk into his oats and mimicking the action as though she, too, had the same thing a thousand times. Taking the invitation to speak when all she knew so far was to stay silent caused her to glance over her shoulder for the absent trooper guard. Aware she was being watched by every soldier at the table, dredges of speech memory stirred under the thick mire of perpetual panic and exhaustion. She once used to make easy conversation at the village tavern, greeting and complimenting teammates in the NATSIC M, rambling on about everything under the sun to her supportive brothers. Now, after what felt like an unceasing lifetime staying quiet around people since her abduction, her throat tightened when confronted with the vast open space of expected social participation.

"Thanks for the bacta,” Rashala mumbled, keeping her eyes on her tray.

“Cut healed up good, didn’t it?”

"Bacta for a cut?” another clone laughed in a short bark. "Any other obvious advice for us, Route?"

"If you aim your blaster the way you aim your cup, Pasche, we're all dead," Router joked as he nudged the scoffing clone into missing his bowl entirely. Milk poured straight onto the table in a sloppy wash. His brothers laughed in comradery and shot heartachingly brilliant nostalgia through Rashala’s heart for the way her own brothers laughed together at the village pub. The thought of home, of her family, pushed color into her dark world with a numbing rush. Rashala put a bite of food in her mouth lest she have nothing else to do but cry, nerves fraying and threatening tears. Distracting herself with two more bites, she felt the clones watch her and she wanted to watch them in return if only to show how bothersome and pointed their stares were.

She couldn’t do it.

“Your first mission ships out in a few hours, yeah?” Router asked through a spoonful, Rashala giving a subtly limp shrug in response before fear surged through her tightening jaw. Rashala must have paled visibly because the men glanced at one another with a knowing look. She wasn’t embarrassed about the prospect of warfare tightening her throat and turning her joints to jelly: for all she knew, this might be her last meal, and she was certain she wouldn’t have picked stale oats in the company of soldiers. "We were reassigned yesterday to SF Squad from Cody's command. Looks like we're goin' in together."

Rashala felt herself pale further, blood draining from her face as the idea of battle became a real situation she was about to find herself in.

"Most of us make it," Pasche said, ignoring his spill. "If you can get through the first one, you can get through most of 'em. But I guess you knew that when you signed up.”

The Stassian stared at Router, unsure how to respond. Rashala didn’t want to have a connection with anyone whatsoever but found herself immediately leaning toward him for a silent request for support among his peers, a foot in the door as a gateway to this difficult conversation, but Router didn’t speak up. She thought she had made it clear in the exercise facility that she was there against her will, had said enough to ensure someone—anyone—knew she was a captive just trying to survive. A small piece of her realized she was hoping Router would fight this battle for her, or at least with her, in this pivotal moment with the other clones at the table.

The truth seemed to coat her tongue and stick her teeth together. She hadn’t been explicitly told by anyone to keep her capture and forced enlistment a secret but some little slip of intuition, a sliver of sense she couldn’t quite put her finger on, warned her to step as carefully as she had yet in her tenured captivity. The non-clone soldiers across the cafeteria were boisterous, unwelcome and aware their presence was an increasing discomfort to those around them and amplifying their obnoxious bravado all the more for it. What separated her from them in the eyes of the clones?

The Stassian carefully put down her spoon, weighing her options and wondering what Dex or Crosshair would recommend she do. The old armormaster and her commander were the only two people, by way of forced proximity, that she even remotely trusted to guide her through the finer minutia of the social aspect of the clone army. She didn’t know Dex well enough to know what he’d advise and the sniper wouldn't be found in conversation amongst the regs, as she once overheard him dismiss them condescendingly; he would likely have avoided getting this far in conversation as it was.

Rashala was never awkward in a crowd before, rarely ever on the outside of a group of people enjoying a good time in the village even for as quiet as she was, but these men staring at her weren't people she knew. They weren't people she grew up with, classmates and teammates and the sons and daughters of families with surnames as old as the moon itself. Unlike Malivde or other friends, she had never taken a clone off on their own, never spent any time with a soldier in private. Even if she felt comfortable speaking with a clone--now the face of captivity-- Rashala had no idea what words to string together that adequately spoke the truth of her situation.

She wasn't like them. She didn't want to serve. She wasn't made for this. And she'd escape in a second if she could.

"You're right," Rashala said with forced congeniality, hiding both her self-disgust and trembling hands. "We're all here, though, whether or not we want to be, and most of us still have our meals."

Router let out a guffaw and smacked Pasche on his back, the milk puddle glaringly obvious on the cold concrete table as the clone's cheeks went red under his tanned skin. Not all the men laughed, though, and some regarded Rashala with a nervous eye as they went back to their food. Fortuitously, underscoring the spaces filled with unspoken words, soldiers nearby were actively discussing the Defense Recruitment Bill in such heated tones as to make their clipped conversation impossible not to overhear.

“Another one dropped a few rotations ago,” a clone said in such a sibilant whisper as to cause the words to stretch across the cafeteria. “Grabbed for the blaster and they took ‘im down. Intentional.”

“Can’t train a soldier if they don’t wanna be a soldier,” his fellow commiserated. “Some are really here for the cause but others are miserable. Haven’t had a single success yet from my squad. How are they picking these people? Just random bodies, all of ‘em.”

“From some planets I haven’t even heard of. What’s the method for filling the ranks when it isn’t us comin’ off Kamino?”

“Files say they’re all recruits,” another said conspiratorially, “but I don’t get it. A few are bold about their interest in serving the Empire. Most of 'em are evasive, quiet. The officers are looking for something specific, that’s a guarantee. Something they can’t get in clones.”

“Watched one grapple and he threw Mast halfway across the room instead of across the mat. Looked like one of the generals out there, playing with the Force. Uncanny.”

“Cody’d know for sure what he’s lookin’ at. Ships out with the Busted Batch’s castoff later. Sniper took some of his best men, too."

“Well, the newcomers aren’t all here ‘cause they wanna be, I’ll tell you that much,” a soldier said, shaking his head. “Some of ‘em… could be slaves from Ryloth, for the look in their eye. Yeah, some support the Empire but others... Seems sometimes like they’d rather die.”

With terrible acknowledgement, the clones at Rashala’s table glanced at her with a disconcerting blend of wariness and pity. There was no defiant pride in her eyes, no sign or symbol of patriotism to the Empire or their new command over the galaxy. Even after hours of scouring the data pad, the Stassian still wasn’t sure she knew exactly what the Empire stood for. She was barely more than numb to her situation, hopeless until she had enough time and information to plan an escape, and now she could very well be out of time. Her first battle loomed ahead and she was still so helpless.

Rashala looked down at the table, almost but not quite embarrassed for the confusion and fear she knew blended on her face. She couldn’t even pretend she wanted to be there, heartbreak too strong in hearing the truth spoken aloud from a stranger. She couldn’t lie, had always been a terrible liar even if she managed to work up the bravery, because some truths spoke without words.

Now they knew she was one of the soldiers who hadn’t signed up for love of the new regime.

She was one of the stolen and wanted nothing more than to get back home.

Rashala kept her eyes on her meager meal tray, coiling her distress deep in her gut with the repetitive action of corralling oats around the bowl with her spoon.

“Well, sometimes we’re dealt an interesting hand,” Router said, breaking the tension mounting between the clones as they stared at Rashala. “We make do with what we have.”

His acceptance, blasé though he intended the short statement to be, was enough to diminish the attention on Rashala to little more than flickering glances from the corners of their eyes as the soldiers tried to pretend they accepted this unusual infiltration of their brotherhood. She was vouched for by one of their own, someone they trusted, but it was obvious that trust didn’t extend very far her way.

Pasche started in on commentary about a recent training exercise and Router followed his lead, bolstering the conversation with a colorful narrative full of words Rashala never heard before. The clones all sounded just a little different from one another, variations in their personality coming through in their voices and expressions, and she observed them in sipping glances rather than dare try to join in the conversation. She was skilled at identifying and resolving differences in technical data and that capability reached as far as her observational capacity.

Apart, the individuals looked like any other clone Rashala had ever met on Stassa II, but together in a group proved they were as unique as any other person in the galaxy. Router was slightly bigger, taller in his seat than the rest, and Rashala still couldn’t tell what the edge of his tattoo could possibly be. He laughed easier than the others and led naturally, picking on each of his brothers in comforting familiarity. Pasche was quieter, almost shy compared to Router, and he watched Rashala from the corner of his eye in a way that felt different than the others; he seemed embarrassed when she caught him and she managed to glance back in a way she hoped would disarm the rest of his wariness but only seemed to enhance his nerves. He dragged his vambrace through the spilled milk more than once, tilling thin trails across the table. Others, like Kie and Brace and Tic, hosted hushed speculation as to the aforementioned Commander Cody. Selfishly, Rashala's relief at not being top subject of conversation allowed her to at least attempt to finish her meager meal.

"If we’re goin’ out with SF squad, can’t wait to see how Cody’ll handle the sniper,” Tic mumbled, giving voice to words everyone else seemed too hesitant to say aloud. Heavy stares rippled over Rashala once more as her dark armor put her firmly on the outside the fraternity at the table. Router shook his head but didn't say anything, giving Rashala an almost sympathetic glance as the Stassian tried to find a way of asking questions before she dared declare allies within enemy walls.

"Why do you treat him differently?" she asked, aware of her painful naiveté even as she spoke. "Because he looks… different?"

Rashala couldn’t find a polite word and stilted on friendly or nice. Those weren’t the correct terms, either. Crosshair was far from willing to engage with anyone, hardly muttering more than a few corrections even during their lengthy training in the range after taking Rashala from the armory. They must have worked for hours on her focus and he rotated weapons in and out of her stiff hands until he was begrudgingly satisfied with her aim handling each. He had barely touched her, knocking her elbow into position when she got sloppy and shifting her feet with his own but otherwise leaning against the lane barriers with a lofty air of long-suffering patience with the newcomer to his ranks. When he was forced to speak, he practically drawled; Rashala understood she might be boring to a trained sniper but her nerves fueled her hyperfocus on the target.  

Fearing he’d see her guilt and decipher the hidden datapad from Dex on her tense expression, Rashala had concentrated entirely on connecting with the task at hand: not just pointing and shooting but aiming, guiding, tethering between her trigger finger and the target down the lane. She eventually ceased trembling and eased into a rhythm familiar enough that she could lose herself in the work, glancing at the sniper only when she surfaced from a round to find him assessing her with a glinting eye. He hadn’t explain the weapons to her, although the first time she saw even the hint of a thaw in his perpetual disdain was when he exchanged one firearm for another, and he silently rolled a pick along his lip as he watched her fumble through the motions. By the time he brought her back to her cell without a word in parting, her fingers were cramped and she felt as though she might jump out of her skin for anticipation of exploring what Dex loaded onto the datapad.

Crosshair was far from a friendly or nice person, she thought, but his pompous sense of superiority might not be entirely ill-founded. He held himself back, said little despite his calculating look, and Rashala was never so aware he had alienated himself from the rest of the clones as when they looked his way with equal lack of respect. She never saw him interact with another soldier without a curling snarl of disdain. They seemed to fear him as much as dislike him and Rashala knew now as well as anyone: fear was earned, not decreed.

Across the room, the sniper's reappearance was flagged by the mumbling hush of displeasure at his presence. The special forces commander stared across the room with a silent accusation at Rashala and she felt as though she would be ashamed of her company were she a loyal follower in his squad and not a conscript afraid for her life at every twist and turn inside the maze of the Empire’s control. Crosshair's cynical, cold expression raked the rest of the cafeteria before he tapped an order into his comm bracer. Rashala, Router, and Pasche received a brief alert on their own comms to report to Training 3 within fifteen minutes. Pasche mumbled something sarcastic about benevolent leaders allowing their troops to finish chewing but Router watched the Stassian with a frown as she studied the sniper.

Rashala didn’t know battle, not yet, but only a fool would look at Crosshair and doubt he hadn’t suffered through a lifetime of war. The enormous scar of boiled skin over his left ear bloomed a deep blush stain compared to his ashen complexion. The sniper caught her staring from the corner of his eye, flattening his brows in a deepening scowl as she turned away, Rashala uncomfortable for having been caught. The clones at the table saw the ebbing remains of an unexpected swell of pity and Rashala didn’t acknowledge her own obvious embarrassment.

"Now he just looks on the outside how he is on the inside," Router finally said, unusually cryptic for the little Rashala knew of the clone. "That head wound happened after he went traitor to Force 99."

"He seems just as loyal to the Empire as the rest of you."

Tic, Brace, and Kie chuckled unkindly before clearing their trays and leaving with muttered manners. Pasche looked to Router in unspoken difference, the larger man running his tongue along his teeth in reluctant consideration; he stared at Rashala as though she were a child and had just asked something terribly inappropriate of the wrong adult, now no longer able to escape without a scolding.

Rashala felt pinned and chose to look at her largely untouched tray rather than at Router’s perplexed stare.

"He's maybe the most loyal to the Empire any clone could be," Router corrected unexpectedly gently. "Rumor is, Rampart ordered an experiment on him after he betrayed his squad, just to see what could make a man turn on his brothers."

"You're his brothers," Rashala insisted, confused. "All the clones, you're the same, right?"

She knew she slipped into a known inaccurate statement and yet needed to understand the foundations on which Crosshair's distrust was built among the others. If no one would blink an eye at letting Crosshair bleed out on a battlefield, the chances of anyone helping Rashala were slim to none.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized briefly, shame icing her veins. She knew better and yet allowed fear and frustration to get the better of her common sense and manners. She might be living rotation to rotation on the grace of impersonal captors but still had the grace to be ashamed of her own rudeness.

Pasche and Router glanced between themselves and Rashala knew they doubted if they should have even have divulged this much.

"I know I'm a conscript," she leveled, elbows on the table, "and I know I'm a woman and--"

"That has nothing to do with anything," Pasche said quickly. "We don't care if you're a Wookiee’s uncle as long as you complete your missions and protect your squad."

"But Crosshair doesn't get the same treatment?"

"Cross made choices—"

Router became frustrated, cooling his rising pitch as he bit down on what Rashala knew he wished to say but couldn't without divulging some great secret, a secret she might not ever earn but felt the right to have anyway if only the information helped keep her alive.

"He made choices," Router tried again, patience fraying on the edges of each word. "Clone Force 99 was a small squad, tight. No regs. Genetically modified even beyond the basic clone.”

Rashala’s light frown pressed him to continue and he did so with all the hesitation of divulging a great and terrible secret.

“They were different than the rest of us. Trained separate, ate separate, slept separate from the others. They didn’t like us and we didn’t like them but we damn well respected what they did. 100% success rate, any mission. Most wouldn’t come back from what they were sent out to do."

Router glanced at Pasche when the clone nodded in agreement.

"He left ‘em, though. Joined up with Rampart after the fall of the Republic," Router continued sourly. “Abandoned his squad.”

From Router’s tone, the Stassian wondered if there was any greater crime to a clone than betraying their own.

"Why?" Rashala asked. "Why didn't they stay? Why is Crosshair the traitor if his squad left after the Republic fell?"

"That's the question, isn't it? Maybe they would have stayed if they were shown some loyalty by their own brother."

“That doesn’t seem fair—”

The receiver at her wrist beeped twice and began a countdown on the bracer com’s tiny screen, Pasche stifling a groan as he hurried to swallow the rest of his food.

“How’d he ever make commander?” the clone asked aloud to no one in particular before shaking his head, Router nudging him quiet as three helmeted soldiers walked by with confused ambling of newcomers. The other conscripts? Rashala lost sight of Crosshair in the huddled blockade of shiny white plastoid, their reeking fear unsettling her few previously controlled nerves. The sniper’s tall, dark-clad form was gone as quick as he arrived.

“Why does it matter who he is?” Router asked Rashala as she noted her search for the sniper. “Better you stay as close to us as you can out there. Cody’ll have our backs, too.”

“But—”

“Stick. Close.”

He jabbed a spoon at her, accenting his point, and Rashala frowned.

“He’d leave us behind?” she asked before she could stop herself. Neither Pasche or Router did so much as deepen their grimace as they refused to answer her question outright. Rashala’s heart lodged in her throat with sudden fear of being abandoned but hope dared stir in the edges of her mind.

She had to know whether or not the sniper could be trusted to at least give a modicum of concern to the soldiers he led. What hurt Crosshair’s chances in battle certainly affected how Rashala would be treated, her armor alone proof of that. But if he was truly as terrible a commander as Router insinuated, really as disloyal to his fellows as claimed, that only gave Rashala a chance to run the moment hurried confusion could cover her tracks. All she had to do was run and hide, avoid being caught, and figure out how to get home from there.

“He’d leave us?” she repeated, unsure how much more information she could get before the counter on their bracer coms tipped an alarm they’d be late.

"That's the question," Router repeated, standing to clear his tray and fixing Rashala with a quick, forced grin that did nothing to assure her. "See you in there."

Rashala ignored other clones as they passed by for a closer look at her unique armor, a strange novelty in their midst. A heavy moment tipped the scales against inclusion before Router and Pasche left to talk between themselves, leaving Rashala alone once more in the cafeteria's hustling din.

---

It didn’t take Rashala long to realize had been left alone, unsupervised and unguarded, for the first time since her arrival.

If she could find a way out of the building, she wouldn’t need to bear the risk of her first battle.

She could escape now instead of later.

Swallowing nervous giddiness at the prospect of disappearing from the facility that was her prison, the Stassian fumbled with her bracer com, trying to stay calm and collected all the while struggling with the basic but frustrating interface. She couldn’t find a way to access a map, a schematic, anything to guide her once she left the cafeteria behind.

Rashala hadn’t yet picked apart her armor to determine what could or could not be repurposed in the rare chance she could use the equipment to send her own message outside of the facility; in her brief review in the privacy of her cell the night before, she was disheartened but not surprised the comm receiver in her own left bracer was extremely short-range and all messages likely proprietarily encrypted. It would take time to discover what she could use and, now that she had something potentially useful with which to plot an escape or call for help, Rashala had little chance to make progress ahead of her first battle. She had had nothing but time in that cold little cell until now.

Technology on Stassa II—and especially in Rashala’s life as a technical communications specialist—was a balanced blend of highly responsive equipment performing specialized tasks in the workplace and just enough basic electronics to ease chores in the household. A give and take of necessity with a dash of usefulness gave equipment a reason for existence but Rashala always enjoyed an intuitive interface; a bit of luxury never hurt anyone, especially when navigating complex files and handling immense amounts of data as she did in the CC.

The Empire’s technology was far from luxurious, though, simply a base amount of functionality and not more than an afterthought of user comfort obvious in the armor encasing her, the helmet’s visual interface worst of all. She felt she couldn’t breathe properly when she wore it. Although Rashala hated how other troopers stared as she walked briskly through the facility, she hated the idea of encasing her head in the grey bucket even more. The Stassian tried to keep a solid grip on the thing as it seemed bent to slip out from under her arm the moment she stopped paying attention to its weight.

Finally, the bracer com let out a harsh beep as the timer ran out and a flashing red border appeared around a spartan map, Training 3 flagged as a small room not too far from her current position. A little agenda, including a mission briefing and several hours of mechanical adversary review, accompanied the gridlike guide to where she was supposed to be. The Stassian allowed herself a slight sigh of relief that she couldn’t see any way the map was tracking her location, just flagging where she was told to go.

“Not if I can get out of here,” she whispered to herself through stiff lips, heading in the opposite direction.

Feeling entirely as though she was about to be caught under the arm and dragged into some torture chamber should someone deduce what it was she was doing, Rashala practically slunk around the Center for Military Operations while taking in every extra sight and sound she possibly could. Now that she knew exactly the name for where she was courtesy of the big metal letters in Basic splayed on a cold marble wall near the cafeteria, Rashala had to keep herself from running in growing panic that finding a door to the outside might be harder than she initially thought. Disappointingly, most of the hallways were identical to those she knew already and one even seemed to be the exact entrance to the testing room she was escorted to so many times. She slowed a little to let the relief wash over her that she might not ever have to step in there again.

The map at her wrist didn’t show a launch bay or flight pad, nothing to prove transportation way from this awful place was possible reward for navigating the identical corridors, but Rashala fought the persistent urge to break into a desperate sprint. She had to swallow her panic and convince herself to remain calm, to let rationality win and slow her movements.

The shiny black floors were slick, the lighting harsh on so many reflective surfaces. A utilities room and two medbays were basic to deduce but a recreation room was of immense surprise, the doors sliding open to allow clones out of uniform to enter and exit without regards to Rashala passing by; she saw a glimpse of an arm-wrestling match under holo screens blaring a racing sport with raucous cheering. Her bracer comm beeped at her, catching a clone’s attention and earning Rashala a handful of narrow glances before the doors slid shut; as she suspected, her dark armor alone was worth immediate and universal suspicion.

She only dared hover for a minute at the door to a suspected communications room, a largely universal signal for data transmissions engraved upon the metal frame, but no one came in or out. Undoubtedly, she couldn’t pretend to check her bracer comm for much longer lest whatever security system monitoring the area did more than flag her presence. If she couldn’t get out, maybe she could call for help from within.

Despite her terrifying situation, her deep grief and pulsing anger blending loss with rage to run impotent under the oppressive understanding she was ultimately helpless in the Empire’s grasp, the Stassian wondered what technological capacity lay in the inaccessible room. Against her better judgement, she touched the data reader near the door, tracing the little box that would grant access to the right key. Her own access card to the CC had been in her jacket pocket when she was abducted…

Rashala felt her lip begin to tremble and forced herself to move on. She was desperate but knew no amount of pleading would gain her access to a communication console. A transmission for help was just through a door, a single door, and she didn't see a way to get through.

As she continued her explorations, Rashala picked up snippets of conversation from passing officers, their uniforms crisp and faces overwhelmingly pinched with the effort of running a new government. The Stassian had read as much as Dex managed to access about the Empire on her illicit datapad but she was acutely aware the information was from the Empire itself: an organization that hid the abduction of the galaxy’s citizens for their own secretive whims was hardly a trustworthy source. She overheard acronyms from the officers she passed, a few references to an Emperor’s palace catching her ear, and Rashala followed a tense conversation from two officers in white caps as they disagreed on what sounded like the best way to move an archive of physical data across someplace called the Federal District. She kept her head down as she walked by but knew she was no more ignorable than a megalork in a thorilide cluster, especially dressed as she was in the conspicuously dark armor.

Her fruitless search for a transport dock or open communications bay of any kind came to an abrupt end when a woman in a green uniform pin stepped directly in front of Rashala, stopping her abruptly and intentionally. The officer’s severe bob of black hair drifted around the bottom of her ears as limply as the unamused smirk crawling a deep beige across her pale face. A colorfully full rank pin glared in the harsh light.

“Going somewhere, soldier?”

The officer’s voice was rough, a raspy fry edging the alto depths with the suggestion this woman may have done nothing but scream every day of her life thus far. She stood painfully straight with rigid shoulders and, although the woman was just a little shorter than Rashala, it seemed as though she could look down her nose at the Stassian rather than up. The officer’s hands were clasped behind her back but Rashala felt their tension in the way the tendons stood out in the woman’s neck when she swallowed as though she held something sour in her mouth.

“I— I’m lost.”

Rashala’s lie felt as pitiful as she sounded but was close enough to the truth that the woman only took a moment longer to stare before marching past her.

“Come along, SF-0012,” she said curtly, taking a datapad from a large pocket and tapping so firmly upon the screen it seemed she wanted nothing more than to punch her finger through the device with each command. The Stassian had no choice but to follow like a scolded youth, struggling to keep up with the brisk pace despite her longer legs. Her heart pounded in certainty she was about to be tortured, about to be shot, about to be disposed of and she’d only end up sentencing herself as guilty should she fail to follow. Silently, the woman led her down several hallways Rashala had yet to explore on her own and, after taking a few corners, the bracer comm beeped an affirmative tone at the entrance to a small exercise room, alerting the commander to her arrival.

It needn’t have bothered, as Crosshair stood in the doorway, teeming with fury behind his carefully checked snarl. He stared down at Rashala as though she had only moments to live once the officer departed but the Stassian, despite admitted intimidation, only had so much room for fear: very little he could do to her was worse than what had already been done.

“I assume the rest of your squad isn’t wandering about the Center without permission?” the officer chirped at Crosshair, a brusk insensitivity given that the room behind Crosshair was lined with soldiers. The sniper seemed ready to seize Rashala and drag her inside. “The vice admiral will be most displeased to note your incompetence in the task you’ve been assigned, CT-9904.”

“An oversight, sir,” Crosshair said, sotto voce. Rashala didn’t know the sniper well at all but this deferential tone didn’t fit the clone, completely at odds with his obvious arrogance. She had also never seen him interact with an officer before and suddenly doubted her own confidence that she had experienced the worst the Empire had to offer a conscript.

“See it doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes, sir.”

The officer stared up at Crosshair, the brim of her dusky green hat barely halfway past his breastplate and yet her lips pulled just as tight as his own as she seemed to debate whether or not to make an example of him in front of the rest of his squad.

“Desix, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t bother returning without her,” the woman said after a heavy beat, seeming to settle on her words with a firm satisfaction. Crosshair didn’t flinch but Rashala stood absolutely still with the strong desire to remain completely forgotten, aware the tension could snap back in her own face at any moment.

“Or we’ll put you back where we found you, do you understand?”

The officer’s taut facial muscles shifted from a semblance of firm disappointment to the hint of a smile laced with so much cruelty Rashala wondered if she was imagining the brutality or if this woman truly intended to hush a threat so severe that Crosshair’s ashen face paled in the wake of her words.

“Do you understand?” the officer repeated, turning her head slightly on her long neck while her grip on her datapad tightened so severely her fingertips turned an ugly red.

“Yes, sir,” Crosshair muttered, lips barely moving as the words fell through clenched teeth, the mirrorlike surface of his brittle brown eyes shifting with his averted gaze. He stared at the wall over the officer’s padded shoulder and waited for what seemed like the potential for a striking blow. Rashala held her muscles tense, poised for a beating herself should the woman remember she even existed, but the officer only twisted on her heel before retreating down the hallway with no more attention to the sniper or the Stassian than she’d give a dropped piece of paper.

The entire interaction left Rashala breathless, even the soldiers behind Crosshair holding so absolutely still she forgot they even witnessed the exchange. The officer had pulled out every one of the sniper’s fangs and threw them to the floor, leaving the venomous man seemingly impotent and frail in front of his men.

Crosshair clenched his hands at his sides, breathing through his nose and holding his back so completely straight he knew his muscles would seize on him shortly. He wanted to round on the girl standing useless nearby, to drag her in front of the rest of his squad and verbally eviscerate her until she felt even an iota of the furious shame currently flooding his veins and invading his very marrow.

He wanted a fight, to throw a punch and dodge the return, to trip and bite and maim until the stand-in enemy was defeated and he could stand with a single victory no matter how petty. Coppery rage squeezed at the back of his mouth and shame coiled through his ribs to squeeze until he thought he could hear his own bones creak.

The girl, the Stassian, the assignment… all she did was stand there and gape as the rear admiral threatened everything Crosshair clawed his way back to.

Fear tasted like salt spray on his tongue.

Biting the inside of his bottom lip to keep from unleashing a torrent, Crosshair narrowed his eyes, cheek twitching with the intensity by which he set his enraged expression entirely on Rashala. He jerked his head infinitesimally over his shoulder and Rashala immediately moved to slip past the sniper, eyes on the sheathed knife and basic sidearm at his waist as she avoided staring him in the face. To her credit, she seemed fairly embarrassed but not nearly contrite enough for having risked both their lives on a sightseeing tour of a place more dangerous than most war-torn planets.

As fast as a snake, Crosshair seized her upper arm and held her in a grip so tight she felt the pinch through her armor. He bent his head so his lips were mere inches from her ear. The sharp metallic bite of gunmetal and plastoid rolled off him, benzene and burnt matches blending with the musk of his skin.

“Never again,” he whispered, grip tightening. Her eyes widened at Crosshair’s caustic hiss.

His hand was a vice and Rashala didn’t dare struggle to move away until he let her go a moment after his breath lingered on her neck, releasing her so abruptly she staggered. She walked into the room on numb feet, understanding she stepped over an extraordinarily thin line and found herself barely rescued by the scruff rather than left to drown in whatever trouble she caused. The Stassian glanced at the clones staring at her and wished she could close her eyes, enervated. She was the only soldier in dark armor, the only one with blonde hair, and her height wasn’t enough to compete with the warrior-build of the Imperial Army’s footmen. Until her death or escape, whichever came first, Rashala could never hope to slink late into a crowd.

She watched the sniper’s back as he regained control of himself. Rashala, ashamed to have trusted so easily, knew she had been lulled into a false sense of security by Dex’s vouch to trust the commander, further tricking herself into forgetting she knew nothing about this clone even after having spent hours with targets and blasters under his sharp eye. Crosshair had given little more than the occasional correction with no more poison than a vaguely exasperated instructor and Rashala had plenty of experience performing under pressure in the presence of those who would underestimate her. Impossibly, she had slipped into complacency, treating each hour like a familiar challenge to do better rather than keeping her wariness sharp enough to cut. Her stupidity in wandering without successfully coming anywhere near close to a plan for escape only proved she needed to become resourceful or else learn to face her untimely death with dignity.    

She had been foolish to think one man punishing a soldier who had been cruel to her was anything but a brutal man exercising any excuse to lash out his own particular flavor of cruelty. He hadn’t protected her: he was protecting himself.

Even as she watched Crosshair finally turn to address the room of soldiers, even as the doors slid shut behind him and the lights dimmed to reveal a holoprojection of a fortress schematic and the sniper began the brief with a voice so steady they all might have dreamed they just saw him dressed down by an officer, Rashala pondered both the singular potential advantage of her situation and the unexpected snag in her plan to run the moment her boots hit the battlefield.

Anything that happened to her would affect him.

Crosshair couldn’t just leave her on a mission to die, couldn’t turn his eye and let her fail in her fight to live another day. His response to the officer’s threat was so visceral, so involuntary, that Rashala knew Crosshair believed every word the officer said. Whatever that meant to him was not essential to Rashala’s survival, just that he believed he had no other choice but to protect her.

It was a strange reassurance, in a way, but Rashala couldn’t feel anything but absolute dread for what was to come. 

Chapter Text

Fear of change, of being replaced, had never been a clone fear before the rise of the Empire. 

Fears were hidden away, slighted in favor of courage and honor, of bravery and brotherhood. Fear had no place in the Grand Army of the Republic. 

Now, the Imperial Center for Military Operations on Coruscant was rank with fear, a malaise of uneasy understanding the end of the war didn't arrive the way any clone anticipated. 

Senator Amidala once championed the clones' future in the bright new era of a Separatist defeat. Beatific, ideological, the dark-haired queen regent of the paradise that was Naboo easily took up the mantle of patron for clone rights. Of course, the most open secret in the galaxy was her questionable but undeniable connection with General Skywalker; the 501st would only give subtle smirks in response to any sought-after gossip from the other battalions, the staunch loyalists they were to their Jedi leader. General Kenobi spent more time with Skywalker and his own Togruta padawan than he did with his soldiers, clone captains Rex and Cody were as much of a general as any Jedi, and a handful of droids completed the galaxy’s most ardently found family. They were a symbol of the future, the bright and hopeful group of them, and most battle-weary clones looked ahead to a retirement from warfare and bloodshed under that effervescent guidance.

Even before the Republic fell, there were signs of dissent and rumors of challenge to the Senator and her closest allies, all whispers framed by the overarching suspicion nothing was as believed. General Skywalker was more and more careless with the 501st, resulting in heavy casualties and invasive, permanent impact to the survivors; the traitorous Umbara mission alone nearly obliterated the garrison. The Togruta padawan was framed before being tortured with every tool of unfairness and subsequently sentenced to death for crimes she didn't commit. The girl was almost executed before her name was cleared. Captain Rex was a changed man once the padawan left the Order for good. A rumor spread that Senator Amidala was pregnant, another rumor outlining the position and size of a gripping bruise on the woman's arm spied through her costuming at a Senate event giving way to whispers. Kenobi retreated from Skywalker, the latter openly raging in front of the clones at the slightest of insults—real or imagined—in the drowning wake of his padawan's absence. If the multitude of rumors were to be believed in even their most distilled form, things were unraveling beyond repair well before Order 66 was ever given. Under the veneer of fictionalized holodramas and GAR gossip, the truth was slippery.

For all Coruscant and the Senate claimed to want an end to the war, the business of warfare was never better. The clones were asked to test new weaponry even as all expected a quick and inevitable fall of the weak Separatist forces growing thinner and thinner throughout the galaxy.

Everything changed when the Emperor gave a command no one spoke about once the deeds were done. 

The Jedi were traitors. They were dealt with accordingly. 

And life for the clones went on.

But the stench of worry, of uncertainty, now went beyond the nervous excitement of battle. Fear of replacement grew stronger and stronger until decommissioning seemed not just likely but promised. The Defense Recruitment Bill would undoubtedly pass and then anyone could only guess at what would happen next.

Most conversations among the clones were fears there would be no retirement, no transition to planets in need of broken backs to till fields or chipped minds to lead civic affairs. A patch of land and a say in the way things were run were all many clones wanted. Many desired a spouse, others looking forward to raising some kids. Although the barracks were littered with pinups from at least a dozen planets, a few soldiers kept a picture of a shore leave encounter turned sweetheart among their personal belongings. The genetic complications of widespread reproduction by the same genetic sequence, even across species, were unaddressed and taboo to discuss openly but some of the men dared share the names they already picked out for any future offspring; most unborn were named for fallen brothers.

Often, the Republic seemed to forget the clones were men and worthy of the same respect, dignities, privacies, and guarantees made to any other individual under the Republic's guiding hand. Within the new confines of the Empire, the clones were simply an outdated model of operation, to be dealt with the same way one disposed of old droids. The list of deserters grew every day.

Crosshair couldn't bear the shame of proximity to those who would abandon their posts and give up their place in the new regime.

Their guilt was his own by proxy, their disloyal actions reflecting poorly not just on themselves but on their brothers.

On him.

As the sniper gave a wordless command for the hangar doors to be opened and the transports readied for take-off, he stared at the hazy sunset surging against the breakers of innumerable skyscrapers to wash foamy light against the gleaming, glittering, sleepless city-planet that was now the only home the clones had.  

Even Crosshair couldn't ignore the restless fear spun among the ranks of clone troopers not yet replaced by unwilling, untrained, unrefined recruits. He had his orders, was assigned his own squad, and told in explicitly clear language he was to keep the Force-sensitive conscripts alive at all costs. Despite his best efforts, temporarily pushing the fear of replacement from his gut with his own half-spun lies, the sniper felt the chilling guarantee of obsoletion should he not single-handedly uphold the values clones were renowned for. There were no better warriors than those stamped from the Mandalorian template of honor, strength, and integrity. 

Above all, good soldiers followed orders.

---

The Coruscanti sunset was so rich and warm through the thick air billowing into the loading bay that Rashala was momentarily thankful for her helmet so that no one could see her single tear of relief. Knowing there was something beyond the stark walls of her cell, something hot with the promise of life and renewal, gave her cause to revel if only she could survive long enough to return to the sun of her own home moon. 

Nights were long on Stassa II, full of their own guiding light, but the sun's overwhelming brightness was worth worshipping. Hours of daylight were short on the little moon and not particularly warm even in the height of the miniscule outdoor farming season. Snow persevered in the shadows of the mountains all year round but Rashala relished those days when she could unclasp her thick jackets and sit directly in a sunbeam until she began to sweat. A rare treat, to not see her own breath when running errands or traveling to and from work. 

She thought the sunlight on Coruscant weak, pale, dimmed and yet so precious in the thin beams pushing into the gymnasium. Out in the open, though… This sun was so much brighter, stronger than her home-star, heating the planet itself to a fiery fervor amplified by the industry thrumming across the planet's crust. Even as the advancing line of twilight tarnished the fiery coppers and golds rippling across wet pinks and spiked yellows, Rashala stared as though she never saw a sunset in her life. Perhaps she hadn’t, in a way, but perhaps she never would again.

The Stassian reminded herself of the armormaster’s advice, pulled the Desix briefing to the forefront of her mind, and tried her best to ignore the weight of a weapon in her hands even as the brilliant light began to fade into heated dusk.

In a bold silhouette, the commander stood alongside the sharp geometry of the transport and seemed no less diminished despite the immense size of the craft. His harsh cheekbones and silver hair sliced through the sun's persistence against the cold blue hanger lights. The long line of his rifle and rounded shape of his helmet under his arm stretched his shadow across the sleek floor in a hungry reach for his arriving squadron. He wore arrogance well, spurned anything but respect at a calculated distance, and bore disdain and distrust as medals of accomplishment. 

The clone had no choice but to reshape what could harm him into weapons of his own. 

Crosshair's disapproval at the squad's shuffling march was obvious and he impatiently rolled a pick between his teeth as he assessed the mix of clone and conscript behind their uniform barriers. Rashala had never felt so invisible. She wasn't herself and hadn’t been since her arrival, not an individual with hopes and fears or even a person of value but rather a resource for exploitation. She ceased to be Rashala in the eyes of the Empire and was instead SF-0012, a designation she'd never respond to without feeling like part of herself was withering.

Despite her continuing existence depending entirely on Crosshair’s assigned control, none of what she learned so far would guarantee her life in battle if she didn't at least try to follow orders. Rashala knew this with the same certainty as the sun's brief warmth against the plastoid cocooning her from the rest of the galaxy, armor hiding her away lest every system as far as the Outer Rim see her as a woman from Stassa II and not an unwilling pawn of a new and brutal regime. 

With a hushed hiss, Crosshair gave the order to board and the squad did so in uneven rhythm, the impersonal cold of the transport chilling Rashala through her blacks and darkness whittling down the marrow in her brittling bones. 

---

Commander Cody was the epitome of all a clone was promised to be. Rashala knew Malivde would have fallen in love with the sort of dizzy tumbling of a drunkard's stagger off a cliff.

Even in the dim light of the transport, he glowed.

A perpetually jovial twinkle hinted in the corners of his deep brown eyes and he seemed contemplative, thoughtful, and undoubtedly overly considerate in all things. His deliberate stride coupled with his steadfast assessment of the troops in his care and he looked on the squad huddled in the tight transport as a farmer looked at lush crops and was flush with hope for a bountiful harvest. Cody's scar dented his forehead and various proofs of a long and steady war skittered across his skin. Next to Crosshair, the clone was a robust and beaming example of a fair and loyal soldier. The sniper stood nearby, milky pale and sullen, and struggled to give control to Cody in that he modeled himself a cooperative leader rather than obedient follower.

Rashala watched Crosshair deem a spat with Cody beneath him but orders had obviously been rearranged without the sniper’s awareness. The two commanders, Cody’s hushed tone smoothing the burrs of Crosshair’s own hiss, stood at the platform so long in such deep discussion that the small transport began to feel stiflingly tight for all the soldiers awaiting orders at loose attention. Finally, they joined their troops and the wide door shut with a finality that sent Rashala’s nerves tingling as she pushed down fragments of memory. To distract herself from the aching thoughts of Nish keeping stolen passengers calm, she nervously wondered how much of the earlier brief on the Desix situation was no longer valid information. No one whispered even a single question as Commander Cody spoke.

The revised mission brief, as Cody explained after a gut-lurching launch from the gravity-hungry planet, sounded simple enough: rescue Governor Grotten from Ames—the unlawful Separatist politician declaring themselves invalidate leader of Desix’s capitol city—before enforcing Imperial control over the planet and holding the capitol fortress secure until Imperial backup arrived. Desix was rich with the aftermath of Separatist leadership and each hesitation would only give command droids valuable time to turn the siege into a massacre. The troops would assist in handling the transfer of local power to the Empire and provide relief to the citizens in the wake of inevitable damage to the city. This addendum to the plan, supplying aid to the innocents of Desix, wasn’t in Crosshair’s original brief.  

When Cody’s men replied with a firm "Sir, yes, sir!" after the commander concluded his order, Rashala almost jumped out of her skin. Router, helmet striped with orange in Cody’s colors and voice booming through his vocoded helmet filters, patted her roughly on the shoulder. Rashala took the reminder for what it was rather than mistaking it for comfort.

“Sir, yes… sir,” she said hesitantly, her voice unrecognizable to herself through her helmet. It took everything she had not to hyperventilate as she accustomed herself to the feeling of the transport docking with the massive star cruiser that would take them through lightspeed to the small desert planet. Through the narrow slits between broad and armored shoulders, troopers milling about as best they could in the small space, Rashala watched the darkness of space spear into a thousand silver streaks, dragging her away to yet another part of the galaxy that wasn’t her own.

She couldn't keep from shaking.

---

Crosshair watched Cody confer with his men, three or four soldiers catching up since their last rotation out, and tried to ignore the burning in his heart. Deep, too deep to dig out even if he tried, the poison of betrayal and abandonment soaked through tissue and bone.

The clones, all healthy despite the ragged drag of war on the occasional sore limb or stiff neck as they shoved and laughed together in the small transport, were brothers through and through. The sniper vaguely recalled some of their names from his reassignment roster—Router, Pasche, Miter—but regs only took up space in his mind where he’d be better served by calculating the variables of the mission. Desert planets were a different set of rules entirely behind the trigger, the needs different when taking on Separatists in direct combat than that of a reconnaissance mission. And, despite how Rampart handed down the orders regarding the governorship and claiming of Desix, no matter what Cody added to the last-minute joint mission of relief work, Crosshair knew the reality of what his unofficial report to the vice admiral needed to contain.

He watched the conscript sleep, her helmeted head nodding along with the light turbulence of hyperspace. She would have blended in with an entire row of soldiers choosing sleep over conversation had she not been a slim, dark mark on the bench to mar the lineup of white plastoid. He should dress her down for the laziness by which she held her DC-15S; even in sleep, a soldier should have a firm grasp on their weapon. The safety was on, the conscript would be of no use if she couldn’t place a foot in front of the other, and Crosshair felt rather benevolent for his own leniency. The girl didn’t know the depths of the shadows under her own eyes.

His infuriation at her reckless abandonment of orders hadn’t diminished much since Crennit dragged her back to him, the tall woman a shy pull-toy behind the hardened rear admiral. He was momentarily weightless in his suppressed panic at having lost Rampart’s prize from the vice admiral’s pet project, swallowing his fear and transforming it to barely checked fury. Better his new squad see their leader as an unyielding commander rather than an emotional wreck, unlike others the sniper had served with. Crosshair always knew he was better than Hunter and now was the time to prove it. He wondered if Crennit was responsible for adding Cody’s ridiculous relief mission in the wake of SF-0012’s wandering.

The blended brutality of the unwanted contemplation of his beloved and most despised brother and the very idea he was being evaluated by the golden soldier of the former Grand Army of the Republic set Crosshair’s head to ache just as much as his chest.

Sometimes, the pain in his skull was so intense he couldn’t see. Other times, the bruising pressure on his brain was hardly more than a whisper. And the sniper never knew what rotation, what hour, what minute would bring him beyond the guarantee he’d never be without the hurt. The rustling of hyperspace outside the transport’s thin walls set a rumble not unlike Kamino’s turbulent skies whimpering thunder in his head. Rubbing his brow with gloved fingers, Crosshair hid a shuddering sigh in the palm of his hand.

“Feeling alright there, Cross?”

Crosshair kept his eyes closed tight to hold in the final moment of relative solitude before pinning Cody with a rigid stare. The commanders sized each other up in the brief, abrupt way most clone leaders did but only the sniper slipped resentment into the silent exchange. Cody’s scar at the corner of his eye twitched in something like a wink and Crosshair flattened his expression further. He didn’t want a comrade, didn’t care for a companion. He wanted to be left alone despite the deep loneliness when he got what he wanted.

“’Fine,” he replied dismissively, checking an exasperated sigh when Cody sidled up against the transport wall to join Crosshair in a casual lean.

“Heard Kaller was a bit rough,” Cody offered by way of conversation. Crosshair only grunted. He didn’t want to think about the rogue little Jedi or that icy landscape where Hunter’s ineptitude struck a fatal flaw in the grander plan.

He heard things, saw things, felt things on Kaller he didn’t want to remember.

“Had worse, as you know,” the sniper muttered, rolling a pick along his thin lip. He felt Cody’s discomfort as the clone obviously looked for an opening to say whatever it was he wanted to say and Crosshair didn’t care to pave him an easy path. As Cody formed tactful words Crosshair wished he didn’t have to suffer through, the sniper watched his charge pull herself back up in her sleep, her neck dipping against her shoulder. Sleeping in armor usually took most soldiers a bit longer to get used to than a single day and Crosshair wondered briefly if Force users, whether or not they knew they were, could truly adapt so easily or if they just needed more rest than others.

“Look, Cross,” Cody said, trying to catch his eye even as Crosshair barely gave his fellow commander a single glance. “I get you’re karked off about the change of plans. I know you’ve got a protégé to keep an eye on. I didn’t know about Desix until a few hours ago. I promise, I’m not here to take this from you.”

“What this?”

 Crosshair flicked a subtle gesture at the milling troops before crossing his arms tighter against the hurt behind his ribs.

“They’re not bad soldiers,” Cody said, a tinge of firm admonishment in his tone. “I gave you good men-“

“I don’t need your castoffs.”

“So, you’ve got a single recruited sniper and now you’re on your own again? You’ve got us when you need us but kriff it all when you’re all better?”

Crosshair didn’t demean himself by a response, seething as he clenched the wooden pick between his teeth until it threatened to splinter.

“I wasn’t sent to keep an eye on you,” Cody tried to reassure, striking to what he thought was Crosshair’s issue with his presence. “If it means anything, I’m glad you’re back. You looked… well, we thought you were dead when we found you.”

The short hairs on the back of Crosshair’s neck prickled at the inadvertent recollection of his rescue. He breathed through his nose, steady and deliberate, to keep his throbbing head from splitting in half in a sudden surge of acute pain.

The last few rotations on Kamino, stranded on that salt encrusted platform, were little more than vague flashes of shape and color. The QT-8 therapy droid, dispatched to the medbay on the attending AZ’s orders every other rotation during Crosshair’s lengthy recovery, had tried to prod him into discussing his voluntary exile on the ocean planet but the sniper refused. Only under the intense prompting by the AZ droid that accumulated in the threat that the Empire would never clear Crosshair for duty unless he passed a psychiatric exam did the sniper allow himself to untangle just enough chaff from the cruel knot of intense emotion that ripped through him like barbed chains plowing his nerves. He gave the QT-8 the truth of boredom and held back the intimate terror of walls of stormy waves clutching at him each time they broke over the platform, kept his certainty to himself that he was going to die waiting for his brothers to come back for him, hid the times he thought about letting the rain-wrapped winds cast him into a watery abyss.

He didn’t tell the droids that he mistook Cody for Hunter when the commander and his recon team descended from the bright blue skies. His scorched corneas and intense dehydration weren’t enough to blame for the mistake. The sniper still remembered how carefully Cody and his medic lifted his wasted body onto the stretcher, still hated the concern in Cody’s words as he reassured Crosshair he wasn’t alone anymore. Crosshair despised himself for the relief he felt before oblivion folded him into a brief respite from pain and thirst. He clenched his hand—the hand that Cody had grabbed and Crosshair had squeezed with in a weak remnant of strength, whispering Hunter’s name—and hid it under his crossed arm as he looked anywhere in the transport but at Cody himself.

“Listen, when it comes to Ames and the Separatists, it’s your call. Let my squad take care of the clankers and the citizens,” Cody said, thinking better of clapping Crosshair on the shoulder even as he moved to do so. “You’ve got whatever you need from me.”

Any other soldier would be complimented, even honored, for Kenobi’s own second in command to offer a claim on whatever they needed. Any other trooper would have been thankful for the demonstration of fraternity. Any reg, Crosshair noted bitterly, would be falling at Cody’s feet for a chance to lick his boots.

But he respected the effort.

A white-hot lightning strike across his right temple thundered down into his jaw and the sniper thumbed the wooden pick from his mouth to keep from dropping it as his muscles clenched involuntarily. He tried to run his hand through his short crop of silver hair to hide the visible flinch but disliked how vulnerable the movement made him, exposing how his armor hid what muscle he hadn’t yet managed to build back yet. He was barely healed, barely trusted, and Crosshair was never so aware he was being stared at by more than one soldier on the transport.

Cody made him uncomfortable in the way grateful citizens and thankful generals used to: they wanted something in return. Even as they thought they gave the gift of compliments and amenities and praise for saving the day over and over again, they asked for more. They always waited for the heroes response, the charming smile, the words of reassurance that risking their own life wasn’t a problem at all. Of all the Batch, Wrecker was best at handling the people, navigating the encounters necessary by social standards from planet to planet.

Even after the rogue munition lit off at Wrecker’s bulk and knocked his brother a few levels below mentally average, Wrecker wielded the attention as much as well as he would a shield. Tech and Crosshair and even Hunter, they always followed Wrecker’s lead when it came to how to treat civilians after the threat was mitigated. Tech could hide behind his datapad—and did, often—when he was uncomfortable. Hunter always busied himself with something else, something inane, something he could document and check off a list like he accomplished something rather than shying away from the intense discomfort of so many sights and smells and sounds. But, when Crosshair couldn’t manage to disappear up into a nest or hunker down somewhere innocuous until social obligations had passed, he hid in the shadow of Wrecker’s seemingly effortless charm.

Oh, how he wished for that protection now…

Unable to bring himself to speak and commit the moment in a word he couldn't take back, Crosshair finally nodded, unable to thaw the brief and icy nod no more than he was able to look Cody in the eye.

“You’re welcome,” the commander said with infuriating understanding, turning to join his squad in their conversations.

Cody knew better than to do anything more than accept the firm acknowledgement Crosshair knew the commander could gloat over the sniper's debt and yet did the perpetually honorable thing by continuing on his way. The Batch had always been a warning that different was discouraged and failure to conform would mean so much more than testing, the silver-haired sniper one of the crueler, colder examples of their genetic potential, but Cody trusted Rex when the captain told him he’d put his life and the lives of his men in their hands.

With a soft dip of his chin, Cody did his brother the kindness of catching and holding the rare and flickering spark of solidarity. 

Crosshair blew a sigh through pursed lips before adding a fresh pick to the corner of his tense mouth, feeling more uncomfortable than the combined attempts of every FX-7 trying and failing to find a vein.

---

"First time out?"

The clone looked at her with a friendly tilt of his helmeted head even as Rashala startled awake from her uncomfortable lean in the narrow bench along the transport wall. She didn't trust her own words and nodded instead, her throat clenching to reply with a strangled, strained, fearful sound.

“Didn’t mean to scare ya there. It’s just Miter. Remember me?” 

She didn’t know how long she had been asleep and her mouth felt stuffed with dry snowfall, teeth cold and tongue numb. In the privacy of her helmet, the Stassian tried to recall the first time she woke up somewhere since capture besides her own small cell.

The soldier at her shoulder was one of Cody’s men, separate from Crosshair’s squad and sporting a very worn, extremely battered set of armor that could reasonably fall apart at any moment. She would have remembered such scorched and scarred kit during the commander's clipped briefing and subsequent droid training modules. She still had a low-grade headache from the intensity of so much information jamming itself into her brain over half a rotation and a skipped meal. Trying to stand, she quickly realized she had no chance of keeping her balance and sat back down as ungracefully as a marsap tumbling into a hot-spring.

“Don’t lock your knees,” the soldier offered, hope and humor mingling in the vocoded rasp of the helmet’s filters. Rashala barely remembered to nod her acknowledgement, forgetting he couldn’t see her expressions through her own helmet. The thing was bulky and she both forgot and couldn’t forget she was wearing it all at the same time.

“I was at the table next to you and Pasche and Router earlier, before training,” he continued, obviously trying to prompt Rashala into conversation. “Thought Triv was going to give you a lesson for sure when you knocked into ‘im. He’s been cranky since Kashyyyk.”

“I- I don’t remember you,” she muttered, her own voice foreign to her through her helmet’s respirators.

“Was with Router and Pasche on Tempsla Major when they were with 7th Sky. Same regiment. Cody’d be hurtin’ if he sent his only medic off to SF squad, though. You just get me for this mission.”

None of this meant anything to the Stassian, especially as she felt like vomiting for the jumping in her stomach.

“When they were reassigned to the sniper’s squad,” Miter said regretfully, “I was disappointed to lose ‘em. If they took a shine to you, I’ll keep an eye on ya, too.”

"Avoid fights and I don’t have to stitch you up" the clone continued, a masked companion Rashala didn't ask for or expect but was present all the same. He was practically jovial in comparison to some of the clones Rashala met and his eagerness set her on edge moreso than the unfamiliar rumble of lightspeed pinging at the bulkhead. Immediately, she wondered what he wanted from her, as no one had been as unguardedly kind as Miter, as he called himself, since her abduction.

“Medic,” he said, repeating himself slowly while tapping at the Galactic medical services symbol at his shoulder with a line of Aurebesh so scraped up Rashala had to squint beyond her visor’s focus to read it in the dim light. “Been training since I was decanted so you come to me if anything’s busted.”

Rashala gave him a single nod, wrapping and unwrapping her fingers around her blaster as though she could ply her gloves into an adhesive grip with the right amount of pressure; she felt like she might drop the thing, metal sliding across her plastoid thigh braces as she shifted on the hard bench. She recognized it as one of the weapons Crosshair had rotated in and out of her hands at training just a rotation ago but the idea she’d need to use it to protect her own life still seemed like a disconnect from reality, as horrible as her reality with the Empire was to contemplate.

Her eyes were itchy and she blinked rapidly to keep from taking off her helmet, noting the only soldiers not wearing the claustrophobic bucket were the commanders and a few of the more veteran clones talking with Cody at the front of the transport. As it was, several troopers stared at her since her jostle awake and she felt their attention as an unwanted reminder she was different and automatically not trusted. Crosshair’s small squad hadn’t dared pay more attention than necessary to Rashala after the commander’s barely contained fury dared turn on any one of them should they divert from the training module, sneaking looks at the conscript from the corner of their eye whenever they felt particularly brave at the edges of the sniper’s cold glare. On the transport, surrounded by even more people… The helmet was uncomfortable, smothering, but safer than nothing between her and the rest of the soldiers.

“Router has a soft spot for rookies,” Miter continued, undeterred by Rashala’s silence. “He’ll keep a good eye on you. Sees all the shiny new soldiers through their first battle. Was a shame to see him transferred to Crosshair.”

Rashala turned her head away from Miter, unsure what to say when she had no choice in the matter who she reported to and held no amount of love whatsoever for the Empire or its soldiers. She didn’t care if Router was secretly the Princess of Risedel and Miter his handmaiden: she simply didn’t want to throw up in her helmet as she gulped down rising bile whenever the transport shuddered.

“Overheard the conversation in the mess hall,” Miter said, unstoppable in his insistence. Rashala’s stomach turned to lead as his tone shifted to a quieter, conspiratorial mood. “Not all of us are fans of the new defense bill. Most of us aren’t, actually.”

And what does that mean for me?

Rashala reminded herself no one in this transport was anything close to a friendly presence, no matter how Router and now Miter tried to assure her they had her back. From what Rashala knew of the Empire in her captivity so far, soldiers in the same armor had shot Nish with as little hesitation as a lothcat pouncing on a snowmouse. Any one of the troopers nearby wouldn’t hesitate to do the same if Cody or Crosshair gave the order to dispose of her. Router’s friendliness, Miter’s insistence on conversation, even Dex giving her the datapad… Rashala felt as though she were on the receiving end of a setup with inevitable lethal consequences.

Despite her distrust of her commander himself, she looked for the pale sniper through the tight group and saw him standing on his own near the back of the transport, reviewing data on his combrace. He worried the end of a pick as he skimmed information, dark brows heavy caps on the shadows under his eyes as the combrace light gave a weak, cold glow to his high cheekbones. Even at a distance, he was imposing. Rashala wondered, despite the knowledge she now had that the commander was better off keeping her safe for the Empire’s interests in her, if he wouldn’t just leave her on the battlefield to let another soldier remove her for him.

“But some of us know what its like to be unwanted. We’ve got you.”

At this, Rashala turned sharply to stare at Miter with the sort of disbelief she was thankful her helmet hid. She heard the smile in his voice as her surprise amused him.

“We know,” he repeated, insisting as Rashala silently froze in disbelief. “I was almost kept back on Kamino, was gonna be commissioned for maintenance instead when I couldn’t pass the munitions tests until the third go. Kix did everything he could to make sure the longnecks knew I was one of the best karking medics the GAR could hope to have. So what if I couldn’t dismantle a delayed concussion missile as fast as the others? Could still do it, couldn’t I? Besides, I’m here to treat the concussions themselves!”

Miter’s confident slap of his hand on his armored knee was rattlingly loud.

“And that- makes you different?” Rashala dared ask in little more than a whisper. “Not passing a test right away? That?”

For the first time, Rashala let anger bubble to a froth at the back of her tongue, bile turning to poisonous words she wanted to lash out to sting this oblivious trooper with if only to convince him they were nothing alike in any way. In the chilly aftermath of the heated flare that she barely bit back, she was horrified at herself. She had never yelled at anyone in her life. Ever. None of her brothers raised their voices, either, nor her parents when they were alive. She had only ever been kind. Calm. Quiet to a fault, allowing herself to be underestimated for how she often listened rather than spoke. She knew what it was like to fail a test—her licensing and entry to the appropriate guilds to work in the NATSIC M took years of occasionally unsuccessful study—but would never have deemed it appropriate to compare her professional trials to that of a clone soldier.

Even with the sharp reality staring her in the face that she was on an Imperial transport against her will, hurtling towards her first battle with little more than hard exercise and a few rounds with a blaster to guide her through the potential last rotation she’d ever see… She’d die without knowing why the Empire took her to begin with. Rashala just wondered if she’d be carted back with a blaster shot through her breastplate or if the clones who shot her would leave her where she fell.

“Hey, look,” Miter began, pointing casually at Crosshair through the loose ranks of soldiers separating the sniper from them. The medic balanced his forearms over his knees and bent forward, insisting Rashala join him; the Stassian did so, albeit reluctantly. She shifted the weapon in her hands with no small amount of discomfort. “Your commander is one of the strangest clones I’ve ever met. By all means, if any one of us came out the way he did, we’d be swabbing the decks on Kamino for the rest of our lives. Cross, there. Well, he was on purpose. Allegedly. The longnecks really did a number with him. All of ‘em in the Batch, really.”

Before Rashala could think to ask for clarification on what any of that meant for a clone, including what Kamino was, Miter continued.

“But none of us wanted Clone Force 99 and they didn’t want us either. Kix, well, when they rescued Echo on that joint mission with the 501^st… it didn’t go so hot at first. Picked a fight with the commander, almost had his shebs whacked for it. But they couldn’t have gotten Echo outta there if all anyone ever did was fight over differences. He says he trusts Cross so I will, too. Router isn’t convinced but I trust Kix. If he vouches for ‘em, I trust ‘em. Appearances aren’t always what they seem.”

Rashala’s head was spinning. The 501^st? Kix? Shebs? She held onto the story for what little she saw the dedicated attention was worth, wrestling down her own guilt for even thinking of lashing out at someone who, for all intents and purposes, truly might not mean her any harm.

“I was there when we found him, after they left him,” Miter said, lowering his voice so Rashala had to lean in. “Router says Cross abandoned his squad but, for what? To die in a watery grave? Who’d leave their brothers for that? Better a blaster to the back of the head than what almost got him.”

“Router said-“

“I know what Router said,” Miter interrupted firmly. “But I was there when we found him. I saw him dying, heard him saying his brother’s name.”

The clone turned his head to face Rashala fully and the Stassian felt, even through the relative anonymity of their helmets, that she could see Miter’s pinched brow as he tried to convince her of things Rashala couldn’t hope to ever understand.

“Router’s right. Stay close. But the commander isn’t gonna leave us. He’s not gonna toss you to the seppies and call it a mission done. He was left before and knows what that’s like. He’s not gonna do that to you, too.”

“He can’t,” Rashala muttered before she thought to stop herself. “There’s a reason the Empire took me. I die and… seems like trouble for him.”

“Oh, so you know about the midichlorian counts? I didn’t think—"

The transport shuddered out of lightspeed and Rashala's stomach curdled, all thought of conversation withering as she choked on her own gasp.

The other troopers didn't seem to care much about the sudden rattling, Crosshair leaning against the transport wall with an enviable nonchalance even as the transport undocked roughly from the cruiser’s side; he shifted his feet in easy balance as the machine's belly tilted at an unexpected angle. The Stassian heard her own breathing harsh and heavy in her helmet's feed and resisted the urge to lean forward to place her head between her knees and pray to whatever gods and goddesses that could be listening to a conscripted soldier in a clone transport so far from her own home. 

"Just don't throw up in your helmet," Miter chuckled, standing up with a repressed groan and giving Rashala a bone jarring clap on the back. "Takes hours to clean."

"I won't," Rashala gasped, feeling buried beneath her armor. The plastoid was light but she barely resisted the urge to rip it all off. Panic continued to well through every inch of her body, bowels watering and eyes clenching and guts latticing through her very ribs, and she gulped air lest she pass out the moment the transport hit the atmosphere. All thoughts of fraternity and clone commanders and whatever midichlorians were flew from her mind. Rashala’s startled shout as the ship dipped sharply was quiet but high, overly feminine in her pitched fear, and Miter stared at her for a long moment.

"Stay close to us, just like Router said," the clone directed as the ship rattled around them. "It'll be a quick offload but I'll cover ya.”

Rashala nodded a thanks, acutely aware of the transport rocking through the atmosphere. She forced her breaths to steady, nerves prickling and blood pulsing through a heart banging in nervous rhythm. A brief but bolstering moment of calm permeated her very being, mental clarity as crisp and refreshing as an open window on a brisk spring morning. Rashala held onto the relief from terror with a desperate emotional grip. Her vertebrae realigned, shoulders straining through a forced stretch. The gun in her hands was an unwanted tool and sat crooked in her grip as she resumed the nervous roll of her fingers.

If she kept her eyes open and stayed engaged in her surroundings instead of panicking, she could make it. With Router, Pasche, and Miter shielding her, chances were decent she could make it off the transport and take out the droids before they could get her first.

Slowly but with striking clarity, Rashala realized she might not die.

The first ground missile hit the transport with all the force to end a world.

---

A visceral ringing in her ears became a buzzing feedback loop around and around her skull until Rashala came to full consciousness with the awareness she was in very real danger.

Metallic clanking, a terrible droning alarm, and the confused chatter of what could only be a battle droid overpowered all other senses. Rashala lay still on the transport's tilted floor, her body so flooded with survival chemicals she wondered how she felt any sort of pain whatsoever.

Pain meant life. The Stassian was grateful for it even as she forced back a groan. 

Vivid awareness of her surroundings crept past her weakened hearing and she opened her eyes only when she realized her helmet was still on; the droids couldn't see her confused blinking. The unsettling awareness she could stretch her facial muscles and lick at the clotting blood where she had bit her lip without anyone seeing what she was doing gave Rashala the freedom to allow her expression to crumple as the horrible realization set in that the transport had crashed.

She was partially shielded by a body and struggled to breathe under the weight draped over her hips and legs. With an acidic lurch, she hoped the body wasn't someone she knew but her peripheral was too blocked to see properly. Without thought, Rashala felt the immediate preemptive despair that she had perhaps lost an ally before ever learning to trust them, that she was covered in transport oil and clone blood without a chance to learn whether or not they were actually trying to help her. The hissing failure of a pneumatic lever veiled Rashala’s short, soft sob as she tried to keep from panicking.

The droids stepped through the thick steam billowing from busted systems leaking from the battered transport, a nightmare in their own right. Their voices were supposedly humorous to some of the clones, a whining tenor bordering on petulant obedience as they spoke aloud to each other, but she both feared and hated the sound immediately. Rashala's monitoring inside her helmet alerted her all Separatist communications systems in the immediate area were online and the digital chatter was insatiable with requests for information. There was a tactical bot flowing protocol after protocol in steady ripples through the systems pinging nearby. Most of the requests demanded biometric updates. How many casualties? How many survivors? The tactical droid layered defensive and offensive mapping in thick stacks of data.

Communications data pulled her back from the brink of catastrophic panic, reminded her what she was good at, what she had actually trained for, what she really did could save her. She was no soldier but she knew what to do with intercepted media packets. She breathed deep, then again, grasping and reining in her desperate urge to lay still and hope a false hope that the droids wouldn’t check her life signs. Rashala had to act first but she had to be accurate.

She could do that.

Her gun was just a lurch away, within fingertip reach if she could only shift forward without garnering attention, but the B-1 marching toward her was far more likely to catch the movement than Rashala was to succeed. The bulk of the droid's commlink booster gave the machine an even more menacing presence than the already frightening rust-tinted limbs grinding with each movement. A light gust cleared some of the choking stench of burning oil amplified on the heavy steamflow current; through the transport's open doorway, Rashala could make out vague shapes of droids, each with hollow eyes and a weapon. The ramp clattered in a monotonous attempt to close the ship's single cargo access but everything was broken, allowing the droids to explore the wide mouth freely. Rashala's helmet feed warned her to lower her vitals or risk adverse physical effects; she would have smirked at the interface's audacity to flag something like blood pressure at a time of literal life or death decision making had she been in any other position than prostrate before an approaching battle droid.

"Hey, there's one alive in here!" the clanker called out to its fellows, and Rashala noted perhaps her helmet's monitoring system meant not to help her regulate her response for her own physical health but to keep from registering on a droid's own search sweep. It was one of the many thoughts threatening to cram together into an amalgamation of useless fear-response instead of offering a decisive solution to the immediate problem. 

On pure instinct, in a fluid motion Rashala hardly expected from herself, she pulled the blaster toward her, swung her body under the pinning weight at her waist, and fired up into the droid's primary power source. The B-1 didn't have time to respond to the attack before it exploded into a limb-laden mess of wires and bolts. Hot metallic rain spangled her armor in tin stars and lead droplets. The droid's head pinged harshly against the transport's crooked ceiling with the hot propulsion before rolling away. 

The way her weapon fit into her palm without readjustment, the way her finger found the trigger... it couldn't have been more perfect. 

The other droids approaching the transport were quickly felled by a rain of blaster fire. Quickly, Rashala pulled her legs out from under the trooper and noted with strange relief that the plastoid wasn't Crosshair's battle-worn grey. She couldn't tell if Router, Pasche, or Miter were among the many clones scattered in the shattered transport. Cody’s scratched orange wasn't present among the fallen. Rashala peered from the transport, looking for any sign of leadership, and exhaled her relief in a shuddery burst.

---

The Nu-class shuttle was demolished but still useful, providing cover for Commander Cody and his few mobile men. She thought she saw Miter and Router among them, along with her own commander. Rashala dashed around a large part of what used to be the transport's wing, gripping her weapon tightly. Cody's command module pushed information to Rashala's monitor as she approached, including topographic information about Desix, Sector 5. The B-1s reported no survivors, a single known tactical droid relaying fallback information with the bad data. Rashala watched the droids move off the crash site and huddled in tighter to what remained of Commander Cody's squad. 

Crosshair admitted the sliver of attention he had to spare to assessing Rashala as she crouched nearby. The plastoid had done its job and took the brunt of the damage that would otherwise have scraped her to the bone. Her helmet sported a large dent and one of her bracers was struck through with a deep crack but most surprising was the remnants of B-1 metal spattered across her armor; the stuff was an arduous process to remove from blacks, Geonosis tin a messy material to begin with but particularly vicious to cloth. Shiny specks littered her blacks around the collar and she'd have burns underneath despite the protective layer.

The one droid he couldn't snag before it entered the transport... He expected a single shot from one or the other as he had stalked forward but, despite his lingering anger with the conscript, he allowed himself a satisfied smirk when the blaster echoed within. He knew the sound of a DC-15S anywhere.

Her first kill.

It would get easier for her from here.

Rusty volcanic sand drifted in thin, snaking waves around their ankles as Crosshair briefly debated with Cody how to best salvage the situation. The squad listened close and Rashala, through the chemical rush of her body discovering the most efficient way of surviving her first battle, felt an immense surge of relief at Commander Cody's reassuring leadership. She didn't have to think, just act, as long as Cody kept pushing information through everyone's monitoring system. He cleanly and clearly dissected the region's map and traced a path for optimal approach, highlighting each auto-detected droid and Separatist weapon in the immediate vicinity.

Cody's fluency in parsing information and sharing openly with his squad was reassuring not only because Rashala was briefly reminded of the rapid response and transparency in the natural workflow of the NATSIC M but because of Cody’s demeanor himself. He was a tried-and-true veteran of the Clone Wars, a competent leader with a calming presence. The Stassian hoped to be such a certain and considerate leader in the Control Center as Cody was on the battlefield. Rashala listened close through her own rapid breathing rasping in her helmet, almost missing the cue to run for the citadel. 

High whistles and thunderous blasts entwined in disorienting whirlpools of sound, the arid air turbulent with warfare. Crops caught fire from stray shells and an organic smoke permeated the oxygen filters with a crisp, grassy stench. Tassels swayed wildly as their matte-edged pollen crystals flared in bright yellow bursts, grains popping within their husks and stalks creaking before exploding into messy piles of wasted harvest. Rashala's dash for cover was nearly a moment too late and the Stassian threw herself behind a rocky divide as her monitoring beeped a warning: she was a locked target, any one of the Separatist droids at the battlements training on her specifically. She bit back a cry as pumice stone shattered in countless pebbles, volcanic ash a smoky spray over her armor. Tiny, sharp shards rained against the plastoid in a deafening sheet.

Her helmet alerted her the immediate threat was now eliminated and she dared raise her head above the harsh, brittle rock to watch droid after droid fall in a powerless heap behind the battlement. The B-1s rocked back with the force of impact as a sniper's careful calculation destroyed each droid. Rashala was too terrified to give any silent thanks to Crosshair as the squad pressed on at Cody's encouragement. It took all the bravery she could muster to put one foot in front of the other, slipping and dodging in the powdery sands.

Crosshair leveled the majority of opposing forces single-handedly, a gulping welcome of normalcy steadying his aim. He regulated his breathing to a sipping whisper, urging his exhilarated heart to obey against the unsteadying rush of thrumming blood. His balanced his rifle in practiced hands and softened his grip against the long ago suppressed instinct to clutch excitedly at what was to come. Even after thousands of missions on hundreds of planets, the freedom of focus and reward of a clean shot sang a jubilant song. His brutalized body momentarily rid of pain, the violations against him smothered in a rush of pleasure, Crosshair teased the Separatist tank into position. 

The sniper relished in his own creativity, an ego-driven arrogance to not just do something well but unlike any other; his brothers used to mock his methods, taunted good-naturedly whenever Crosshair made his own game of excellence too obvious. He was too skilled, too bored, and too confident in his own ability to deal with regulatory obedience. What the Republic declared should or should not be done in the field was never Crosshair's interest. What he could do, what he was capable of… proving his potential to one person was his true motivation. If he ever failed to impress himself, the mission may well have been a waste of his time. 

He had no doubts he could make the shot. It was an old trick.

With an unnatural whistle as the bullet promised an extraordinary result, Crosshair's aim was true down the narrow tank barrel. The unit exploded in a clanging whine, then a deafening blast as the droids within were thrown high from the demolished crawler, finally collapsing in hollow metallic clatters as the Separatist tech beat against cracking flagstones.

The sniper smiled, a thin but truly satisfied expression no one but his brothers had ever seen in the wake of such destruction. He easily eliminated an entire line of droids advancing over their fallen squadmates. Cody was a bobbing blaze of iron-streaked grey, waving commands and ordering strategic advancement. A dozen survivors followed and Crosshair noted with vague relief that Rashala was among them. 

He could have explained the conscript dying in a transport crash—that was beyond his control—and even convincingly covered up her failure should the droid have shot first and her body require disposal. But now she was a visual on multiple comm feeds, proven alive after the wreck that was the transport exploding under citadel heavy artillery. Rampart would now hold him accountable for anything that happened to her and, as much as he was loathe to admit it, her survival was tied to his own.

Turning his comms back up, allowing Cody's orders to flow through his helmet, Crosshair leapt from his nest and landed in the first long stride of a practiced sprint. 

---

Tank remnants slipped over the bridge as the squad leaned into their only chance for a few quick breaths before storming the citadel.

Cody flattened himself against the chipped brick and his men did the same, Rashala crouching with her blaster tightly tucked at her side. The more time they gave the tactical droid to recalculate, the better the chances were of falling under the next wave of resistance. The B-1s weren't particularly intelligent but they weren't the only droids within the citadel, not if the Desix governor had a whole tank at her disposal. Rashala closed her eyes tight and willed herself not to vomit, not shake, not even think as she braced against Cody's inevitable command to press on. 

Shifting sands flowed in silky sheets across her mind, a pulsing orange ripple pushing across the planet's restless surface offering to envelop her if only she took off her helmet and lay still on the earth. The cobblestones beneath her armored feet pressed a story into her body, each one sharing memories of cool tides and slick algae from a long, long time ago, long before the rocks were cut apart into bricks and fit into a sun-scorched pattern. Life, hidden and frightened, pushed from deep roots stretched yearningly toward water. Laced patterns of miniscule insects with serrated pincers and wide, flat bodies swarmed at the chaotic invasion. Delicate scorpions marveled at the boulders of glass formed in their landscape, sand struck by blaster fire solidifying into chunky, wonderous mirrors half buried in a new sea of pulverized pumice; rust-tinted creatures danced on poisonous tiptoes, scurrying in excited pirouettes from gift to gift. Stagnant blood clotted in the veins of her fallen squadmates and decay lingered at the edges of dull brain matter, death winding widespread tendrils around what was yet unclaimed in a caressing lull that was so soft, so lush compared to the harsh and fleeting brightness of life. 

Rashala felt her heartbeat slow, her lungs pull and push in a spongy cadence, her muscles ease their strangle on her screaming joints. She reached into the land and drifted into the steady stream for only a moment but that moment was all it took. The Stassian had never felt another planet before, had never dragged her fingers through the living history of a different world. The exhilarating difference between her chilled moon homeland and this dry, drifting earth was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

For the first time since her abduction, Rashala felt like she had a place in the universe, even if that place was temporarily owned and under duress.

A heartbeat joined her own and an invisible gust buffeted her onto her heels. Rashala momentarily struggled to break the connection with the land around her and her mind and body tangled in a struggle for subservience. The sands gripped back, volcanic ash wrapping around her wrists through her armor and weaving under her blacks to coat her skin. The air grew too thin to carry much needed oxygen through her thickening helmet filters and saliva dried on her cracking teeth. Rashala felt her legs run through the shifting sands despite her crouch, felt her head ache and a burning brand of pain radiating above her right ear. She put her hand to her helmet to press against the hurt, to push the pebbled skin back where it belonged, meeting nothing but smooth plastoid. Struggling to open her eyes, Rashala blinked through the dry prickling and saw a dark-clad trooper dashing through an increasingly steady line of fire.

Crosshair.

Her helmet's monitoring was too slow to lock onto the droid preparing to fire from Crosshair's open left flank. An outlier B-1, on its last reserves and missing its lower half, struggled to prop itself up even while it raised its weapon with certain accuracy. Rashala whipped her helmet from her head and took aim unassisted, unencumbered. She didn't guess at the distance, just exhaling a dust-carried breath as she squeezed the trigger. The droid groaned with the blaster shot before power drained entirely to leave it as a metal husk in the sands, weapon tumbling.

"Helmet back on, soldier!" a clone shouted above her, arm raised high to shoot at the droids leaning over the battlements. Rashala fumbled and reoriented herself with the skimming monitoring feeds, resolution clarifying as she swiped her eyes across the display. Several unfamiliar droids moved nearby on a rolling whirl coming ever closer to the portcullis and she had no time to think as Cody ordered the squad through the opening gate; a few clones grappled their way over and activated the rusting grate to widen just enough for access. Fear slammed back into every crevasse of her being, rolling through her in a foaming tide, threatening to drown her without pomp or reason. She followed Crosshair as the dwindling squad thinned further under the rustling arrival of droidekas.

Monitoring pinged an unnecessary warning that these specific droids were extraordinarily dangerous and the display shared the unhelpful odds of success against their energy shields. Computerized calculations flashed in dizzying speed in her right peripheral, spewing recommendations and percentages Rashala couldn't read fast enough to make any use of. She fired uselessly at the bug-like droidekas and ran when Cody ordered the group to run, heat scorching her leg as she barely avoided a blast from a rogue B-1. She tried to take it down with a poorly aimed departing shot, unable to spare any attention as she kept up with the significantly diminished squad.

A trooper on her right fell to a droideka and the clone in front of her whipped a shield disrupter at the crawling metallic beast before it rolled smoothly out of the way. Rashala fired at it with no success, maneuvering into a graceless roll as another droideka shot behind her. She heard it before she knew what it was, instinctually understanding to not duck was to die with a hole through her skull. 

Watching the clones around her, she mimicked their actions, finding an unsteady flow of dodging and firing between limited attempts to throw the small grenades with any accuracy. Rashala couldn't feel pride, just continued horror at the acrid, binding, choking reality of battle as she launched disrupters at the unyielding droidekas. The squad followed Cody and Crosshair, making their way to a narrow stairwell with blaster fire at their heels. Another trooper fell, then another, and Rashala knew it was sheer luck she survived their advance. 

Slamming herself against the thin doorway and hiding all she could in the tiny alcove, she struggled to unclip the the single field disrupter left at her belt as Cody and Crosshair dashed up the spiral staircase. That hesitation was all a droideka needed to whir in a horrifying metallic scuttle straight towards her. The alkaline air was brittle through her clogging filters, bitter in her mouth as she stared certain death in the pallid metallic faceplate, the droideka rising up on springing haunches.

In the quarter second between the droid's rearing stretch into firing position and the activation of its energy shield, Rashala shot it in the sliver of core processor exposed under the neck joint. A wisp of acid smoke bled from the unit as it malfunctioned, froze, and died with little more than a whimper of frying wire. Rashala turned and fled up the stairs, unable to comprehend how she possibly recognized and exploited that clipped bit of armor in the staccato race of her hammering heart. The droidika stood as a silent sentinel at the minaret's base.

Despite the rotations upon rotations of intense exercise and that Rashala had never been in better shape her whole life, the stairs were harder than her terrified sprint across the sandy landscape. The mundane reality of one step another another, up and up and up, was shockingly bland against the toxic, burning, orange-tinted canvas of battle. Her thighs burned and plastoid at her joints banged together as she forced herself onward. How Cody and Crosshair were so far ahead of her was proof they were born to be soldiers and knew nothing but pursuit of perfectly waged warfare.

Crosshair’s strangled shout for Cody sent Rashala on a reserve burst of speed, tapped from her last dregs of nervous energy.

She reached for him, pushing and pulling simultaneously without knowing how or why she formed a connection the way she did. Rashala felt the sniper’s throat ache—choking—and the rapid surge of his heart against ribs fraught with fracture. She felt his overwhelming anger laced with embarrassment. Something got the jump on him, took him down and strangled him. Slips of relief bordered the overarching intensity radiating into every bit of atomic space that could make way for his directive.

Rashala pulled away as soon as she realized she could, breaking the accidental bond with a crackling frost webbing over her sore mind. Numbly, she cleared the last few steps keeping her from watching the sniper as he leveled his rifle and ordered Cody to throw a little silver puck as far as the commander could. Rashala couldn’t see the result, just the action concluding the hard-won battle for control of Desix.

She crept up the stairs, stepping over fallen BX units, and obeyed Crosshair’s flat hiss to stand guard as the sniper followed Cody. Rashala heard voices as a low and steady rumble, Cody’s own words muddled, but the Stassian didn’t dare take another step from her post. The only thing keeping her from sitting or even daring to run away was the vivid awareness she would pass out if she even attempted to crawl back down the turret. She was so weak, so shaken, there was hardly a chance she could even protect herself. No droids appeared on the tight spiral staircase, however, and Rashala managed not to collapse while negotiations struggled in the room above. Even as her mind shouted orders to run, to escape into the shadows lengthening over desert sands, her body refused to obey.

A single shot shattered the approaching Desix twilight.

---

Green malaise murked the bloody sunset as the Venator-class cruiser wedged the skies.

Chapter Text

Sickening twilight gave way under the weight of lightning-laden clouds as night rolled over the acrid desert planet.

Battle-tired troopers mingled in the small camp outside Sector 2, quiet and beleaguered as some set out their bedrolls while others ate a tasteless, compact meal. Verdant chemical lamps were harsh in the hard landscape, pulsing inconsistently as the liquids within struggled to mingle and merge to throw off a brittle illuminance, but every individual lantern was a welcome contrast to the landscape’s copper scorch imprinted as a ghost image over each soldier’s eyes.

Only a handful of Cody’s men remained in the wake of the brief and brutal battle. Staring across the camp at Miter’s helmet where it rested on the pile of plastoid armor lifted from the numerous dead, the Stassian knew she should be grateful to have escaped her first battle with her life but was simply never so aware that luck and luck alone had kept her alive.

Rashala sat on her flimsy bedroll, the thermal layer so thin every pebble jutted into her weary frame and heat efficiency low enough she didn’t know if she shook with shock or chill. Rations were a chalky nutrient bar, her tongue quickly caking in astringent minerals, barely washable with a drink of water as metallic as licking the side of a blaster barrel.

Almost everything smelled of burnt sand persisting over snaps of ozone as transports lifted and landed on the deep orange skyline but, through the char on the light breeze drifting off the battlefield, a pungent plant near the edge of the sector eased a milky tang into the air. The Stassian had never smelled anything like it, breathing deep not just to keep some semblance of calm but clear herself of remnants of the Imperial Center’s sterile, stagnated air stuck in the bottom of her lungs. In anxious repetitiveness, Rashala ran her fingers through the blood-red sand at the end of her bedroll, grit clotting under her short nails and dust stirring little vortices at her fingertips before ephemeral disbursement into the darkness beyond her miniscule lamp. Touching the earth—any earth—was a communion with part of herself she had been forced to cage away after becoming the Empire’s prisoner; when she sifted the rusty grains of sand so alien and novel compared to Stassa II, something restless ceased rough-edged frenetic transit under her skin, something that hadn’t paused except to listen to the songs of home Rashala whispered into the darkness of her cell.  

Running her palms through the warm sheets of Desix desert at her meager battlefield bedside, she glanced at the tidy stack of carefully cleaned armor nearby, her helmet staring sightlessly into the crumbling landscape.

If she found the bravery to do what she was readying to do, she wouldn’t put that armor on ever again.

The castle in the center of the tiny city, a citadel dwarfing all other buildings in a blocky stance, made a dark imprint against the uneasy night. The minaret where four fought and three won was a skeletal finger jutting from the corpse of Separatist resistance. Once the citizens fell to their knees in the wake of those taken away and what remained of a salvageable harvest was loaded onto Imperial transports, Desix would become more graveyard than habitable planet despite Cody’s promised assistance. Clone troopers ordered crate after crate onto short-run transports, crops and minerals boxed up and shuffled to the enormous unblinking mechanical eye lingering overhead with brutal omniscience.

A phosphorous flare surged from the latest shuttle to launch and Rashala watched the slim craft transform into a pinprick against the imposing mass of scuttling clouds and grey metal cruiser, engines bleaching the air with their energy. Transporting what could be scraped from the holdout planet was more urgent than bringing the exhausted remnants of the strike team to the warship; every available shuttle was deployed for an underripe and militaristically expedient harvest. The soldiers looked to Cody for explanation as to why not even one ship after ship carrying relief troopers couldn’t be spared to bring the surviving handful of tired siege soldiers to an easy rest in familiar quarters but the commander didn’t undermine the orders with any explanation of his own.

Something had happened in the tower, something terrible. Those men most familiar with Cody’s style of leadership glanced amongst themselves, a deep but sparse dialog shared silently between brothers in arms, and obeyed the commander immediately upon noting Cody’s tense expression. They had followed their commander through worse, undoubtedly, but anyone who had served under Cody’s command before knew the clone was deeply shaken.

When the commanders returned from the citadel with their few and ragged soldiers flanking with weary steps, the citizens voluntarily pushed into crumbling doorways and put cracking stone walls firmly at their backs. Crosshair, tall and pale with a set grimace, ignored their cringing. Rashala followed silently, stomach churning and limbs tingling as she tried and failed to keep from glancing at the fear-filled faces of those who had survived the siege. The few defiant expressions were chiseled, set as a sentence: some would fight the Empire to their own demise, death preferrable to survival under Imperial Control.

She didn’t have a modicum of the same courage before that moment.

Rashala had to walk by the defeated while wearing the armor of such an impossibly large enemy as the Imperial Army and hated herself for her own helplessness to do anything else. Terror, aching homesickness, pain, and even boredom had punctured the otherwise numb weave of rotation after rotation under the Empire’s control, but never hatred. Not for herself, not for others, maybe not even after they murdered Timp and Nish.

Now, sitting on that bedroll in the desert byway between the Desix capitol and undulating sand dunes, she recognized her participation—no matter how involuntarily she was conscripted—in the destruction of the way of life for a planet that seemed to serve no threat at all beyond resistance to the strict Imperial standard of cooperation.

Rashala knew the Empire was no longer just her captor.

She recognized the cruiser in the green glass sky as the flat and ominous symbol of nemesis, oppressor of free planets, and her heart stalled.

Stassa II wouldn’t stand a chance against the Empire’s force.

As night finally settled as a restless layer over the parched planet, Rashala laid down and tried to sketch everything she knew and everyone she loved into the foreign array of strange stars beyond the bow of the invading ship, seeking courage in each massage she made of the fragrant sand at the edge of the rough bedroll. She’d need to sleep at least a few hours before she made a desperate dash towards potential escape but, despite exhaustion and the repetition of horrors flitting behind heavy eyelids, the Stassian didn’t want to relinquish her hold on the seed of existential understanding rooting into her neglected spirit.

For the first time—guilt swelling briefly as Rashala recognized her ignorant self-centric perspective even before the Empire stole her—the unwilling soldier realized how miniscule and defenseless her moon was in comparison to the vast galactic ocean, Life and Death ebbing and flowing unceasingly, a vast and varied energy binding the universe as a shoreline towards which Rashala’s soul swam.

---

In the wrung light of a hinting dawn, Crosshair awoke with a strangled gasp and rolled away from the source of the pain piercing his skull, remembering a moment later that there was no removing himself from the agony. The source was within him, buried deep where no one could reach.

He pulled in alkaline dust on the sharp gasp whipping as much air into his lungs as he could bear, grimacing against a cough as the jolting reminder he wasn’t drowning on Kamino came in the form of iron-laced desert earth. The sniper forced himself to unfurl from his protective curl and put his shoulders to the ground, every pebble a mountain beneath the bedroll that was little more than a wafer, and reminded himself he was more than a pitiful patient on a droid-attended surgical table.

Regardless of what he tried to convince himself of otherwise, his head ached miserably, a pulsing, stabbing, shooting, unending pain under the swath of damaged skin and bone. The sniper briefly wondered if Grotton’s order had cued an irreversible crescendo from the chip; he hadn’t hurt like this in weeks. Maybe Rampart had seen the decimation of the special forces squad, only SF-0012 and three clones remaining where dozens stood before the battle, and decided Crosshair wasn’t worth the expense despite his duty to mind the Force-sensitive conscript.

That he had followed orders to guarantee a successful mission was simply a soldier performing as was expected of him but that he had done so despite Cody’s meddling and the extra burden of ensuring SF-0012 lived would certainly be worth another rotation or two without Imperial-inflicted pain?

Stretched on the rough thermal layer, the sniper’s arms and legs prickled with the first lapping lick of fear Crosshair sometimes convinced himself he had defeated once and for all: would it hurt more to continue to struggle against the inevitable or would pain finally cease once the chip’s energy surged too deep to leave him functioning?

He sometimes imagined the little device short-circuiting under the innumerable stress fractures each and every constant command the Empire gave. Would it kill him when–if—it finally failed? Would he know it was coming? Would it hurt more or less than a blaster wound to the gut?

Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep in the Imperial Center for absence of Wrecker’s snores and Hunter’s restless repositioning, when he found himself listening for the sporadic whir of whatever sustained Echo’s organs or the invasive beep of Tech’s data pad completing never-ending calculations, Crosshair gauged the odds he might just pass away in his sleep. A Mandalorian was supposed to meet death in battle, a glorious transition from flesh to legend. A soldier of the former Grand Army of the Republic would welcome an end to their own life if the sacrifice meant his brothers were saved and the mission successfully completed. But Crosshair knew more than anyone that he was only mortal. Wouldn’t any living thing choose, without influence from peers or culture, to leave one life for the next without an agonizing transit?

When—and it must be when—the chip failed, how could he possibly survive?

The chip spattered molten sparks across his brain, piercing light traveling every nerve and flooding every muscle, and it was all the sniper could do to lay on the thermal roll with the concession of placing his hand against the ruined skin above his ear. The action did nothing but reassure him he was every bit the weak coward unfit to serve.

He saw Ames’ body when he shut his eyes.

---

Desix’s capitol city glowed a molten green against the dim gold pressing a tentative sunrise into the volcanic horizon. Watery clouds washed against the harsh pinnacles of distant mountains and shadows weakened into an uninspiring grey flood across the rusty landscape. The city hadn’t slept, pouring nervous energy and tart fear into each bellowing breeze lifting off the citadel’s damaged ramparts, and even the desert animals skirted in a rare panic through the limy wastes.

Lizards and scorpions spurned the unfamiliar figures resting fitfully in powdery sands and a pack of petite desert vulcris assessed the strangers with wide, dark eyes before twitching dust from their long tails and retreating towards pumiced caves. The newcomers might leave but the unnatural object blotting out the northern sky pervaded in a way even the basest wildlife couldn’t ignore.

A single miniscule cactus rooted deeper into the porous surface of ancient lava and retracted the fragrant purple bloom feathering a plumed beacon for crasta moths in the wake of an unexpected rapid, heavy stride.

Rashala’s presence disturbed the natural order of dawn as the Stassian darted around jutting rocks and slid through sandy banks. The metallic glisten of molten B-1 droid across her blacks sparkled in the dregs of night. The single standard issue blaster was a dull weight in her hand but she had no idea the beasts she might encounter in her blind search for the nearest village; she might not be much of a soldier but she was still a child of Stassian wilderness. Leaving the protection of her armor and the few meager supplies her beltpack provided was a necessary trade for potential anonymity at whatever outpost she’d manage to find; besides the water filtration straw tucked into her boot and the blaster in her hand, Rashala was on her own against whatever Desix placed in her path.

She’d take her chances.

Running from the sleeping squad proved easier than she believed possible, each trooper’s chemical light fading to nothing as soldiers slept heavily under a single dozing guard, and the woman moved soundlessly to the edge of camp before running for her life over a dune to reach the cover of a craggy butte. Finding shelter and water in her journey across the arid planet would be difficult, perhaps deadly, but she’d take the chance if it meant freedom. Securing transport to another system would be a negotiation and likely require resources she didn’t have.

Resolutely, placing one foot in front of the other in a steady lope, Rashala rationalized she’d take each challenge as it came. First, she had to get as far from the Empire as possible.

---

The sniper was the first to notice Rashala was gone.

Crosshair was better than to groan audibly at the Stassian’s reckless disobedience but clenched his jaw in compromise, staring at the accusingly empty bedroll through clumps of clones. A fleeting, irrational flare of fear Rampart or Crennit already knew of Rashala’s attempt at escape quelled under the cooling wash of confidence no one else knew the conscript was missing. Not a single soldier—not even Cody—had stirred since collapsing onto their own bedrolls the night before.

Hunter would have known if the girl had so much as rolled over in her sleep, Crosshair thought before biting back the instinctual reaction to admonish himself for allowing his brother a foothold in his mind. The sniper always despised the regs, never trusted their bold stupidity and blind search for valor in the mundane, and usually relished proof they failed where Clone Force 99 would have easily succeeded, but SF-0012 was his responsibility. And he had to bring her back before anyone realized she was missing.

He sat up from his curled, fitful slumber with all the annoyance his exhausted body could muster, even the sliver of ugly consideration a desert predator could have already made a feast of his conscript paling in comparison to his lurching vertigo, and Crosshair put on what little armor he had taken off before loading his rifle with choice ammunition for the situation at hand. Soldiers slept in lumps across the ground, not a one so much as twitching as the sniper forced himself to stand despite the action stirring the world into a tilting whirl. His stomach rumbled but he ignored his hunger as much as he did his thirst, his tiredness, the rasping whisper of old wounds and the acute pinch of new ones.

Across the campsite, the lone watchman slumped further into his chest with a deep, low snore. Crosshair contemplated shaking the clone awake, marshalling him for failing at his duty and striking fear into the soldier for what punishment was to come when the Empire discovered a recent and newly tested investment absent upon the squad’s return. He checked his anger in favor of not losing any more time than he already had. A sneer of disgust was all the soldier deserved, as the sniper had bigger issues at hand and whatever petty fight could land a satisfying punch to someone else’s face would only be a brief victory before the crushing loss of admitting his failure to Rampart himself.

SF-0012 was ultimately his responsibility and, having kept a distant eye on the conscripts during their weeks of physical conditioning, Crosshair knew the girl could run. He watched her as much as he had the others in their training, more so after she was targeted by some of the pettier guards. A mark on her, on any of them, was a strike against him. She was no fool—he saw her aptitude and intelligence tests as Crennit oversaw as part of a multitude of repetitive examinations—but it didn’t take a genius to know to head for any sign of sentient population and hide at the first sign of being followed.

He was a patient man in some ways, willing to sit in a nest and wait for his brothers to flush out their quarry, but time was a luxury he couldn’t afford and he was on his own to get her back. It was his job to right his own wrongs for failing to keep an eye on the Empire’s latest experiment, after all.

Of course, Rampart could always order the termination of the conscript and trigger the minute explosive capsule implanted in her torso to eliminate SF-0012 should she be deemed an irretrievable asset, but Crosshair considered himself better than to accept a slip of a girl to slide out from under his watch. She might be willing to die for her desperately foolish escape—she must have known what the droids placed in her when they knocked her back in that medbay?—but he wasn’t willing to die for her.

In the wispy start of a new rotation on the brittle, acrid rock newly claimed for the Empire’s control, Crosshair grabbed his rifle and followed the shifting outlines of Rashala’s footsteps leading away from camp.

---

The woman in black sprinted across the rusty dunes, and the sniper followed.

She was fast but he was faster, taller with a longer stride, and far more experienced in tracking than most others across the galaxy. Crosshair saw where she broke off a chunk of chalky rock under her careless footfall, noticed the smear of sweaty palm against a pumice boulder, and trailed her around the shadowy edges of cliffsides drowned in sand. He hunted, each stride an echoing beat of his pounding headache that only worsened as the rare veil of sleep became a hollow memory.

Rashala eventually appeared as a speck in the distance, then a sizeable target as he advanced, and the sniper detoured from her trail to cut across her path. From high up on the foothills of a butte, he leveled the rifle and fired, his helmet a stoic and impersonal mask across which the bright desert dawn fully broke with a reflective smear.

The sniper’s aim was true.

---

The air was stagnant, laced with heat and tainted with the faint herbal bite of desert citrus basking in the mid-morning sun, when Rashala came to startled consciousness.

Her body buzzing with static stuffing, she regretted gasping a sudden breath for all the grit she inhaled, sand-bruised lungs aching. Blurrily, the Stassian blinked dust from her eyes as she vaguely remembered running before darkness snapped around her in an electric bite. Had she fallen? Smashed her head on a bad step across jagged rocks? If she was badly injured, there was no one who could help… But she couldn’t be moving if she was truly wounded and her arms were a steady whine against the sharp complaints of her shoulders and elbows and even her wrists—

They were bound.

She was being dragged.

Rashala instinctually struggled against the thin rope crossing under the base of her palms and tightening around her wrists, a gloved hand firm between them as her captor formed an uncomfortable handle by which to transport her across the warming valleys of Desix. She couldn’t twist fast enough to gain her footing and made the terrible mistake of fully opening her eyes to look up directly into the blazing sun; the flat, burning corona stamped against the back of her eyelids was as dizzying as moving under someone else’s control. She worked her tongue dumbly against the dry roof of her mouth, looking for moisture, trying to swallow. Rashala struggled once more against her bonds and pulled down with the little strength she could muster, feeling the body bearing her weight almost—but not quite—stagger.

“None of that,” a familiar voice rasped overhead, a helmeted smother cutting the bass from an already high treble compared to that of other clones.

“Let—Let me go!”

Crosshair ignored her protests as long as he could before his annoyance with the conscript’s unvaried demand overcame his general distaste for unnecessary conversation.

“I preferred when you were stunned,” the sniper admonished without breaking his stride as Rashala continued to tug at her bonds. Even with her new muscle, the girl wasn’t much more weight than an extra commsat pack but she was still cumbersome cargo, especially when she swept her legs to drag as an ultimately unsuccessful but partially effective anchor through the thick sand.

“Let go of me!”

One more pull, Rashala regaining some strength under the quick surge of her panicking blood, and Crosshair dropped her unceremoniously into the sand.

“If you can talk, you can walk.”

The Stassian struggled to her feet, every breath a panting heave as she did her best not to fall down in the disorienting powder. Crosshair turned on a slinking heel and held back an exasperated sigh as he forged a path through the sandways only for the conscript to dare another attempt at escape.

Rashala’s departing footsteps were rustling but undeniably going in the other direction than Crosshair’s push back towards camp. She ran in an ungainly lope, struggling up a steep dune and slipping further when Crosshair pursued with a filtered, wordless snarl. The sniper forewent another stunner from his rifle and instead crossed the distance easily, grabbing Rashala’s ankle as she climbed her way up the slope.

She kicked twice, one blow glancing off the side of Crosshair’s helmet, but the third strike threw her off-balance. The Stassian slid in a tangle as Crosshair refused to relinquish his grip and the slippery sands shifted in a messy collapse to deposit both of them at the bottom of the dune. Rashala was little more than a heap and, as Crosshair never lost his footing through a swift slide, the sniper was unusually taken off guard as she kicked out her legs. She could have swept him out where he stood had she anything more than rudimentary awareness how to do so. Surprise quickly turning to unchecked frustration, the sniper reached for her bound hands and couldn’t avoid a desperate kick between plastoid plates at his knee; he barely felt the blow but lost his grip before another lunge. Gracelessly, Rashala tried to pull away with a strangled shout, spitting out a mouthful of iron-rich sand tasting like granulized blood. She coughed indignantly as Crosshair pinned her.

The press of his dark, cool armor was a stark relief against the growing heat of the day, the firm expanse of plastoid against her legs and torso shielding her from the scorching sun, and his weight was a smothering promise the Empire would rip her away from this sun to deposit her back in a lifeless cell to become a shell of herself once more unless she kept fighting. Crosshair’s grip was sturdy at her shoulders and the sniper’s knee dug into her side when he leaned into her hips as Rashala continued to struggle.

“Stop fighting—”

“GET OFF!”

“Dragging you through the desert is a waste of my time,” the sniper said, “but the Empire doesn’t take a loss of investment lightly.”

“Considering they left you—”

Rashala shoved at Crosshair’s chest and the sniper’s momentary shock at her audacity gave her just enough purchase to try again to wiggle out from under his grip.

What had the regs told her?

With a furious grasp, Crosshair gripped Rashala’s hips and pulled her back under him, yanking sharply with tight fingers. His sudden and powerful command forced Rashala to freeze with horror: she’d gone too far, her own shocked expression a reflection in Crosshair’s helmet. He pinned her bound wrists above her head, knees slipping in the sand with the stretch. Crosshair leaned over her with a penetrating intensity and Rashala didn’t dare breathe, pressed between his firm frame and the slippery sand.

“You think you have a choice in the matter,” Crosshair hissed, imprinting every word with a hooking snarl.

“I’m not—”

“You come back with me or I leave you out here to die.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Don’t speak.”

Crosshair’s body continued to slink over hers as she sank into the shifting sands until she could have pressed her forehead to his helmet with little more than a twitch of her neck. Rashala was just as pinned by the masked gaze and harsh tone as she was by the sniper’s body. The clone was furious, indignant, and the Stassian tightened her lips against her teeth less she let out a single inadvertent noise.

“Forgetting about something?”

His shadow shifted over her as he tapped under her collarbone with a flick of a gloved finger against her blacks, the action anything but intimate. He allowed himself a satisfied hint of a smirk under his helmet as he watched her eyes widen with understanding. Surprisingly, fleetingly, he wished he could feel if her rapid pulse ran icy through her wrists as he confirmed for her the implant she couldn’t bear to touch under layers of skin and sinew above her breast was indeed something that could take her life if the Empire willed it. He knew what it was and that it was there: he was present when the droid placed it, after all.

Trapped by the commander’s weight, Rashala suddenly couldn’t pull in any air at all. Her skin tightened and prickled as her eyes welled with tears in unbidden response to the horrific realization she could run all she wanted—any planet, any mission, any opportunistic moment—but would never be allowed to live. She could ignore the implant, could force herself to forget it was there, but couldn’t change its nature.

Salt scorched her cheeks as tears cleared cloudy paths from the corners of her eyes and into the short blonde hair laced with rusty sand. She stared at Crosshair’s impersonal mask, the helmet an insectile disguise for a man in body only, and—despite his wiry frame learning the curves of her ribs by proximity alone—Rashala wondered if the sniper had a semblance of a beating heart inside that plastoid carapace.

She had potential allies in Dex, in Router and maybe Pasche, even Miter had the clone medic not died less than a rotation ago in the battle Rashala herself somehow managed to survive. There were troopers who would just as gladly hit her in the face for a hint of disobedience as there were those who would invite her to join them in breaking fast in the stark cafeteria. To put her trust in the wrong clone to help her understand what it would take to disable or even remove the device nesting in her flesh could be a guarantee of execution.

Swallowing against the stale saliva suddenly coating her back teeth, Rashala tried to ask the commander pinning her into the ground how the implant would work because her technical brain could only attempt to persevere in response to the rest of her mind turning off in sheer horror of what rested inside her.

“Explosive,” Crosshair said simply, the helmet’s filter cutting his already quiet voice into a whisper. The narrow space between his helmet and her ear bridged the gap of everything left unsaid.

He could have taunted her, could have described to her all the ways he knew the miniscule weapon worked, might have shared what it looked like when the microscopic detonator triggered the volatile grains within the bioresponsive capsule to shred vital arteries before breaking the body open only a moment later, but instead watched silently as her heart shattered beneath him. The realization of her own impermanence, that nothing was guaranteed but compliance to Imperial command, that she’d never be free again… Staring at her tears, Crosshair felt his own revulsion swell and stick in his throat.

He didn’t consider himself a kind individual by any means—he was a soldier, raised in warfare, bred for bloodshed—but found cruelty and infliction of unnecessary pain particularly distasteful. Wrecker was the most vulnerable of all his brothers, prone to great peaks of joy and fathomless depths of sadness and all on open display, moreso after the accident that left him scarred and partly blind. Hunter was perpetually swayed by his heart whenever he should be listening to his mind instead. But, for all the displays of disgust at open emotion and dismissal of anything but stoic pride as acceptable emotional response for a clone trooper, Crosshair could admit to himself what inner walls and hidden shields were necessary to keep himself detached from what would obliterate him should he ignore his own safeguards. Sometimes he knew when he went too far in guarding himself.

SF-0012… the girl. She infuriated him.

Beneath him was an asset the Imperial Army deemed valuable, worthy of keeping close. She hadn’t done anything to prove herself a valiant soldier worthy of merit, failed to go above and beyond the basic expectations of eating and breathing, and was instead a coward who ran at her first opportunity and labored under the hopeful foolishness the Empire wouldn’t activate the capsule should she succeed.

And how was lack of loyalty rewarded? Shuttles would deploy within minutes of Crosshair reporting SF-0012 missing without successful ground retrieval. She’d be taken back to Coruscant to resume wandering the base against orders and Crosshair would find himself fortunate if Rampart allowed the sniper transport off the desolate Separatist outpost the sniper himself claimed in the name of the Empire.

Republic, Empire… what did it matter?  

He wasn’t truly wanted and never actually belonged.

And now, this girl…

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” the sniper whispered, his stretch across the woman below him taut with tension as she repressed a dry and fearful gasp.

In the last blaze of heat as the sun collided with the farthest reach of gathering stormclouds, Crosshair snagged Rashala’s collar and the Stassian jerked with the sudden motion. He pulled her up with him, leveraging his height and strength to set her on her feet in a smooth sweep, releasing her without a lingering touch. She stumbled back and panted briefly in the dusty swirls, iron-rich desert coating her tongue and leaving a gritty film on her lips.

The Stassian let out a shaky breath as she stared back at the sniper, willing herself to do anything but feel ice-rimmed fear cascade through her to stand before the cold, brutal soldier. He was her commanding officer in a military structure she never wanted to join, as much his prisoner as that of the Imperial Army. The clone had to bring her back, that much was certain, but Rashala was now vividly aware that the sniper might be forgiven for bringing her back in less than perfect condition. Out here in the middle of nowhere, the barren expanse of sand and stone cradling their standoff, she stared at the commander and he stared back as he waited for her to determine how she’d return to camp: willingly, or dragged.

Because she had to go back. There was no life for her anywhere anymore but in the Empire’s control.

The implant… If a med droid placed it, another med droid could take it out. Rashala just had to find one with the proper protocol for the procedure before the Empire deemed her irretrievable. But the chances of finding an outpost or village on this dry, rural planet that not only had available transport but had–or even knew of—a med droid that could save her from certain death… Did she want to take those odds?

Over Crosshair’s shoulder, the looming wound of a light cruiser in the Desix sky confronted the approaching storm. A distant roll of thunder accompanied lightning rippling in the bruising clouds. She’d need to find shelter in the volcanic caverns half-buried in dull dunes and be thankful if the storms on Desix were anything like the short-lived furies on Stassa II. Her filtration straw was lost in the sandy sea, her blaster hanging at Crosshair’s narrow hip. Hot desert air scorched her skin in the thin rip in her blacks at her back, shoulder stinging where a sharp rock cut as the commander dragged her. The spattered constellation of burns at her neck from the metallic splashback when she obliterated the Separatist droids were angry, pulsing stings. Her scalp, sun beating through the short regrowth of blonde hair, itched with fine sand. Had this been an arctic planet or a cold and snowy moon, Rashala knew she could survive for the little time she might keep as a free woman before the Empire obliterated her. She knew how to find resources to make a fire, how to burrow into the snow, how to wrap herself in insulating boughs and which barks she could chew for cheap nutrients. Because Stassians were a stubborn, resilient people who valued the harsh truth more than a pretty lie, Rashala even knew how long she could likely survive before succumbing to brutally cold temperatures.

Desix was truly nothing like Stassa II.

But anything was better than going back.

Crosshair watched her decide her desired path and caught her as she took her first step towards the dunes, bending at the knee to dig his shoulder up under her ribs in a fluid motion. Rashala smacked her bound fists on Crosshair’s armored back, kneeing him in the gut only to meet plastoid resistance. His pauldron dug into her hip bones and stiff plates strapped across the sniper’s arm refused to bend as he wrapped a firm grip around Rashala’s thighs. She tried to kick him, roll out of his grasp, but the sniper was resilient.

“You’d rather die?”

Crosshair’s quiet question was lost on her as Rashala snarled curses in her native tongue. The Stassian would really rather not be shot with a stunner at close range and knocked unconscious for an indeterminate amount of time but she would also rather not be dragged by her bound wrists again, either. She burned with indignation, fury crashing at the rare opportunity to express herself without fear of punishment. She was beyond fear, having weighed her options between captive security and free risk to survive in an unknown landscape, making her choice without hesitation. Even how she chose to die was taken away from her.

“You told me the choice was mine!”

“They’d never let you live.”

Her furious silence hung in the air, Crosshair understanding the girl was less naive than he believed. She knew now what the implant was—he had seen the certainty of understanding in her dark blue eyes as she laid in the sand—and still chose to flee into the desert.

Begrudgingly, he found a modicum of respect for her foolish bravery in the face of certain death. Crosshair was even tempted to place her back on her feet and watch her run into the blazing valley had his own life not been in such tenuous balance should he return without her.

Besides, he reminded himself, I’m not a cruel man.

“You promised!”

“Did no such thing,” the sniper grunted as he shifted Rashala’s weight and started back toward camp, ignoring her attempt to elbow him in the back of his aching head.

“You said you’d leave me—”

“I lied.”

Rashala hissed in the clammy air as the first humid sweep of the approaching storm inflated the dry sponge of desert with a trickle of water on the breeze.

“You’re despicable,” she shouted, trying to prop herself up on the sniper’s shoulder and avoid the bloodflow rushing to her head as Crosshair’s armor cut into her. “You and every flaslutti in the whole tfrussian Empire! You nuffritter!”

“Flattered,” was the sniper’s facetious response as Rashala swore at him in Stassian and didn’t let up as Crosshair set one foot after the other.

---

“Put me down.”

Her voice was flat, tone clipped as she finally ran out of air and energy to continue her tirade. It was the most she had spoken since her capture and her throat was dry, fount of words a meager trickle as Crosshair continued the steady journey with Rashala as little more than dead weight.

She hadn’t realized how far she had gotten, how much land she put between herself and Sector 2, until she had to see it upside down. Crosshair hadn’t said a thing or made a move to interrupt her in her repetition of every horrible thing she knew to say in her native language, scattered with insults in a few other languages she encountered routinely while working in the CC.

“I’ll walk,” she snapped in the vacancy created by his pointed silence. “I promise, I won’t run.”

“I don’t believe you.”

And he was right not to trust her lie.

---

She wondered what to do with her hands besides brace herself on Crosshair’s backplate. The clone was tall, taller than most, and the ground seemed unbelievably far away as she gauged her chances of slipping her center of balance off his shoulders in a risky roll. She might break her neck and then Crosshair truly would leave her, uselessness to the Empire proven and alleged worth diminished to nothing.

She had little success in her few attempts to wiggle from his grip and Crosshair murmured a warning each time, a cautionary tap of his finger against the back of her thigh as he readjusted for her petulance.

She was diminished to a burden with a neckache as she propped herself up lean her chin against her wrapped wrists, uncomfortable no matter what she did to relieve the stiffness in her shoulders and the ache across her hips as the plastoid pinched even through her protective blacks. With a heavy sigh, she twisted her head to look out into the turbulent landscape, watching the storm roll in and trying to ignore the trembling fear under her breastbone for renewed awareness of the device inside her.

Desix was a study of opposites and teeming with similarities. The icy wind of her homeland was often brutal but always crisp, pulling her breath from her lungs and digging into the warm, soft tissues for any dregs left untouched by the grasping, howling bursts sweeping through the foothills of Rashala’s village. The tundra moon was riddled with a stormy season of blizzards for months at a time, entire rotations lost to dangerous, blinding conditions, and even the outdoor growing season was short; late frosts to snap seedlings and early freezing temperatures to cull a bumper crop weren’t unusual. Rashala watched the approaching storm with distracted interest as she tried to match familiarities between her world and this one.

Clouds billowed, rolled, surged and parted before breathing new life into formations that stretched impossibly high. Their pewter-tinted underbellies flashed with florescent glints of lightning that had yet to strengthen, lengthen, dig their way out to claw blinding brilliance into the rusty earth. Thunder echoed in the pumiced cliffs and even the soft minerals couldn’t dampen the voracity as threat after threat boomed over the valley Rashala thought she had a fighting chance to never cross again. A single drop of rain, a speck she would have missed had she not been looking directly at the flat red rock upon which it shattered, was quickly greeted by a miniscule lizard with a thirsty, flicking tongue. Rashala stretched her mind to the earth, looking for more life where the Empire had only brought expedient death.

The water-hungry ground reached back, the crust of an entire planet parched and cracking under its protective blanket of sun-warmed sand. Billions upon billions of dried artifacts from ancient oceans formed shapes in Rashala’s mind and told their stories in vivid color: a petite claw from a long-extinct crab, fearsome serrations worn to nubs over entire eras of time; the fossilized sliver of skin from a predecessor to the miniscule vulpine creatures that slept soundly in hollowed homes within cliffsides nearby; a glistening memory of opalescent shell; the blood-red tint of dead coral snapped from a reef fossilized far deeper into the sands than any living thing could dare dig; perfectly spiraled gastropods; translucent needles from extinct cacti; a glistening chunk of smooth sap turned amber cage for a multilegged insect. The surface parted, grain after grain after grain, in a gentle flow under Crosshair’s steady strides.

Distant rain-logged soil distilled a mineral perfume as the storm shifted direction on the stirrings of a breeze. Stretching further into the land with the grip of her deeper awareness, Rashala felt the skies compress in on themselves before making good on their promise to drift a steady sheet of rain in refreshingly cool swaths across the red sands. Rashala breathed as deep as she could and a powdery blossom scent briefly drifted from the distant edge of the barren wastes to mingle with the hot stone overtones.

She closed her eyes, momentarily willing herself to focus on the thud of her heartbeat, the shushing surge and thump of her blood, and her skin beneath her blacks prickled as she tried to reach for the thin thread of calm tangled under a web of fear, anger, and hopelessness. The thread gently thrummed with the sparkling white of fresh snow, reminding her it was always there no matter where she was.

Something strong, far more powerful than thorilide or steel or diamond, galvanized her spirit where all else failed. When Rashala could bring herself to do so—a rarity to find the right moment and then rarer still to catch it before the moment passed—she listened to that root note in the chord of her core and let it guide her. In the wake of her parent’s death, she found the cathartic tears that previously struggled to appear under the patina of shock and grief. After her brother’s accident, she confronted the irrational but all too present fear not only of his disfigurement but for what his new life now entailed. That glisteningly iridescent hum brought her the first note of every song from home when she lay curled in her Imperial cell, reminding her there was a village on a distant moon where stoic people reached for music when the long and burdened day was done.

Listening closer, as carefully as a fingertip touch against a forge crucible and yet as carelessly as a slip on glare ice, Rashala felt more than heard the electric crackle fighting scarred flesh. Like lightning ripping through a humid sky, a steady heartbeat pulsed beneath the clapping thunder of pain. The sensation was far from pleasant and she flinched in sympathetic response before realizing her own body wasn’t under assault. She touched a live wire once in the NATSIC M, when she was foolish and wiring power to equipment too fast for her sense to keep up, and the jolt threw her so off balance she had to sit down to take a dazed assessment. This phantom pain, though… The white-hot fire streaking through her had no source from within but was all together real.

Beneath her, Crosshair—previously so stoic and steady with each long stride—reined back the start of a stumble.

Without preamble, he slid her from his shoulder and she almost stumbled in the fine sand if not for the brief moment he allowed her to brace against his arm for balance. The sudden rush of blood back to numb parts of her body from the unceremonious trip sent her limbs prickling in a painful staccato inch by inch; she stretched to pop her joints and cover her startle at being shoved away from that resonant sliver bridge, releasing Crosshair’s arm as quickly as she’d taken it. Before he put her down, she felt his heartbeat begin to race even as her own slowed to a deep sense of calm she hadn’t felt since before her capture. Rashala was thoroughly unnerved by all of it and, glancing at the sniper’s sour scowl, the feeling was mutual.

“Did you—?”

Crosshair’s wordless snarl quieted her immediately as he otherwise ignored the Stassian to take off his helmet too quickly to be a thoughtless action of practiced ease. He turned away with a shuddering breath and forced rain-stale air through his tight throat. In the heat of battle, on the wake of prideful satisfaction at his clever shot to knock out not just a tank but half a squad of Seppies on the fortress front, he had almost lost his footing to the severe and sudden presence of something that felt like it was watching him from within; the ephemeral whisper was little more than his imagination and the sniper had briefly thought perhaps his body and brain weren’t ready for the rush of warfare even after such a long recovery. But whatever it was that pushed through and washed around him had carried him on an invisible current of sudden and intense awareness. Crosshair hadn’t just felt the jolt of each muscle moving him closer to Cody’s squad but everything within extended reach.

In a narrow window—like looking into the fathomless depths of lightspeed before the sheilds closed—he felt the thinning of soldiers under blaster fire, the pitted ground sucking at his booted strides, clanker gears grinding with alkaline sand, all without knowing how to explain how he felt these things. Had he not taken Ames’ life with the expectation the Empire would understand his loyalty and finally see how a good soldier might be granted a moment of pain-free existence despite his whole purpose seemingly that of necessary, perpetual suffering… the experience might have been one to ruminate on in more than the few seconds between waking and the first conscious inhalation.

As it was, Crosshair had been around enough Jedi during the Clone Wars to know what the experience meant: the Empire was correct about the girl and she’d been hiding her abilities since the moment they processed her.

With equally suspicious glances, Crosshair and Rashala stood in the slipping sands and found their bearings. Distant thunder murmured through ashen clouds rolling under the cruiser leagues above and both captives swallowed back the sudden surge of metallic flavor borne on a gust of ozone-laden air.

With terrible awareness, forcing herself to accept one more study of the impossibly large craft as it balanced on the planet’s atmosphere, the little capsule under her collarbone was now a persistent presence rattling in the back of Rashala’s mind. The mundane terrors of learning to survive under Imperial control overtook her awareness of the miniscule device like a tooth that only ached when prodded. She had learned to sleep, eat, exercise, and generally sustain her body even while protecting her mind against the perils of anxiety, stress, and grief. In all it took to do what she had to do, Rashala hadn’t given the device a second thought before running into the nightfallen Desix sands.

She was only standing under the cruiser’s massive shadow because that ensured she’d never successfully—ever—run away from the Empire without assistance removing the device.

It wasn’t what let out that horrible pulse, though, and Rashala knew it for a fact even as she put her palm over the miniscule explosive as though to check if it would respond. She glanced again at the commander and the lavafield scar stretching over his ear, turning her stare into eye contact. He looked at her with such ferocity she knew immediately he was hiding behind the fury of potential embarrassment and the exertion of finding and dragging her back to camp. His grip on the helmet slung too purposefully under his elbow to be casual tightened even further as he restrained himself from giving her the dignity of response.

She spared them both the inevitable sneer when she turned from that faint reticle tattoo to stare out over the desert dunes. Whatever pained him was a secret, punishing and sharp, and Rashala feared the commander too much to pry any more than she already inadvertently had. If these were her last few moments free from the brutal cacophony of military life, she was going to walk away with enough to sustain her through the inevitable yet-unknowns: the atrocities, the homesickness, the boredom, the fear grinding away at her rotation after rotation...

Rashala felt the resurgence of familiar dread as Sector 2’s campsite was a scurry of activity in the near distance, white plastoid figures hustling at the bottom of the immense dune she stood atop by the commander’s side; she looked down at the scene with a hint of dizziness threatening to send her tumbling should she slip at the lip where she and Crosshair stood uneasily. The impending storm conditioned the air and massaged out the harsher mineral bite, arcus clouds crossing an invisible marker as the sky heaved an incredible amount of energy up into itself with a long, slow, predatory breath.

The sniper became more and more tense as thin raindrops speckled the land, even as Rashala—despite the tightening awareness she failed to slip the confines of the Imperial Army and might not get a second chance to try again—felt an unexpected tingle of the same childhood excitement when electrical storms picked up speed as they rolled out of the Sahaslia Mountains. She didn’t stop to wonder where the feeling came from or waste slipping time on if it was the smell or the taste or even the weight of the air that recalled the unbidden memory of her brothers, Nishtian, Kinshin, and the rest of the village children watching fathier herds feather across the foothills in advance of the first kohnmehr. All shaggy coats and long ears, the animals searched for shelter before snow became water over the valley to mark the official change of seasons, the numerous herds symbols of strength in perseverance.

Rashala couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old when she held Malivde’s hand and danced in silly circles as they joined their teacher’s lilting lead in a rhyming song about saplings and stones in her first remembered kohnmehr. The storm was welcomed, for all the howling wind and clammy wet it would bring for rotations on end, because it meant the longest and coldest stretch was over for another year.

The grief Rashala had been holding onto for those she had lost, using the circumstances of their deaths as a crude raft to keep herself from drowning in her own self-pity for the situation she found herself in as the Empire’s conscript, released with a quickening snick to join the rolling storm.

Nish, she willed into the strengthening front as rain finally began to darken the blaster-scarred fortress. Kinshin… Tvindlen Kustlabbita.

Rashala felt her prayer clunk through her mind and translate poorly from intention to action but gave herself grace in the plea.

Rest with the Goddess.

She didn’t hold much stock in prayers, reluctantly attended the village ceremonies to honor the patron of miners, and held no guilt about ignoring the rituals she grew up with after her parents passed. But she knew her people—her friends—well enough to know what the words meant to them.

Here, in the familiar energy of a storm on a planet she didn’t know existed until a rotation ago, buoyed by brief and bittersweet reminiscence, she gave them to the storm so like the one that once gave her song and dance at their side.    

Yrisadael, bring them where you brought Timp, where you brought my parents, and they’ll take care of them. Watch for them. They’re traveling from so far away…

Crosshair was tempted to grab her arm and drag her down the dune before whatever silent communion passing between the Stassian and the storm finished but found himself watching her instead. SF-0012 had been blandly passive in any and all physical exercises, confused and teary during testing, and as quiet as a stalking lothcat to the point Cross didn’t initially believe she’d survive the Imperial Center if she didn’t give the Empire not just compliance but the proof they were looking for. The exceptions to this front—and it had to be, as the girl was no different than the others and each of them were trying to survive in their own way—were what intrigued him.

So rare but enjoyably volatile when she placed an act of defiance in the Empire’s way… and completely instinctual, if the sniper trusted himself enough to decide he believed what he saw.

She had tried to dodge the med droid without hesitation even though she must have known it was a futile motion, reliably showed off her skill with stubborn and vaguely malicious compliance when forced to make decisions, and—although her disappearance and subsequent run-in with Crennit scared as much as infuriated him for what it could mean for her actions to reflect upon the sniper himself—he had to admit a sliver of begrudging admiration for her gumption. Even running away while everyone else was asleep was as much rank desperation as it was an obvious bravery to face the unknown.

The sniper never agreed with or even appreciated the Empire’s plan to fill the flagging ranks with conscripts and mercenaries. Reg clones were bad enough and now the Imperial Army was gradually devalued with even more generic offerings rather than genetic advancements.

In the wake of a thunderclap, a realization of what SF-0012’s full file must contain rattled through him.

The girl was most likely a core piece of a plan so inhumane as to be Kaminoan.

He might do the merciful thing by letting her run away, after all, and living her last few hours in ignorant bliss that the Empire hadn’t yet done to her what Crosshair suspected they were planning on.

Deeply, fiercely, he briefly wished Hunter was standing alongside him so he could ask his brother’s advice. The need for someone who understood him and had a few more answers than he did was so swift and intense Crosshair folded with shame at his weakness. He was alone and wanting anything else would leave him wanting with fury-laced disappointment. Betrayal was a lesson he already knew too well. The sniper hid under his helmet once more, securing the bucket in the space of a relieved huff that might have been a sigh on anyone less secretive and self-protective as the clone himself.

Briefly, he focused again on the Stassian staring at the flickering lightning behind the subtle sink of ever-shifting clouds and recalled her name, an insignificant snippet to the Empire but one of the only things that made her similar to any Republic soldier Crosshair knew.

Rashala. Her name… Rashala.

She had earned the respect of her name, at the very least.

As though he spoke aloud, she turned to him and stood her ground if only to hold onto one last moment of wind in her hair and false sense of freedom buoying her spirit. She breathed deep, ribs expanding to greedily take in the alkaline flavor of the air tempered by the fragrant rain closing in. Her upturned face, pale complexion lightly burnt along her brow and nose, was briefly serene with the pleasure of the cooling breeze, and her short blond hair couldn’t manage to cup the tips of her sun-pinked ears in the short gust sprinkling light raindrops into the sand. He watched her without wanting to, trying to find a trace of familiarity in her, and yet something so overwhelmingly dedicated to self-preservation fought back.

With a jerk of his head, the sniper gestured for Rashala to go first and she did so as reluctantly as anyone letting go of something desperately wanted and yet entirely unkeepable; Cross forced himself to be angry with the way she wore her desirous heart on her defeated expression. And yet, as they slipped down the sleek sand to leave tandem waves in the snaking dunes, the girl seemed stronger for the medicinal return to something that wasn’t durasteel walls, dark concrete floor, and extraordinarily sterile white light. Sometimes, in the liminal shift from mission to mission, he sank into the memory of bitingly crisp needles high up in the boughs of a rough-bark pine or the watery vetiver of miniscule life teeming in algae-riddled caverns, and emerged from those moments with slightly smoother edges on otherwise jagged thoughts.

If this experiment in escape was anything to her besides a lesson in how intensely the Empire truly placed its focus on the Force-sensitive conscript, perhaps she’d think twice before voluntarily committing her life to a handful of hours when she could find a way to not just survive but perhaps even thrive in the Imperial Army. Crosshair, for as embittered as he was to find himself responsible for a handful of stolen soldiers who wanted to be anything but, realized the opportunity not only for what it was to Rampart but what it could be for the sniper himself. He had wasted time already in doing little else but keep his distance.

“CT-“

“Training opportunity,” Crosshair snapped at the soldier as he followed Rashala back into the Sector 2 campground. Cody’s man nodded and gave respectful deference to the sniper, turning away when Crosshair moved protectively behind the conscript. Wearing torn and dusty blacks, sunburnt, and coated in smears of red sand, Rashala looked tousled at best. They both ignored the clones who stared as Crosshair swept Rashala’s helmet off her pile of stacked armor and handed it to her before returning her blaster; he pushed it into her hand and wrapped her fingers around it in a smooth, quick move.

“Keep track of this,” he warned quietly, rasping tenor lost to anyone else who might be listening as Cody barked an order across the campsite dregs; clones, still bone-tired, shouldered their packs and found their feet to march back to the capitol fortress for further orders before finally boarding a shuttle. Rashala nodded, watching her own reflection in Crosshair’s mirrored visor. Without another word, the sniper left to intercept Cody and Rashala realized—in the inadvertent shift of energy between his hand and her own on the weapon between them—the pain that rattled her breath and left her joints sore in overflow from the piercing heat in her skull truly came from the clone himself.

If he lived with that… survived with that agony and still set the other soldiers to shame… Rashala burned briefly with the flare of hope she might learn from a protector who could truly teach her to protect herself. She might stand a chance at a second attempt at escape if she knew how to outwit clone guards and avoid Imperial officers. If the commander was even half of the soldier she’d seen in action during those fleeting moments she was forced to pay attention to something other than her own rapid fear, she could learn how to adapt and outmaneuver the impediments the Empire had placed in her way. If Router and Dex were to be believed, Crosshair truly was a rogue with something to prove.

The sniper was a better ally than enemy.

But the thought of what he had to offer only gave her all the more reason to fear him.

---

Finally, the exhausted soldiers—a handful of clones and a single conscript—boarded the cramped transport and the haunted planet fell away. 

---

Even after the sonic shower and a fresh set of blacks, Rashala smelled Desix. 

She knew she didn't smell like Desix but instead like part of the planet returned to Coruscant with her as an unwitting microbe on an unwilling passenger, too miniscule and embedded to be rid of by conventional means. The red lava rock lining soft tissues was as much a perfume as the gunmetal press at her pulse. Her dark cell thrummed with the remnants of the desert storm, softly milky plants from the edges of the campsite conditioning the air and blending with the iron-rich memory of sunbaked stone.

Rashala curled into herself and willed the cold slab of cot beneath her to warm, searching her distant memory for a sliver of that precious moment when she danced kohnmehr dances with the other children. Instead of sinking into the relief of reminder she lived a life Stassa II before this experience and—if she was equal parts clever and lucky—she would again, Desix crept through her bones and traveled her nerves to snag her dreams into nightmares even as she closed her eyes, riding the ever-present fear finally succumbing under her all too human exhaustion.

After Crosshair ordered the straggling remainders of his special forces squad to stay with Cody’s own reduced numbers, Router guided her through the motions of standing guard at the edge of one of the decimated fields near the citadel. She expected, numbly, to have to join the women and children in picking up the scattered harvest. Disgust was hardly more than a silvery addition to the black mass of horror polluting her muscles and bone with such weight as to make her limbs sluggish and drain her heart; her blaster and armor alone were enough presence to keep the helpless citizens set to the task of gathering underripe crops struck prematurely from their stalks.

With survival chemicals wearing off and leaving her a shivering husk, any one of the children could have come up with a halfway decent shove and knocked her over, but Rashala stood where she was told in the faceless line of oppression and silently begged no citizen would force the matter of a soldier raising their blaster in anything more than a warning. Terrorized into submission, the citizens worked with sloped shoulders and trembling hands, more than a few tear-stained cheeks gathering dust in salty trails. Rashala’s relief when the squad was sent to camp in Sector 2 almost culminated in a shuddering sob, quickly choked back against the harsh filter rasp of her helmet.  

Rashala convinced herself in those hours standing guard over the captured citizens, rationalizing through the trembling uncertainty of her own possible chances for survival, that she would escape into the Desix desert sands. She swore it as she heard the blaster fire and subsequent uneven, muted thumps of the executed. She vowed as she watched the children scurry to gather crops among plumes of red dust while they snatched glimpses of their new regime standing guard. The Stassian promised herself she could cower, cringe, and even cry… as long as she slunk into the dark before the transport came for her. Rashala gave herself permission to feel whatever she needed to feel after escape.

She might not get another chance.

The company sniper, framed faintly by the sickly, silky glow of transport lights drifting through the sky, was Rashala’s greatest obstacle. The others might believe she was simply a bad soldier, another failure to adapt to a military life with troopers who didn’t want her and a harsh directive to survive that constantly threatened to break her, but her commander would know better. He’d know she was running for her life and putting his on the line by doing so.

She didn’t know much about the clone but did she need to know any more than she already did to understand he wouldn’t let her go easily?

Chapter Text

“One, two, three—again. One, two—good, again.”

Rashala gave a quick and clumsy sequence of punches into Router’s dark boxing mitts and the clone nodded encouragingly with each flimsy attempt.

Instead of putting her full energy into learning the proper way to spar, the Stassian reviewed her plan over and over again in ceaseless repetition. Her mind buzzed with vibrating threads all tangling in their efforts to strain her attention. There were so many variables, so many potential changes to what lay ahead… She was beyond overwhelmed. It was all she could do to follow Router’s instruction as she tried and failed to discourage herself from her course of action.

Long banks of harsh light pressed from the low concrete ceilings of the sparring gymnasium and fans wafted sweat-stained air in a lazy eddy across the humid room. The mats were almost at capacity with dozens of clones on leave between missions and multiple squads simultaneously awaiting new orders for deployment, including those newly returned from Desix. Soldiers not resting in the entertainment lounge or training in the enormous track arena practiced their sparring in the small, mirrored room with purposefully busy effort; the larger track rink Rashala was used to seemed newer, nicer than this salt-stained facility, but the clones seemed as comfortable as regulars at a hideaway tavern. The men chatted, gulping water and spotting each other at weights heavier than Rashala would ever be able to lift herself, soldiers calling out to brothers and treating them as such with good-natured heavy-handed slaps. Masculine grunts and the occasional slap of slippery blacks on synthetic-padded mats filled the space. Everywhere, similar eyes and similar faces mirrored one another. 

Cody’s squad wasn’t as diminished as Crosshair’s, neither commander present as the troopers went about their freeform routines, but Rashala still had a hard time scouting for familiar expressions among the lessened totals while Router fitted her with gloves. She vaguely recognized Tick and Kie stretching for their own friendly spar across the cavernous room and knew Pasche was somewhere nearby only because Router called out to him over Rashala’s shoulder. The Stassian had put in a burst of honest effort into smacking Router’s mitts as hard and fast as she could and the clone had simply laughed in an easy conversation with his brother over Rashala’s head, extending no effort at all despite Rashala’s intense attempt to make so much as a dent in the thick pads. Her hands sweated inside her overly large gloves as she tried and failed to initiate her far-fetched plan.

Thinking was all she had done since waking up from an exhausted sleep, staring up at the cold metal ceiling through shallow depths of darkness until the light automatically switched on to prod the start of another nameless rotation. She thought about her foolishness in attempting to flee without a set plan, especially considering the miniscule device she was once again acutely aware of under her left collarbone; in the reassuring privacy of the dark despite having long ago disabling the cell’s security monitoring, she had prodded the little chip in her thigh and felt it slide dully under her skin; it didn’t twinge as threateningly as when she pushed even lightly against the space in her chest. She thought of her brothers chiding her for calling stupidity bravery. No wonder Crosshair looked at her like she had duraslugs coming out of her ears...

Why would she run to find a med droid on some desolate desert planet when she had guaranteed access to an entire medbay just a few hallways away from where she slept?

Rashala had kept herself from getting too hopeful as she plotted, spinning and dismissing a half dozen schemes under the current of almost electric curiosity slushing in her brain. Before the single bright light in her cell turned on with blinding glare, she was practically giddy with renewed reassurance she wasn’t going to die an Imperial soldier.

She had checked the contraband tablet with a brief search through the information Dex downloaded before taking the transmitter out of it and found no reference to Miter’s reference before his death on Desix—may the goddess guide his soul—but she also wasn’t sure she was remembering the clunky word correctly, either. Mita-chonrians? Meta-lorians? By the end of the rotation, it wouldn’t matter what she did or didn’t recall: she’d have access to everything she needed soon enough.

Excitedly, she had searched the information Dex had blindly downloaded onto her crippled data pad and found the exact droid manual she needed.

Excitement turned to dread when she realized what she was actually planning to do.

That amplifying dread had spurred her to triple check she properly hid the data pad under the bottommost layer of padding in her kit trunk, tainted every step as she followed the MSE droid that came to lead her to the cafeteria, and made her nervously gulp the weak porridge until Router joined her at her otherwise empty table. His cheerful demeanor was a front for his own exhaustion and sadness and she had asked him to teach her how to spar rather than accept his offer to play sabacc in the entertainment lounge.

Rashala couldn’t have planned the setup any better than how everything fell together in her favor but her luck didn’t absolve her from feeling absolutely wretched as she anticipated what she’d need to do before the rotation was out.

“One, two, three—again. Put some power in those gloves!”

Router pushed back against Rashala’s punches and the Stassian tried to root her booted feet to keep from slipping back.

“You’ve got no fight smarts, Twelves,” the clone chuckled, knocking her elbow up into a better position without removing his mitt. He made the correction with such rapid confidence that Rashala didn’t doubt his direction when he also adjusted one of her wrists. “Don’t put your feet down like that. Stay light.”

“I don’t know what to do—”

“That’s why you’re learning,” Router said, hints of Dex’s scolding chuckle in his own voice. Reminded fiercely of Scopsen’s gruff but fatherly way when thinking of the armormaster, Rashala fought back a choking wash of homesickness and gave a semi-accurate attempt at a cross jab for the sheer sake of something to do besides allow thoughts of Stassa II to interrupt focusing on her goal.

She replayed the plan, then variances of the plan, and then imagined even more impossible scenarios that could interfere with her plan, all while forcing her muscles to move in time to Router’s calls.

Before long, sweat dripped down the back of her blacks and wicked through the thin fabric with a metallic-tinged sheen, and Rashala’s face flushed and tingled with exertion. Now that Router had gotten into a predictable, somewhat distracted pattern, she held and then dismissed her preemptive guilt that she was about make him punch her in the nose.

She had to get to the medbay somehow and needed a good enough excuse to be seen by the AZ unit.

This was going to hurt.

As she braced shift her weight to her left instead of her right and take Router’s mitted anticipatory defensive jab directly in the middle of her face, the sparring gym’s single door slid open to let a chorus of mixed laughter invade the room. A few clone soldiers mingled with the voluntary conscripts, each new face all the more out of place for their variance, and they shouldered their way past soldiers at the equipment racks; one of the voluntary conscripts, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a sallow green tint to his saggy skin, walked across a mat and between two clones as they were forced to pause their match by his careless interruption.

One of the clones who came in with the posse of outsiders finding their fortune with the Empire’s credits-for-hire glanced at Rashala before returning his full attention to the Stassian woman. His narrowed eyes and hard-set jaw confused her and she stared at him to try to place him. He couldn’t have been one of the many clones set against Rashala’s involuntary addition to the Imperial Army because of the company he kept: the dedicated mercenaries might wear modified uniforms but each and every one of them was not only obviously not a clone soldier but seemed to wear their differences with boisterous, callous pride. He gave her a final obvious look of disdain before joining the outliers at a sparring mat a particularly short but vicious mercenary was forcibly clearing of clones.

Router watched them as much as Rashala and the rest of the room did before turning away with a shake of his head. He tried to encourage her to resume their sequence but she continued to struggle to place the clone. His only distinguishing feature from the majority of his brothers was a thin, short scab scarring along his right jaw, a scuff from an unblocked and poorly treated scrape; not only was it faintly pink but the clone scratched at the itchy healing once before shooting Rashala another nasty glance.

The Stassian knew then who he was and what her commander had done to him.

A variation on her inevitably painful but inevitable action to get into the medbay quickly built in her mind.

“Twelves, what—”

“Router,” Rashala said abruptly, knees threatening to quake, “I need you to decide. Plausible deniability? Or break a nose?”

“Wha—”

“Because you've been a decent person and I'm taking advantage of you despite that decency,” Rashala quickly continued, looking up at Router as the clone’s expression shifted between surprise and confusing, mouthing nose? before jabbing a mitted hand at her. She nodded encouragement towards a faster answer than what he was giving her.

“I’m not going to bust your face!” he exclaimed before pulling his voice down between them. “Why would you even ask—”

“Then I can’t tell you.”

Rashala stared at her feet for a second, pulling a sigh from down around her toes to surge through her body before setting her shoulders in a decision she hoped she wouldn’t regret.

“Just… don’t stop me.”

Router stared in confused disbelief as Rashala turned on her heel and raised her voice to shout over the crescendoing din of the room as the voluntary conscripts argued amongst themselves who was going to pair off in their first match.

“Hey! Scud-sucker!”

The clones around her raised their eyebrows collectively and slowed to a stop, some of them pausing mid-gulp and letting water drip to the floor while they watched the Stassian put her gloved hands on her hips. Rashala faced the rowdy group in the middle of the room with severe trepidition.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you!”

She put her hand back down after realizing her attempt at pointing an accusing finger was no use within her boxing glove, trying to keep from letting nerves get the better of her now that she’d set an essential part of her larger plan in motion. If this act of stupidity didn’t get her sent to the medbay, she didn’t know what would.

“You’ve got yerself a girlfriend, Viz?” One of the mercenaries jostled the clone with pointy elbows, others guffawing. “Traded in the bantha ya picked up at 79’s?”

Rashala knew she wouldn’t be able to keep her voice from audibly trembling if she tried to speak again and instead settled on what she hoped was a tough-looking expression, knowing she instead probably looked as sick as she felt; if she glanced at the walls to catch her reflection in the glaring mirrors and saw her fear, she'd always remember what she looked like as a coward. The Stassian not only rarely raised her voice but had never intentionally tried to pick a fight before... the entire situation she was creating felt foolhardy and uncomfortable, even to her. But this is how fights started, right?

Viz scratched his fresh scar again and the tips of his ears went slightly pink to match as the voluntary conscripts laughed at him as much as they did Rashala. The clone might have thrown in with a louder, meaner, bolder bunch but they certainly didn’t seem to be his friends. Rashala was slightly bolstered by the odds increasing in her favor that one of Viz’s group wouldn’t invite themselves to join in.

“Whaddya want?” Viz grumbled, thoroughly embarrassed and more than slightly annoyed. The entire room was staring, waiting for Rashala to make the next move, but the Stassian had to swallow twice before she was able to forge ahead.

“I—I know it was you who hit me, when you were on duty and w-we were doing laps…”

Rashala heard her own voice fizzle out and die as Viz pushed out his chin and narrowed his eyes once more, making a face and causing the mercenaries to dissolve into another round of laughter at the expense of both the clone and the Stassian.

“I hit you?” Viz spat with bravado that left no doubt he fit in with the rest of the miserable group causing the rest of the clones no shortage of annoyance. “You think I hit you?”

“Twelves, don’t do this,” Router said behind her, trying not to draw attention to himself in the process of failed persuasion. “Come on, let it go.”

“It’s him, though, isn’t it?”

Reluctantly, neck flushing with all of the attention as every head in the room swiveled his way, Router nodded with a single sharp jerk of his chin.

“So, I think I have the right—”

In the time it took for Rashala to turn back from glancing at Router over her shoulder, Viz took six quick steps and shoved her, hard. A low rumble of protest went up around the room from the majority of the clones, their dissent to the action overshadowed by the mocking whoops from the voluntary conscripts as Rashala fell flat on her ass. Viz stood over her, just as he had when he was on supervisory duty and had slapped Rashala for a thin reason.

She had been at her lowest then, a prisoner trying to keep from tears every few minutes because she couldn’t stop thinking of home. She had been constantly tested, examined, poked, prodded, questioned, and prompted to do things not just that she wouldn't do but that she couldn’t do. She had nothing but a cold, dark cell to keep her from her faceless captors and never dared hope for anything except survival until the next rotation. To be hit for no fair reason—to be hit at all—by a stranger with power over her when she couldn’t have been more helpless…

When Rashala looked up at Viz and her vision blurred with the beat of her rising pulse as pressure tightened her neck and compressed her thoughts into a tiny, fierce ball of anger, she abandoned all of her myriad plans and variations. With a valiant effort taking every ounce of power in her entire body, she launched herself at Viz’s knees with a battle-cry.

The room exploded into noise. Some of the clones started to shout for order--causing more chaos in their efforts--and other soldiers moved to separate the two as Rashala punched blindly.

She struck Viz in the ribs and grunted when the clone tried to roll her under him. Wildly, she struck out again and got lucky with two hits into his upper gut, momentarily knocking some of the wind out of him but inhibited by her thickly padded sparring gloves. Completely inadvertently, she raised her head and smashed her skull into Viz's chin, the clone's teeth clipping together with an audible crack. His hand went under her arm and she sensed the flip coming, turning into him and causing him to succeed only in pulling her into his ribs. She elbowed him sharply and he shoved her to the ground to get her flurry of elbows away from his side. Viz recovered within a moment but not before Rashala twisted to her feet with a small stagger, breath whining rapidly between her clenched teeth while she tried and failed and tried again to keep from panicking under the bloody rush layering over all other thoughts.

A soldier reached for Rashala’s arm and she shied away, stepping backwards to keep a good amount of distance between her and Viz as Viz crowded her onto the mat in the center of the room. The mercenaries-turned-Imperial-foot-soldiers formed a protective arc on one side of the dark, shiny mat and clones mirrored the enclave formation on the other side, unsure but unwilling to let the newcomers take over any more than they already had. If Viz was their champion—even if he was a brother—then any opposition would be worth attention. The Stassian, the tall woman with the Mid-Rim accent stringing lilting vowels through her Basic and her short blonde hair struggling to form any length beyond a knuckle's worth of light waves, had finally shattered any expectation of being anything more than an unwelcome, shy, almost inept presence. Her stiff lip and set shoulders as she faced down Viz were enough to quiet most of the crowd.

“You’re gonna do this?” Viz grumbled, face contorting with a self-righteous snarl as he spat a thin line off his cut lip onto the mat. “Really? You’re gonna do this in front of everyone?”

Rashala, shaking, wiped one of her puffy padded gloves off on the side of her leg, the elastic rolling off her wrist and releasing her hand. She pulled the other glove off and flung it to the side, clenching and unclenching her sweating hands as she stood her ground.

Planting her feet and refusing to let her fear own her entirely was one of the hardest things she had ever had to do.

“Your commander isn’t here,” Viz taunted, rolling his neck. He kept moving but Rashala withstood his bluff, the clone shimmying his jaw from side to side in an open-mouthed tease that looked as unflattering as it did on her brothers when they’d push their friendly sparring into childish banter. “Think that Busted Batch castoff gives a kriff about what happens to you?”

Rashala's feet dragged the mat as Viz played with her, the clone pushing her back with long-reaching, glancing blows. Each knuckle left a mark in her braced forearms and she hissed when he knocked at her stiff wrist; tense nerves sent numbing needles shooting around her curled fingers. She remembered not to tuck in her thumb, wrestling with the tangled mess of thoughts refusing to stay down under the flat weight of instinctive survival chemicals flushing through her body. Her mouth, dry around her thick tongue, gaped to form words but she had nothing to say in response to Viz’s continued bullying.

“Think anyone here has a karking clue why you’re still around?” the clone snapped, Rashala failing to avoid a forceful kick to her thigh and only staying upright because she blocked out the pain in the rush of jumbled, fearful thoughts resuming their whirlwind in her head.

She remembered Nish and her brothers when they'd wrestle like whilip pups under the high summer sun, all youthful muscle and uncertain play-insults clacking into place in the spaces between them before they'd try to wrestle the other into the dirt. She'd cheer with Malivde and the others, always a little too young to participate, always a little too scared to take even a cushioned hit in the rare occasion they let her do more than tag along in their shadows.

If she remained afraid when she needed to be brave to get what she wanted, she’d never do more than wait as a bystander in her own life.

Surprising herself, the flaming ball of fear and anger spinning into alchemic strength, Rashala popped Viz in the corner of his mouth. Even as her knuckles glanced off his teeth with a sharp slice through her thin skin, satisfaction burrowed a destructive nest deep in her gut.

Trying to pull out the thin threads of what might serve her from childhood memories of Nish and her brothers play-fighting and setting aside the rest in favor of simply staying on her feet, Rashala forced herself to mutter a response to Viz’s sneer, not hearing her own words but aware she was speaking. Viz mocked her, repeating her muttered Stassian curses without any understanding, getting close enough to chuff her on the jaw for her impertinence. His hit came with no real malice and with far less force than what she had landed on him, further fueling the foreign force of pure rage building inside her.

Instead of backing away, she took another step forward and managed to slip her fist under Viz's elbow and jab him in the pectoral, a mistake she could have avoided repeating had she focused on her efforts and not lost all track of her original purpose for picking a fight to begin with. The punch did nothing to the soldier and he grabbed Rashala's shoulder in another attempt to toss her to the side; her ungainly whoop as she tumbled into the mat gained nervous laughter from some of the clones. With a smirk, Viz turned his back on her.

He left Rashala with the indignity of having been knocked down yet again and Viz spat once more on the floor, dismissive of his own disrespect. The voluntary conscripts flooded the room with continued shared insults leveled not just at Rashala but at the clones starting to disburse.

The Stassian sat on the uncomfortable synthetic-stuffed mat, leaning her full weight on her wrists and failing to keep the shock from her face as she realized she was in one piece after her first voluntary fight against a grown man. Nothing broken, nothing bleeding, likely not even bruised. But Viz hadn’t intended to leave a mark the first time, either. His initial strike against her as she ran with the other prisoners had only left a mark because of his plastoid armor. Rashala recalled a flash of her own blood in a light smear on the white bracer after a sharp edge necessitated Crosshair taking matters into his own hands.

Even though she marveled at her own wholeness despite the strong potential for serious injury, bubbling awareness of her own failure overflowed. She needed to be sent to the medbay for her plan to access the AZ droid’s surgical capacity and security flaws.

She wasn't supposed to win the fight.

By letting him walk away, Rashala hadn’t succeeded in her goal.

A shred of rationality threatened to smooth her jagged thoughts and she turned from what she knew of herself to pursue what felt good instead of right.

Blue-hot, blinding, blistering anger overtook every other sense as Rashala got to her feet.

Viz turned just in time for Rashala's tall form to rocket into his gut, her arms wrapping around his thick waist and hands ripping at the blacks as though to dig through down to his skin and pull out his muscles, an admirable shout strangling as the clone barely shuddered at her full-force attack. He might have laughed had Rashala not gotten her leg around his and knocked his knee out from under him.

They collapsed to the mat and Rashala scrambled on top of him, kneeling into his solar plexus with all her weight and slamming her knuckles against his temples, shouting the entire time. She didn't even know what she said, taking no time to form conscious thought or intentional words, lost in a haze of pain and energy as she focused entirely on keeping the soldier down.

"Twelves! Twelves, stop!"

She didn't hear Router shouting for her get up and off VIz, didn't hear the clones as they cheered for her, didn't even hear Viz's grunt as much as she felt the snick of cartilage under her fist as the clone took a fist to the nose. She didn't hear her own voice as she continued to shout. The din of the room bloomed to overwhelming noise pressing at the louder beat of her pulse in her ears and sight was reduced to fragments as the dark blue mat and the blacks-clad bulk of the clone under her stayed blurry under fear and thick tears.

Rashala vaguely felt a finger shift in her left first, a snapping turning into a throb that warned a primal part of her still paying attention to her own survival that she'd broken at least one bone; she compensated by making that fist an open-palmed weapon for slapping and smashed into Viz's nose again as she continued to beat at him.

Unfortunately for her and the broken finger promising enough damage to gain access to the medbay, Viz remembered he had hands to do more with than guard against Rashala's unexpected attack. He took one more punch to the cheek, leaving himself open to another slap as he grabbed her around the thighs. He leveraged her up and over his head, Rashala sprawling on the mat with a forceful exhale. She tucked and rolled as Viz's bloody hand reached for her, the clone grunting while he twisted to his knees. Rashala kicked at his neck and Viz batted her strike away. She tried again and was a beat too slow, Viz grabbing her ankle and tugging her forward. Rashala bellowed in fearful rage as he almost got her under him.

Images of Desix, smeary remnants of iron-rich sand and scorching dunes and thunder on the horizon of a defeated planet too weary to preserve itself beyond holding out for time, tied her mind to her body. Her muscles remembered fighting Crosshair as he dragged her back to camp, her inept struggling dragging the sniper down the dunes and landing her under his wiry physical control. A fleeting confusion of his armor against her and rasping voice in her ear tried to push through the momentary madness as Rashala’s extensive self-control dissipated.  

She wouldn’t let a clone pin her ever again.

The Stassian shouted nonsense in every language she'd ever heard in the NATSIC M, combining curses and swears and oaths and prayers to scream at the Empire. She landed a decent kick with her other foot and polished the move to place her full force into the move, leaving no doubt among the spectators that Viz's nose would never look the same again.

"Shoulda shot you like the others," Viz snarled in the echoing space of Rashala's deep inhale, blood dripping off his chin. His words burned deep in her lungs.

Her life was worth nothing to anyone but the Empire forcing her as a cog in the vast machine crushing the galaxy and calling itself order.

She might die at any moment, despite her alleged value to the Imperial Army.

She might never see home again.

But she wasn't going to curl up and disappear without a fight.

"You snecklecker!" she shouted, flinging her hand at Viz's face to scratch his eyes out. The motion sent them both sliding down the mat and Rashala had the distinct and sudden swooping sensation of being completely airborne before smashing abruptly through a rack of gear. She hit the cold metal wall with enough force to send something sparking, glass shattering and electricity hissing.

Cool darkness wrapped her up and offered her a reprieve from pain but, before she could decide whether or not she was done fighting, Rashala went under and felt no more.

---

Her first conscious thought was that her ribs were in the wrong spots. Shards stuck in the fleshy mess that was her torso and a wreath of fire flared around her bruised lungs when she tried to take a breath. She couldn't even feel embarrassed when tears dripped thin, salt-wet trails down into her ears. Nothing was right, everything hurt.

"Stop," she tried to order as a large, warm hand went over her neck. She wanted to struggle away but her body protested so severely she stopped before sudden nausea completely overwhelmed her. Vaguely, in the sliver of her mind reserved for only the worst, most desperate thoughts, Rashala knew she'd pass out if she vomited.

A droning whistle layered low over the rapid heartbeat drumming on either side of her brain and a cacophony of beeping--not entirely unlike the NATSIC M on a busy day--alarmed all around her. The hand at her throat became fingers resting on her pulse and she swallowed against the rough hint of callous palm that was blissfully welcome caress compared to the strangle she anticipated.

"Be still."

A familiar rasp ordered her to do exactly what she couldn't obey when she recognized the threatening static of a probe droid coming closer.

"No!"

Rashala's shout pulled bile from the back of her throat and she coughed against the choke of her stomach emptying; her busted ribs squelched against spongy organs and she briefly dipped into unconsciousness. A recorded alert warned an emergency response system was initiating but the recorded, tinny Basic was little more than industrial static in the chaos of the room.  

"No!" she cried again, weak and clinging, the attempted shout transforming to a sob when she opened her sore eyes just enough to make out the dark, blurry orb. Spidery antennae wicked off the mass hovering on a slow but certain path directly towards her. Bright red and cold blue lights flickered on its curved panel and a florescent green tab began to pulse as one of the many small, lethal arms extended from its carapace. Rashala fought against the hand pushing her back to the floor, scratching and flailing despite the intense pain ratcheting with each landed strike.

A golden flickering—fire?—crackled around her, orange tongues lapping at the back of her eyelids as she shut her eyes tight against the unfairness of every sense pushing too much into her overwhelmed brain.

"Twelves!"

A voice in the distance, far behind the probe droid, was barely audible over the alarms bouncing off every hard surface. Router. He was shouting for her to do something but she knew she had to get away. She was still in the sparring room, the mats easily identifiable by their slick texture under her scrambling fingers, but Rashala couldn’t piece together why everything would be on fire or why a probe droid would be coming straight for her.

It would get her and she'd be done for, a mangled pulp on the glittering white snow just like-

“Twelves!”

The probe droid chattered in a glottal sequence dipping too low for Rashala to properly hear over the ever increasing noise of the room around her. She couldn't see much, tears and sticky blood gumming her lids, and she tried to push against the swelling along the side of her face if only to clear enough space to open her eyes fully but someone caught her hands. If she didn’t fight back, those hands would pin her down and give her to that probe droid and there would be nothing left of her to send back to Stassa II even if someone in the Empire's dirty ranks had enough empathy to do anything more than shovel her into an incinerator.

Knowing now that the end didn't come with blaster fire in battle but curled in a defenseless mess on the ground, Rashala folded her knees into her busted chest and waited for the probe droid's clamps to seize her.

"Rashala, stop," the rasping voice commanded again, the warm hands releasing her own to wrap under her shoulders instead. She couldn't breathe for the fear, skull pounding as she was shifted against something with its own heartbeat, and Rashala whimpered as the probe droid undoubtedly hovered directly over her. Beyond her own sweat and the ozone-reek of fire suppression gas, she smelled metal and oil.

She heard her name—her real name—once more as a breath close against her ear before a needle stuck deep into her side and then she felt no more.

---

The med bay was a low and soothing thrum, a quiet press of operational noise reassuring Rashala she was somewhere with routine even if the routine wasn't her own. For a moment, she kept her eyes tightly closed and relished the floating feeling before making the full transition across the liminal space between sleeping and complete awareness.

Her mind was muzzy in the unpleasant way too much liquor sometimes made of her when she spent too long of a night at the tavern with the NATSIC M crew. Maybe she was drunk and everything to do with the Empire, with death, with fear was a nightmare, proof the village elders were right in their warnings that the blessings of ancestors wouldn't know where to go to protect you if they couldn't find you at temple. A clear layer of thought rippled across a muddy bottom in the waterways of her mind and she believed--for just a brief but brilliantly wonderful moment--that perhaps she'd had an accident with a high-voltage transmission unit and Scopsen would be along with the doctor at any moment.

The distinct guttural exclamation of a probe droid ripped through any fantasy she might have spun.

"Ahh! You're awake."

A stuttering whir at her bedside split Rashala's attention as she opened her eyes wide to find the probe droid, preparing to run. Her ankles twisted against the cuff at the end of the cot and her wrists followed a moment later, panic lacing through her that she was strapped to the medbay table—and the sterile, cool room was indeed the same medbay she'd been sent to on her first rotation in the Empire's service—but Rashala didn't feel the pain of her struggle. She didn't feel any pain, in fact, and an irrational thought that maybe this wasn't even her own body overshadowed the appearance of an AZ med droid at her bedside.

"If you cease your attempt at escape," the silver-plated droid bribed, "I'll administer your next dose of pain relief ahead of schedule."

Rashala ignored the droid while she strained in her visual search around the room, swallowing rising panic. The other cots were empty but a large machine at the end of the long row of medical beds chimed as it ceased scanning the body inside; a set of muscular legs poked out from the machine's maw and the shape and size of the form's feet suggested a clone soldier. Rashala hunted for the probe droid, skimming the bays of mobile cabinetry and barren metal surfaces irrationally before catching the sleek black monstrosity settling into its charging cradle near the door.

“SF-0012, I insist you cease your efforts,” the AZ chirped as it removed a setting-brace from one of her fingers. “You do not have permission to leave your assigned gurney.”

“That- that droid-“

“-will not harm you,” the AZ attempted at programmed reassurance, poking sharply at Rashala’s mending finger and finding her nerve response satisfactory. “It stands sentry unless triggered by inaccurate credential access after standard hours or by perceived violent human-upon-human interaction as per operating procedure for Level Two facilities within the Command Center.”

With a slump into the thin padding beneath her, Rashala regained control over herself, forcing her breathing to slow while the AZ unit continued its examination. She couldn't even feel a slip of self-congratulatory relief. If she had more energy, she'd chide herself for thinking all this would be that easy—not that any of what she was trying to do was easy—but at least she was in the medbay and not dead.

For a brief, shining moment, she had control.

"Stare at the ceiling and follow my direction," the AZ directed not entirely unkindly, programmed for a baseline generic bedside manner. Most humanoids might have found the AZ mildly patronizing as it guided Rashala through flexing her various extremities under the thick flat-woven cuffs and insisting she recite her name, rank, and designated commander twice while it scanned her eyes.

Stating aloud that she was SF-0012, a soldier in the Imperial Army, and her commanding officer was CT-9904 was like reciting her own criminal charges against herself: cruel and punishing for a discretion she hadn't wanted to commit in the first place. Her hard-won control ebbed away to leave her weak and exhausted. The droid prodded her ribs and Rashala felt a concerning shift beneath the pain medicine as bone creaked but held firm.

"Fractured bone is now mended in the six and seventh vertebrosternals and right distal phalanx. A minor concussion persists," the AZ reported clinically. "All contusions are healing rapidly and I estimate only 14% of your lacerations will scar. You will remain here until next rotation."

"But—"

The droid spun off before Rashala could request her bonds removed and frowned at the AZ unit as it put large copper eyes on the clone at the end of the room. Viz glared at Rashala around the AZ's bobbing momentum as it scanned him as it had her just moment prior, the droid's metallic tenor directing the clone to sit still. Viz batted at the AZ like a bug and the unit's motors fluttered trying to right itself when the angry soldier shoved it aside.

Rashala took quick breaths, struggling at her clasps and getting nowhere for the effort that only made her pulse hammer deeper in her head. Viz stormed towards her, hands clenched, and anything that made a clone look like a kind and benevolent person disappeared in the creases of his snarl. Protesting loudly, the AZ tried and failed to convince the soldier to cease his advance towards his fellow patient, and Rashala briefly wondered if the medbay droids were programmed to keep peace or if all but the sentential at the door would do nothing as Viz put his hands on her. The probe droid, on cue with Rashala's rising blood pressure, gave two high peeps and the large round eyepiece flooded with harsh red light as it rose into the air.

Closing her eyes tight, the Stassian hoped Viz managed to beat her into unconsciousness before the terrifying unit made it to her side. She didn't hear the medbay door open over the rising commotion.

"What's this?"

Crosshair's easy snarl draped over the sterile room. His cold brown eyes pierced Viz with all the sniper's distant disdain threatening to come close and personal should the soldier continue his advance. The tall, pale sniper crossed his arms slowly, plastoid armor quietly tapping together, and set his shoulders with an intentional over-exaggeration. Viz reluctantly stood at a limping attention as Crosshair's rank demanded, begrudging. The probe droid settled back into place, resuming a low-power standby, and Rashala let out a shuddering sigh so deep her mending ribs protested.

The commander was a brutal force but a force that could protect her against the unexpected complications of her actions. Without him, there would be nothing but the probe droid to stop Viz.

"Sir, this soldier-"

Viz leveled accusations against Rashala, not all of which were false—"she threw the first blow, sir"—but Rashala put her attention on the stern sniper as Crosshair slowly made his way to the side of her cot.

Nothing about Crosshair was ever casual, though, and his intention was clear to Rashala as he unbound her wrist from the medical cot restraints. He didn't look at her beyond a fleeting, chilling glance and Rashala's stomach turned in an uncomfortable flip. She wouldn't get away with this without punishment, undoubtedly, but no punishment would be fatally enforceable if she succeeded in her goals. Quickly, Rashala swung to undo her other wrist and then began awkward work on the restraints at her ankles, body protesting despite the blessed flood of anti-inflammatory and pain blocking drugs doing their best until her next AZ-administered dose.

She watched the commander lock his stone stare onto Viz and didn't envy the clone for what Crosshair was capable of; Rashala kept an eye on Viz's clenched jaw and tight fists. Viz braced himself as though for a fight, ready to swing at a hair-trigger hint Crosshair might do anything more than throw insults. The sniper stepped up to the soldier's toes, pressuring Viz to take even the slightest sway back if the clone dared to put space between them.

"She's a poor excuse for a soldier," the sniper said, voice little more than his usual hissing whisper. "But so are you."

The AZ's hover-gear whirred as the droid tapped a series of orders into a data screen on the far wall, giving itself something to do while the tension between the two men grew tighter and tighter until Viz backed down.

"Yes, sir."

Crosshair let Viz's words hang before dismissing the clone. The sniper's shoulders tightened as Viz sidestepped the commander to make short work of a long walk across the medbay. The clone grabbed a cloth from the thin stack of white patient linens at the end of a low counter and roughly wiped his bloody, soot-strewn face, glaring at Rashala. He dropped the dirty cloth on top of the sleeping probe droid before rounding out of sight, leaving Rashala with a puttering AZ droid and an extremely angry commander.

Crosshair turned his cold stare on her and took a deep breath through his nose, chest rising and neck tightening as he took in her pitiful state. She pulled herself out of her lackadaisical slump, fueling his deepening glare, and Rashala plucked at her ruined blacks without thinking. She tried to pull the torn scraps back over the few patches of exposed, burnt skin. A shiny patch across the top of her thigh, half the size of her palm, promised to be particularly painful as it healed.

"What were you thinking?"

Rashala watched the AZ unit putter nervously around the medbay, staring at how it gathered a series of small bottles, syringes, cloths, and gauzes with distracted efficiency. The Stassian didn't even try to stammer an explanation.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she answered slowly, blinking blearily as her mind and body convinced each other the immediate threats of the probe droid and Viz were neutralized. All she wanted to do was sleep but knew she had a long stretch between this rotation and the next to accomplish what she needed to.

She hadn't done this to herself only to crash the moment she gained access to the medbay but she'd trade her left leg to nap for half an hour.

"Try me."

The AZ unit brought the tray of supplies to the foot of Rashala's cot and, wearily, the Stassian swung her legs over the edge to make room for the stack of clean cloths. She held onto her ribs, worried they would do more than bend with her body despite the AZ's obvious investment in repairing her broken bones before she ever stirred to consciousness. She barely recalled a finger snapping backwards as she beat Viz as best she could for being half his size and a quarter of his weight but both her hands ached too much despite the medication to tell which finger; there were no wraps or braces, just sticky remnants of fluids smeared through sooty patches in a patchwork across her skin.

Instead of answering Crosshair, Rashala gave her hand to the droid upon its quiet request and watched as it began to flush the dried blood from her cracked knuckles. The sniper waited for Rashala's response, the Stassian struggling to find words that would fit together as she fought her nerves for control.

"And don't lie," the sniper warned when Rashala opened her mouth in her first attempt at an explanation. She snapped her teeth together, pushing down a sudden surge of frustration, and pressed her lips tight before trying again.

"I might not be much of a soldier," she dared say, "but I'm not a liar, either."

"You won't run?"

His cruel taunt turned her desperate escape attempt on Desix into a laughable farce. Her one and only lie and he held it between them like a weapon.

Crosshair's dark expression shifted as he watched Rashala wince at the AZ's overzealous efforts and the cloth it patted her hand with came away smattered with flaky dried blood and a few bold, fresh spots as her scabs cracked. The girl was a mess, blacks ripped at her shoulder and leg and collar, short hair mussed in all directions, as much dirt and blood and dried spit on her face as Viz had on his own. She sat as though stunned, the survivor of an explosion and unsure what to do in the aftermath when there was nothing left to do but give a report and get back to base.

A fleeting memory of finding Tech the same way after a firefight during a tricky extraction on Plathia, the recollection unwelcome and unimportant, mirrored itself to Rashala's slumped stance on the medbay cot. Crosshair resisted the urge to shake his head lest he disturb the chip into sparking. He hadn't known what to say then, either, watching his brother—the bespectacled clone too intelligent for common sense and always playing the safer odds—sit in stunned shock when their mission turned to disaster. One of his droid-attended wounds quickly hosted infection and the Batch had spent two intense rotations in hyperspace trying to get a feverish, pained, terrifyingly silent Tech back to Kamino as fast as the Marauder could travel the lanes.

Crosshair had done nothing, unsure what to do, scared for his brother and angry with himself and confused for the near debilitating and complete helplessness ravaging his heart. He hated even the memory of the feeling and, as he stared at the woman sitting listlessly on the cot as she tried to cover her wounds from her own sight, the shameful recollection of another time and place where he did nothing threatened to overtake him.

Assessing Rashala while she watched his approach, he took the cloth from the AZ droid and pressed it into Rashala's limp fingers. She tensed as he stiffly examined the busted knuckles and frowned flatly at their bruising.

"You'll live," he said, words grating in his throat.

Rashala took the offered cloth and tentatively began to clean up her other hand, Crosshair moving to stand behind her with a new cloth, disinfectant, and a pad of gelled bacta. The cool cloth pressed against the slice over her neck and Crosshair moved her hand away when she reached back to touch the wound.

"How did-"

"When you hit the first rack," he explained curtly. "Before the wall."

"You saw?"

"Mmmm."

Crosshair wasn't proud or pleased in the slightest and Rashala took his chill tone for the disapproval it was. The AZ droid, catching the sniper's firm glare as it reached for another bottle of disinfectant, hovered off and resumed its post at the sleek wall interface; Rashala studied the unit out of the corner of her eye as it activated the panel, navigated across the screen, and began to distribute communications replies. She held the information in reserve and only looked away when the AZ unit glanced back to ensure Crosshair wasn't neglecting the duties the sniper dismissed it from performing.

"I'm... not sure what happened."

Rashala's eventual admittance sounded weak in the thin space between them and she cleared her throat to find tired strength.

“You started a fire,” the sniper shot back with a ghost of a snarl. Rashala was momentarily at a loss how to respond.

"I'm not a soldier," she said helplessly as Crosshair seethed behind her. He knew he was aware of this truth even more than Rashala knew of herself. "My people, we don't— Anger isn't a way of life. I don't get angry."

She ignored Crosshair's huff as she gestured animatedly at herself in frustration, disturbing the sniper's efforts to tidy the edges of the wound. Ramping tension threatened to snap between them. 

"We don't raise our voices in my family. Besides the rare tavern brawl, our villagers don't assault each other. We don't even have an official peacekeeper! We talk. We don't hurt each other."

Crosshair's silence said more than any words he could have thrown at her.

"Not intentionally," Rashala murmured. "Not me."

"Until today."

"...until today."

“Mmm.”

A swab of antibacterial stung in a swift, hungry burn across the edges of her wound, mellowing to an external echo of the flare down her throat whenever Malivde bought the tavern's cheapest liquor. Crosshair's silence was expectant but Rashala didn’t know what to say, having always found silence the most secure answer whenever in doubt of her words.

She distracted herself from the full force of uncertainty and anxiety by working at freeing the tufts of mat padding stuck in the scabs around her joints. The hurt, a sharp jab through the thinning veil of pain relief, was welcome, especially compared to the alien sensation of Crosshair's careful work at her neck. He barely touched her, seemed to avoid making contact with his skin against hers, but didn't rush.

"Anger... is new to me. It's all new but this— this rage... just wants to lash out," she said, admittance fading to a whisper. "It's harder and harder to reel it in when it wants to get out. And Viz—”

Rashala sighed with guilt before swallowing down the temptation of a lie.

“I’d like to say he was in the wrong place at the wrong time but part of me really did want to hurt him."

A noncommittal acknowledgement rumbled behind her, a slippery thing as Crosshair forced himself to wait before speaking. Tech had always encouraged him to take a less fiery, reactionary approach and think before reacting but what his brother neglected to consider is the sniper almost always thought before he spoke. He just never found the need for a filter to comfort others from what needed to be said.

Thinking of his brothers, of steadfast and contemplative Tech, set his own conflicted grief rolling in his gut. He carefully swept the long, red gash with another swab of antibacterial instead of unleashing curt, crisp reprimand for Rashala's stupidity.

When he watched her under his sharp gaze, he saw her quiet attempts at strength surpass meekness, watch her sit still but not stiff with fear. What made her prey slipped away with each forced interaction with the other soldiers and what could make her a predator crept into each new experience. Crosshair had watched the progress himself and yet only in the moment she allowed him to assuage his misplaced guilt in tending her wound did the sniper see how far she'd come.

"How did you that was the soldier who hit you?"

"The mark on his face," she answered eventually, watching the AZ's repetitive motions across the screen at the end of the room. "Someone intentionally hit him where he couldn't hide a scar. He was also the only one who looked at me with so much disgust, after—"

After the first time Crosshair stepped into the training range and saw her hurt, cheek bruised with a sharp cut, a fierce glint in her blue eyes, entertaining herself with the opposite of what she should have been doing while her thoughts took her a thousand parsecs away...

Crosshair narrowed his eyes, glaring at the back of Rashala's head as he refocused on the task at hand. He wasn't a medic and didn't particularly enjoy handing blood and dirt, wasn't a fool for mundane repetitiveness and the stench of disinfectant. This was the first time he'd been in the medbay beyond orders to report for his own testing and he pushed down his intense discomfort. He'd never openly admit fear but that slimy, slithering, poisonous beast curled around him and squeezed until he was out of air, feeding on his bravery and lapping up draining hope for a quick and painless procedure. The work the Kaminoans—and now the Empire—did was never quick. Or painless.

"And the way he reacted to you just now... You made that mark."

Rashala’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts. Crosshair tamped down the nervousness threatening to sharpen his actions and aggravate him more than he already was. The failing chip in his brain didn't respond well in the best of circumstances, much less when he was caught in another's chaos; the perpetual headache threatened to surge into a lighting storm.

The sniper put a cold tap of bacta on Rashala's neck and used the corner of a cloth to smear the healing liquid over her skin. He never slept well but was guaranteed a restless night if he touched her any more than he already had; as it was, he felt the echo of her curling up into his arms and pressing against his shielding chest as the probe droid assessed her for appropriate medical response. The feeling of being her protector, of being looked to for help--even if the search was blind--had the potential to haunt him. If he knew why, he'd cut it from him and be done.

"Why does it matter?" Crosshair asked callously, activating the adhesive on a long bandage.

"No one should be treated like that," Rashala answered quickly, turning slightly to look at Crosshair in her peripheral. That her tone held a hint of astonishment, even judgement, annoyed the sniper. He lightly pushed her jaw away with his knuckles to stare forward again before returning to the bandage. The white bacta-treated gauze wanted to fold in on itself, tangling the adhesive with his fingers and, in a rising fluster he wasn't sure he ever felt before, he tossed the mess to the ground. His short, sharp huff of air raised prickles on the back of Rashala's neck.

"Idealistic," the sniper admonished coldly.

"I wasn't made for war."

The hesitation at the edges of the bandage Crosshair fit across the back of her neck practically clanged for attention, a real and jagged-edged truth Rashala didn't have to package and deliver carefully to cover her own reasons for sending herself to the medbay. Crosshair's prerogative was always that of the Grand Army of the Republic--now the Empire--and he of all people knew his only purpose for existence was warfare. He was a soldier first and foremost and never wanted anything different for himself. To be anything but willing to sacrifice was not just against orders: it was abject failure.

He couldn't bring himself to dare think of another way to live.

And then this girl... This woman from a freezing moon, all her crumbled fantasy of living a tidy little life in ruins around her, rubble of all she expected tripping her at every move.

The sniper clenched his jaw.

"Your reality has changed," Crosshair told her after sorting and calming his thoughts, meshing a warning with a correction to sound too much like Hunter for the sniper to be altogether certain if his words were his own or if his traitor memory lifted the advice from his brother. "You'll either adapt or die."

Rashala tried to keep his tone from sinking into her skin like a toxin but her tired legs trembled in the brief effort to stand. She felt as though she'd just run from her front door to the NATSIC M and back without stopping. Through the snow. In a blizzard. The sniper's own overly honest statement left her colder than before, the medbay suddenly chill and reeking of sterile plastics. Her ribs were starting to ache.

Muscles threatened to cramp and she dropped her bloodstained cloth over her burned thigh to pull a leg up over her knee, massaging the sore calf muscle. She didn't remember much about the incident in the sparring gym but was too nervous of Crosshair's response to ask for specifics. She wasn't sure she even wanted to know what she'd done to get here. Rashala remembered screaming at Viz, shouting at him without words, unleashing everything she'd tried to hold back since her capture as she pummeled him.

Stassians didn't lash out, didn't scream or shout or even cry when they could help it. She was from humble, frugal, quiet stock. What would her village think of her if they knew she'd held a blaster in guard over captive Desix citizens? What would Scopsen or the rest of the crew say if they saw her in Imperial uniform, all deep grey plastoid with a helmet? Would Malivde even reluctantly forgive her if she knew Rashala had punched a man for no other reason than a desperate plan to fumble her way through a long shot at freedom?

It might be more honorable to die than go home.

She took a deep breath, then another, coaching the tears to stay inside.

Restraint and order were values any good soldier would adhere to, as well as responsibility to duty. A good soldier would take up a concern with a commanding officer and not take matters into their own hands, not unless absolutely necessary. A tingle at the back of Rashala's tongue tried to prompt her to tell Crosshair everything. A squeeze around her heart warned her to do so would be to throw away any chance of escaping the Empire. She might not be able to resume her old life on Stassa II as though nothing had happened but she'd be a damn fool to give up her life entirely.

"This'll hurt."

Crosshair's warning came a moment before a scorching pinprick pattern laced over an injury at the bottom of her shoulder blade, a suture blade mending two edges of the wound together, and the blurring heat momentarily sent Rashala's self-pitying existentialism to the back of her mind. She gritted her teeth until the wound was closed and closed her eyes as the sniper put another cold dab of bacta on her skin. He neglected to use the soft cloth and, as Rashala focused on the numbing space of skin where her blacks had punctured and ripped, Crosshair's fingertip touch made a brief and startling connection.

She saw herself flash her hand at Viz to push him away but his grip on her ankle was too strong and she followed him across the room unwittingly, skidding across the mat before both of them launched into the air. Rashala felt more than saw her own reaction to bouncing off the metal wall after smashing into separate pieces of exercise equipment, remembering how her last clear thought was how much she was going to hurt when she landed.

Just like on Desix, something that wasn't her own response permeated her mind, flooding her body and washing around her thoughts to look for a way in. A stifled gasp, a jolt of electricity above her right ear, a mess of tissue pulsing in time with a birdwing heartbeat... A sense of running, vaulting over a piece of fallen equipment... But she couldn't have been running if she was on the ground? The feel of a body against her own, a small body with hard-earned lean muscle but still so ill-prepared for battle compared to a clone...

A flare of anger that wasn't her own and yet directed beyond her, pushing past the confusing tangle of bodies and heartbeats and sensations, flittered through Rashala's head as she sat completely still on the medbay cot. She didn't know what way was up or down, didn't trust herself not to topple over with the sudden confusion, and instead held her breath until the fleeting touch passed.

That Crosshair put down the suture blade with a sense of finality and stepped away without a word told her all she needed to know. He had felt it, too.

But what was it?

"On Desix…" she began tentatively, but Crosshair was already gone. Rashala turned just in time to watch the door slide closed behind him, the linen draped over the top of the probe droid fluttering in his wake.

---

The AZ droid inspected Crosshair's work across Rashala's neck and back and called it acceptable but quickly decided Rashala's own efforts to tidy her wounds were insufficient. It distracted her while it delivered a faintly orange concoction of medicine with a short needle, tapping the syringe into the side of her glute before she knew what it was doing, and Rashala felt a bit like a farm animal receiving an inoculation. Whatever was in the mix worked rapidly, diminishing any creeping discomfort and seeming to crawl warmly inside each and every healing bone to strengthen the new bonds. The FX-7 droid, dried tubes limp at its lifeless sides, sat silent--almost as a forgotten afterthought--behind the large scanner at the end of the room. The AZ explained with a twinge of what might pass as sadness for the fact it, along with other medbay necessities, needed new parts that were held up in transit. It chittered about how much easier it was to request and receive maintenance under the former regime before quieting itself as though it said something wrong. Overcompensating, the AZ gave Rashala its full focus, much to her dismay.

The unit launched upon her hands with a combination of dexterous attachments and chatty bedside manner. It asked her how she felt a half dozen times until her noncommittal shrugs became a direct request to not ask her again because the answer wouldn't change. The AZ bobbed apologetically as it cleaned around her cot with admirable fastidiousness. Try as the galaxy might, programming human-like habits into droids only created technological neurosis. Slightly guilty for speaking so directly to the droid, her own perception of rudeness not much changed between machine and man, she was finally left to change into a new set of blacks after her various scrapes, scratches, punctures, and bruises were tended to. She watched the probe droid as it slept in its charging bay, certain it would wake when she was naked and vulnerable in her exhaustion, but it never did as much as hum a low note as it took up another cycle of fresh energy.

By the time the AZ unit informed her it would leave her to rest and finally dimmed the lights before slipping into its slim charging closet, Rashala wished she could truly just go to sleep.

A calm, cold blue ambience left enough light around the room perimeter for Rashala to see her feet when she dared eventually slip from the cot and find her way to the large, sleek communications screen. Set flush with the smooth metal wall panels around it, Rashala studied it briefly before pulling a pair of sterile gloves from the dispenser on the long counter. The screen was touch-dependent and might register her fingerprints. Gloves weren't foolproof but would certainly diminish the chances the device would identify her if she kept her touch light.

She held her breath as she tapped the center of the dark screen, just as she watched the AZ do earlier, and hoped the panel wasn't programmed to shut down or lock out any non-droid entity; access to droid-optimized equipment was tricky when service denial was tripped by a pulse and a respiratory rate.

Rashala slumped briefly in relief when the panel lit up in welcome and muttered the start to a Stassian prayer of gratitude before returning both hands to the screen. The glow was briefly hyper-bright as the screen adjusted for the dark room. Rashala moved by memory of how the AZ unit did to access the right combination of touches to access the necessary features. Within a minute, she was within the main communications structure and looking for an access that could override the droid interface. From what she could tell in her quick sweep of the interface, the AZ unit was likely a dependent device to the panel.

For all the overly simple and terribly constructed equipment Rashala had encountered within the Empire's control, the medbay computer was the exact opposite, practically gliding through her commands. The panel was swift and more responsive than most devices she used on Stassa II in the NATSIC M and she smiled for just a moment as she enjoyed the rare luxury of fast technology.

The smile quickly disappeared when she discovered she couldn't send or receive a comm signal from the panel when the droid was in standby mode. The manual had been elusively noncommittal to exactly how the unit interfaced and Rashala had held out hope the advanced technology wouldn't entail exactly what she discovered:

She couldn't simultaneously control the medbay system while the droid was in control.

The AZ had no remote disconnect command.

Physical shutdown was the only option to take it offline.

For a moment, she wanted to return to the cot, turn up the heating option on the thin thermal pads, and curl into herself. She'd sent herself to the medbay for nothing.

Rashala stood quietly in front of the screen instead, thinking quickly and gauging her options.

If she was in the NATSIC M, she'd ask the system to run a calculation and tell her the odds of success should she choose to implement a non-standard operating procedure. She'd make a list of options and cross-reference that list with her crew and then justify her decision based on what she'd need to defend to a Union inquiry before ordering a dry run on a practice panel. If she had additional time, she'd use color notations and organize procedural notes and send backup copies to two different servers. She'd rely on her need for organization and clear communication across the team to ensure the operational goals were either met or expectations were modified.

The Empire wasn't anything like a communication center on Stassa II.

As Crosshair said, she'd need to adapt or die. Making up her mind didn't take her long but she knew a certain amount of improvisation. She'd never been overly fond of the unexpected, though.

The next part would be even trickier, as Rashala had never intentionally surprised and overpowered a droid before.

If she failed and it slipped out of her grip before she could turn it off, she'd only have her own ability to beg her way to unlikely forgiveness even if she could convince it not to hand her over to security units. Not that Crosshair would be any more lenient on her for her transgression of attacking a medbot but it was in his best interests to keep her whole whereas a security officer could likely find an excuse to ensure Rashala never had a second chance at the same crime. Even though she knew it was a droid and aware it wasn't capable of truly intending to make her feel more guilty than she already did, she dreaded the way she'd put betrayal and disappointment into its imaginary copper-eyed expression.

The Stassian watched the probe droid at the door, its own dark eye covered by the dirty linen Viz had thrown down in his disgust on his way out of the medbay. She rallied herself to do anything but stand there in fear of it waking up. If the AZ sent out a distress call, the probe droid would be the first to answer, but the AZ wasn't human: it was a droid. Her actions might not even trigger the sentry to wake. Dim blue fluorescence rimming the room bounced hard light off its curved shell, lengthening the shadows of its multiple antennae across the medbay floor.

"Come on, come on, come on," she mouthed to herself, bouncing on the pads of her feet. Rashala's stockinged blacks were smooth on the slick tile and she was acutely aware she had no grip to effectively run with. The surge of preparatory adrenaline weakened the chemically induced barrier keeping the pain of her injuries at bay.

She rapidly double-checked medbay equipment manuals, access to local files surprisingly intuitive as she flipped through them on the large screen, but Rashala failed to find what she knew wasn't there to begin with: no other medbay unit had anything but surface-level system access besides the AZ. The probe droid sentry at the door was equipped with defense protocols and basic weaponry in addition to an elementary receiver to take orders and an extremely short-range transmitter for limited informational exchange but, even if it was as docile and harmless as the AZ instead of the murdering machine she knew it to be, Rashala didn't know if she could convince herself to approach it. It wasn't programmed to keep her from moving around the medbay, just trying to leave without permission, and would certainly wake up if someone entered without proper credentials at this time of night. She would run out of time before she made a decision...

Rashala coached herself through the first few steps: grab the AZ and turn it off before it could proverbially shout for help, access the communications system to send an outgoing message through whatever protocol was fastest, and download as much systems information as she could fit on a memory chip, including all command center security and facilities data. She doubted the medbay droid attendant would have access to lock codes and security overrides but she could get them through the droid, if she was fast and lucky. The Empire's xenophobia placed her at a surprising advantage for the sheer sake of being a human in a human-centric environment.

One thing the command center and the NATSIC M had in common were humans in charge. And wherever humans thought they had control, they actually had very little control whatsoever, especially when it came to data.

Passwords on slips of paper, access codes left open and accessible on consumer equipment, and weak keystroke protections left the NATSIC M as vulnerable as any other communications base in the Mid Rim. Rashala herself, even after what it took to get her licensing and become a member of the Guild, routinely looked the other way when her crew used protocols borrowed without permission to secure downlinks for media entertainment packets, the collective ignoring moving dish heads and temporary frequency loads on the system so that any villager on Stassa II could download new programming without paying the exorbitant inner-rim feed access fees.

Even droids could be convinced to trade for data they weren't technically programmed to process, getting around their converter limitations by exchanging information with other droids who could translate for them and for whom they could translate in return. Allegedly, black markets were swamped with specialized cross-converters for that reason alone. Trade hubs and transit stations were apparently bustling with as much droid commerce as that of any lifeform, for better or worse depending on their temperament and loyalty to their owners.

And although the medbay was a droid-run feature in a command center undoubtedly teeming with technology, the humans in charge were still that: only human.

The Empire's xenophobia was not only deplorable but left them vulnerable to anyone who ever had to think in more than one language or interact with more than a handful of cultures. Rashala might be a model citizen of Stassa II, reluctant to leave her village even for a short while and as stubborn as the rest of her people in traditional ways where Risedel and Stassa I embraced modernity, but she handled interplanetary feeds for dozens of systems. Although not fluent and certainly not authentically immersed, she could pick out languages and media-demonstrated cultural normativity better than most on her arctic moon, including expectations for where data should be and how it should be accessed.

The command center's system was entirely biased and she could use that to her advantage.

But first came the droid. None of the rest mattered if she couldn't get access beyond local files to begin with.

Breathing deep and clenching her hands, forcing blood through her stiff fingers and swollen knuckles, she counted herself down three times before opening the door to the slim standby closet the AZ unit swept into before leaving Rashala alone on her cot.

The droid's copper-lit eyes briefly flashed as it woke up at Rashala's intrusion, beginning to ask her if she required assistance before rocketing upwards in surprise when she grabbed at it. It moved startlingly quickly, scaring Rashala as much as she scared herself by her own daring, and the AZ rapidly gained the vertical advantage. Rashala's feet left the ground and her sore hands clung to the droid's shiny silver carapace. If the unit had been quicker to shout an alarm, the Stassian wouldn't have stood a chance.

Her longest finger barely managed to graze the rocker switch under the base of the unit's brainbox and the droid's electronics cut with an explosive burst of silence. The nothingness of the droid's gears and chips and wires losing power was nothing compared to the weight of the unit crashing down on top of Rashala as the mobility engines allowing it to bob and swoop and dip all over the medbay ceased function.

She hit the floor with a hard thump just a half second before the unit came down on her. Rashala suppressed a whimper, listening with amplified terror for the probe droid to recognize the AZ's lack of alacrity but the sentinel continued to charge without a sign of life itself. Her ribs protested, those that had broken only to be rapidly mended particularly angry with her decisions, and she took a stunned assessment under the droid's pinning weight while catching her breath. She almost couldn't believe that had worked.

With a grunt, Rashala pushed the AZ off her, grimacing at the clatter it made as it slid to the hard floor. She briefly hoped she hadn't fried its processor, as it had been kinder to her by sheer programming and observed manners than most everyone she'd met under Imperial control.

According to its manual, it carried two convenience data chips in its upper left storage compartment, blank memory drives the droid could use to download and share medical direction with other medbots under specific circumstances or even dispatch care instructions to discharged patients. Prying her weak, short nails under the compartment lid and helped by the dry-powder stickiness of her stolen surgical gloves, Rashala quickly popped out one of the miniscule chips and put it into the screen's receive-slot, practically scrambling with panic until she managed a deep and shuddering breath.

She didn't have to rush to the point of stumbling but she did have to hurry.

Rashala didn't hold back tears as she opened up the communications protocols and sifted through command procedures. After all she'd been through, she could--should--cry tears of relief, tears of joy at the restoration of hope she could get off Coruscant and away from Imperial control. She could allow herself that much. She'd gotten this far. The rest was entirely dependent on her ability to remember what it was she did so well back home.

She set seventeen different command center control folders to download directly to the medbay hard drive, the massive data loads pinging through security layers as Rashala did her best to disguise the information as routine system updates; she didn't know what routine looked like for the medbay tech beyond the logs showing the approximate size and date of other large data transfers but she didn't slow down to get lost in details while she aggregated. Rashala searched for and found a map of the immediate vicinity surrounding the Republic Center for Military Operations on Coruscant and skimmed for anything that could be turned into an escape route. She pulled up a building schematic and greedily scanned the bold blue outlines of ventilation shafts and green pathways leading to cargo doors.

All hopes she could both command the AZ to perform the required surgery to remove her explosive Imperial collar and escape the Republic Operations Center in a single night were dashed on the thin shore of unrealistic expectation. The ventilation shafts were equipped with electric ray-barriers at every junction and patrolled by specialty mouse droids as both a form of pest control and air purification, not to mention a convenient additional security measure against life forms using the shafts for exactly what Rashala hoped to do. Cargo doors were on a key code that changed every four seconds and could only be controlled by an extremely specific proprietary card running a protocol Rashala, for all her immense knowledge of electronics and tech communications, had never even heard of before. The key code was so long and convoluted that a four second delay was considered acceptable lag in an otherwise sophisticated security system.

As the data chip filled with information Rashala hoped would be useful, she assessed the communications protocols and found them extremely lacking. Nothing in the medbay would allow her to access off-planet transmitters and the terrestrial relay reach was pitiful. Every communication from the medbay was routed internally and filtered by code request for external distribution. The methodology was a mess.

Rashala was tempted to rest her head against the screen as frustration ramped up and up with each new discovery. The bias and lax security she anticipated in her benefit were there, yes, but so was the unorganized bantha shit that was a poorly maintenanced and overstretched network. Anyone who spent any time at all in communications distribution would laugh at the nonsensical file structure, the preventable delivery delays in not allowing preferred bandwidth to certain media packet types, and the sheer audacity to deprioritize essential systems roles in favor of what appeared to be the upper echelon of Republic Center managerial roles. The whole thing was a cursed mess and she'd have to work twice as hard to sift through what was or was not useful. Already, the data chip was filling rapidly and she had barely scratched the surface of what she could access.

She composed a brief message in Risedelian, close enough to Stassian to share common vocabulary. The NATSIC M received poorly translated Basic-to-Risedelian memos regularly, some decoders struggling with the minute differences between Risedelian and Stassian words despite the obvious differences when spoken. She had to think very carefully and spent more time on the note than intended, losing track of time as she composed and deleted and composed again before knowing she'd done good enough to likely avoid tripping basic filters that could kick her message out for review. She was using another's system and could only assume what screening procedures were in place for specific words from specific communications chains.

She also assumed she'd need to be of fairly high rank to send an interplanetary transmission, no matter how small, without having to suffer a slow terrestrial bounce-around before the message left the planetary distribution cache. Whatever data pad she could remotely access and send a message from without delay would be her guise.

Essentially, Rashala uncomfortably thought to herself as she selected a random name and rank that seemed to fit her mark, I'm guessing. I'm down to guessing.

In two attempts, she had access to a server with weak encryption and was able to remote into a data pad with absolutely no security monitoring whatsoever. She picked an uncommon protocol and added protections against the communications system even recognizing it sent the message, much less able to recall the missive back for review.

Vice Admiral Edmon Rampart wouldn't know he sent a message in Risedelian to a Techno Union-run communications hub in the Myrelian system but the reliably automated hub would spit the memo out to Risedel's local cache without opening the file, which in turn would be accessible by Stassa II's NATSIC M. Rashala's keywords would be enough that anyone on her crew paying even the slightest amount of attention would open the message code and run a filter to read Rashala's actual embedded communications:

CORUSCANT COMMAND CENTER. CONSCRIPTED.

CH 861-24

BTC 4:51:17:35

Rashala typed in her personal communications chain and crossed her fingers she could get a longer message out on the broadcast transmission channel in the near future. The frequency was rarely used but always tuned as an emergency response channel between Risedel and the planet's moons. Someone in the NATSIC M was usually passively monitoring those frequency coordinates and the transmitter was tested regularly: if they allowed the emergency response channel to automatically tune to her personal communications chain when she pinged, it would answer and know how to decode and distribute her message.

As long as Rashala's memo went out unmodified by Imperial comm filters and was properly received and distributed to Risedel by the Myerlian system hub, they'd know she was alive and trying to reach them. Once she escaped the Republic Center, she'd send as much information as she could about the Empire. Malivde and her brothers might even hire a mercenary to find her on Coruscant, assuming she'd escape and need help. A smarter person might have come up with a plan by now, Rashala thought as she skimmed the Vice Admiral's data pad through the medbay screen.

Her self-admonishment disbursed like dead leaves in a winter wind when she found files she could have only hoped for but still dreaded to know existed. Reports with her name in them, stretching for months. Months! Rashala opened a Standard calendar and compared the latest file--her medbay admittance form the AZ unit filled out hours ago--against the sync date on the Vice Admiral's data pad.

She'd been an Imperial conscript for over 100 rotations. 127, to be exact.

Part of her mind tried to numb in disbelief. Another part whirred faster, sorting thoughts and making connections as she transferred copies of everything to do with her and her home moon onto the limited space left on the miniscule data chip. The panel pinged and Rashala removed the full chip, pushing it into the slim beltline pocket of her blacks even as she snatched the second data chip from the AZ's open compartment and started a new transfer to the second tiny disk. She pulled almost everything from the Vice Admiral's data pad, body humming in excited dread. She'd review the information and sell what she could to get passage back to Stassa II, use the rest to protect herself and her moon. Undoubtedly, there was more here than she would know what to do with. In the back of her mind as she worked, Rashala wondered how best to distribute the relevant information about the Empire's plans for not just Risedel and its moons but other targeted planets.

If she could help others with the information she found, some of the hurt from her time as a prisoner might be lessened.

Rashala's fingertips froze on the panel as she read one of her files, all thoughts of what to do next scattering and failing to properly form again. She shivered, lips tingling, face flushing before draining to leave her cold with dread for something that had already happened.

A document listed as seized from the Jedi Temple Library, tagged 40 BBY by a Master Tensali Boon, was brief but exceedingly clear. Seven younglings demonstrating Force-sensitive abilities were identified on two moons, Stassa I and Stassa II, and the later moon was home to three younglings of particular interest. That so many younglings of approximately the same age were isolated to the remote mid-rim quadrant was unique and Master Boon recommended the children for assessment by the Council.

Rashala read her own name from the list of seven children, her surname bold and crisp on the display. Nishtian was on the list, too, but not a single member of her own family beyond herself.

None of this meant anything to her besides that she was targeted—and had been since she was a toddler—by an entity calling itself Jedi and that the Empire used this information to find and seize her over 20 years after this report was filed at a temple on Coruscant.

To get away from the memo and put imaginary distance between herself and the file, Rashala blindly opened a random report from a series of documents outlining the Empire's observations of her testing abilities.

Subject is resistant to change. Prone to tearful outbursts. As is routine, begged for release from conscription before lapsing into intense emotional response. Refused to initially cooperate with testing protocol. Compliant only when prompted to response through presence of XJ7-C309 experimental reconnaissance droid.

Subject is largely ignorant of galactic affairs and scores under the universal average in centralized political awareness. Of average intelligence for humanoid mid-rim entities of similar age and sex. Fails to demonstrate awareness of alleged Force-sensitivity despite above average midichlorian count.

Recommended for termination if subject continues to resist and persists in hiding assumed abilities.

Assumed abilities? Alleged Force-sensitivity?

Recommended for termination.

Rashala cleared her throat to keep from choking as she opened another report.

Subject is despondent. Has become more cooperative since beginning nutritional and pharmaceutical additives (prylethenol, +10at; ansintemetquiline, +5at). Continues oppositional and overly emotional response to testing. Failed to complete assigned task (move small object from Platform A to Platform B without tactile engagement).

Recommended for termination if subject continues to resist.

Another report, more recent.

SF-0012 assigned to CT-9904—Squad SF0002.(Elite). Monitoring continues for measurable Force-sensitivity. SF-0012 fails to demonstrate ability and is recommended for reassignment and deployment to CT-6102—Squad 644 (Garrison 810) pending CT-9904 mission brief (19 BBY, Desix).

Rashala opened the attached brief, Crosshair's brevity obvious in the responding memo.

SF-0012 cooperative. Aligned with SF0002 objectives. Integral to mission success. Similar environmental response to that of former GAR command. Request to retain.

A response:

Permission granted. (Reassessment: 10 rotations.)

She let out a slow breath, rolling her shoulders stiffly as she reread the sequence and tried to make sure she understood before closing the reports and subsequent correspondence. Rashala glanced at the probe droid in the corner before taking additional time at the panel, checking the transfer status to the second data chip before adding one more file to the load: all documents related to CT-9904.

Rashala disconnected from the Vice Admiral's datapad and checked the security program once more before starting the local file purge for everything she sent through the medbay system, doing her best not to panic.

She'd been walking the edge of a knife since her first rotation as a conscript. The forces controlling her had repeatedly recommended death as an alternative option to wasting their time with her apparent inability to do what they wanted her to do, what she didn't know anything about much less perform on command.

The Stassian thought she'd just been trying to survive all this time. Only after accessing her files did she realize how consistently close she'd come to being thrown away, how close she was to being deemed a liability slated for convenient termination on the frontlines of some other squad rather than under the observation of a sharp, unyielding commander.

But how unyielding was Crosshair when he practically lied in his mission report? She had tried to run away! If not for the miniscule explosive in her shoulder, he would have let her. He tried to keep her from a strange and terrible death; whether or not he was still protecting himself by protecting her was yet to be seen. If she was reassigned, the sniper would likely have little consequence as any result of her actions.

The explosive... Rashala prodded it carefully and felt the usual twinge of scared disgust as it shifted under her collarbone. Her next course of action was terrifyingly necessary.

She pocketed the second data chip and ensured it sat flat in the hollow at the edge of her hip bone, pressed deep into the beltline pocket so as to be completely discrete. Knowing this much sensitive data was now within her grasp and contained on her person wasn't the comfort she expected.

Purging the medbay security feeds was surprisingly easy. Rashala put a minute of video under the proper timecodes and watched herself resting on the cot, satisfied the miniscule hiccup between the real record and the edit was barely noticeable to the naked eye; she put a delay on the purge, gaining her time to wrap her work before the feed would resume a live record. Curiosity got the better of her as she moved through the visual data streams and she pulled a playback of the sparring gymnasium feed, putting a hand to her open mouth as she watched in rapt unease.

Embarrassment for herself and her own actions flushed all the way down her neck as she watched her small form from a wide top-angle view of the room, feeling as though she was watching herself as a child despite the timecode proving the video was captured only a few short hours ago. Her motions were indeed childish and Rashala winced as she watched herself tackle Viz to the ground the first time; the video didn’t improve as she saw how she broke her finger bone on the clone’s face. Shame rippled under her skin. If her family ever saw how she acted… Her desperation wasn’t a good enough excuse for beating a man, even if that man had been more than unkind to her.

Stifling a small gasp as she watched herself fling a hand out to push Viz back once the clone grabbed her ankle, Rashala scrubbed the video back and forth to repeat the sequence of confusing actions: an attempted shove at Viz’s shoulder as the soldier heaved himself up over her leg, an invisible hand grabbing both Viz and Rashala and dragging them down the long sparring mat to part the crowd of clones, approximately three seconds of both figures soaring in the air and parting from the momentum, and then Rashala crashing through two separate racks of equipment while Viz bounced several times into a sprawling roll across the floor. Mirrors shattered on every wall of the room.

How did that happen? Had she done that? That wasn't Viz... Rashala skimmed each frame for hope of finding an answer and was left with only more questions

The Stassian watched herself hit the metal panel of the farthest wall and leave a wide, shallow dent; an electrical unit began to smoke before bursting into flame, Rashala’s unconscious form slumped too near the wall to avoid a molten sputter of melting wires flaring around the cracked open wall panel.

Router ran for Viz and dragged the clone up onto his feet, struggling with him before bodily tossing him towards the rest of the soldiers running for the door as the emergency strobes began to flash. A tall clone with a mottled scar on the side of his head pushed his way through the thick crowd, moving quickly to get to Rashala. He reached her before Router could and pulled her up while a probe droid soared into the room over the mass of soldiers. The sleek little black orb intercepted Router’s path and came down to hover over Rashala and Crosshair.

Wide-eyed, she slowed the feed playback down until pausing on a single frame: Crosshair, her stern commander, wrapping a protective arm across her and shielding her from the probe droid. Rashala couldn’t see his face for how he tucked his chin down to speak into her ear. Almost as an afterthought, unable to sear the image any deeper into her mind, Rashala advanced the playback and watched the probe droid slip a needle under Crosshair’s arm and jab it into Rashala’s side. Standing at the screen, she touched where the droid injected sedative—it must have been sedative—and frowned. She hadn’t even known Crosshair was in the room. Churning the video back and forth, Rashala finally caught when Crosshair entered the sparring gym, the sniper slipping in and stopping in the doorway right as Viz gave her a bodily shove. The sniper stood still, never seeming to speak or even so much move as Rashala lost her control, but flinched forward when Viz got his grip on Rashala’s ankle.

Unsettled, Rashala left the sparring gym video intact—there was no point in proving she had gained access to and manipulated the security system—but knew the data would undoubtedly be reviewed, if it hadn’t been already. Thinking quickly, she also placed a memory delete command on the AZ unit to trigger the moment it reconnected to the system, erasing the seconds previous to its physical shutdown. Finally, she purged the last of her footprint from the medbay interface and tagged a surgical order for the AZ unit to complete upon waking before wiping evidence she placed the command herself.

Standing in front of the brittle glow of the medbay launch screen, Rashala slumped in drained exhaustion. She took only a moment longer to pull off the surgical gloves and push them into a labeled incinerator slot set into the long countertop nearby.

“What am I doing?” she asked herself out loud, running her hands through her short hair before pressing her fingers against her sore eyes, rubbing her brows and forehead in an effort to keep herself from pushing against her increasingly achy ribs. The droid falling on her had definitely threatened to crack what was already struggling to heal under medicinal prompting. “What am I doing?”

Surviving, she answered herself. Not just from one moment to another. And now I have data. When I get out of here, I’ll still have that data. But I have to live long enough to make it all useful.

Glancing at the silent probe droid all the while, she crept around the medbay in search of spare data pad parts but, as expected, she didn’t find anything that could help her connect her contraband technology to the holonet, much less enable it to send or receive information. She briefly considered taking a knife of some kind, eyeing the scalpels in their little sterile drawer, but Rashala quickly dismissed the thought. She had no way to conceal a blade and used her tight blacks as an excuse against the truth in her heart. If she had a weapon and felt forced to use it, she’d be further diminishing who she knew herself to be despite her recent actions: a peaceful person who willed no harm.

She nudged the explosive device under her collarbone once more, reminding herself of the necessity of this temporary submission under the guided blade, and switched the AZ unit’s physical power back on. The droid shot up into the air and shook its head unnecessarily, orbital scanners blinking through a complex sequence before resuming their steady bronze glow.

“SF-0012, you’re—”

“You fell!” Rashala exclaimed softly, faking concern and acutely aware she wasn’t necessarily lying as she was omitting the details of how exactly the droid plummeted into her. “Are you okay?”

“I must have hit my external power controller,” the droid pondered, rubbing its head. “I’ve never shut down unexpectedly before. I need to run a diagnostic before I’m able to assist you, SF-0012. Please return to your gurney and exercise patience as I consult my most recent backup.”

“Not an issue at all,” she replied, hoping the droid hadn’t noticed the drip of nervous sweat down the back of her neck loosening her bandage or taken her vitals via scan while her heart raced the way it did as she lay back down on her cot to wait for her eventual surgical prep. “Not at all.”

Chapter Text

Rashala hazily followed the MSE droid down the hallways, her blurry reflection stepping in tandem mirrored within the metal wall panels. The remnants of strong sedation made the edges of her mind fuzzy and reduced her motions to little more than a tipsy shuffle; not only did nothing hurt but Rashala even managed to acknowledge her admirable job resisting the urge to press at the suture under her collarbone.

The surgery to remove the explosive chip hadn’t taken long but the AZ unit informed her it had to cut out quite a bit of tissue to relieve the miniscule device from where it had not only properly meshed near her subclavian artery but had also improperly grown into her upper pectoral. The AZ was displeased at the rapid change in her blood pressure when Rashala glanced around its hovering bulk and caught a terrifying glimpse of what the droid had pulled out of her; wires streamed in bloody ribbons from the tiny metal cylinder haloed by flesh on the large surgery tray. Informing her to look away and breathe through pursed lips, the droid whisked everything away, hair-like conduits dripping bright red drops in a fine pattern across the medbay floor.

The AZ encouraged her to sleep and Rashala gratefully agreed a sedative would be in her best interests. For almost a full rotation, she woke only occasionally to the comings and goings of patients, slipping easily back into a blessed fog. Her vitals flashed on the holoscreen arcing over her for the AZ’s easy reference and the droid disapproved of the detriment to her healing, noting her heart rate spiked whenever she stared at the probe droid near the door. The AZ informed her she would be discharged as soon as she had eaten a protein pack and taken all of her iron-enriched vitamin slurry, stating it needed every cot for a heavily injured squad in-route to the medbay.

That the unit seemed to be trying to piece together its mysterious circumstances for winding up on the floor made Rashala all the more eager to get away from its prying stare.

She followed the MSE as it skittered through the hallways, sparkles hinting at the corners of her eyes, and she felt slow and dizzy despite adequately keeping up with the little messenger droid. Rashala wondered if this was the same antagonistic unit that had put on a sadistic little display with the prisoners back when Viz had drawn blood and, watching the MSE dodge under officer’s heeled boots and skirt around armor-clad troopers where they’d be least likely to avoid it trying to trip them, she accepted her own answer. Not that she worked with droids all that often in the NASTIC M on Stassa II but there was something to be said about the general galaxy-wide rumor that the smaller the droid, the more often their central processing unit needed to be reset.

From the nearly joyful crackle when it succeeded in causing an Imperial officer to have to make an ungainly sidestep to avoid falling, Rashala bet this MSE hadn’t been reset once in its entire commission.

The energy in the hallways was tense, uniformed men tapping hard on their data pads and women with cold eyes and slicked hair walking with the sort of rapid step that spoke of barely suppressed emergencies requiring their immediate attention. Rashala, aware her height didn’t exactly allow her to hide, tried to keep a fair distance between herself and a dozen troopers dressed in full kit, complete with helmets on their heads and blasters in their hands. She willed the medicine to clear her mind faster, wished it would all dissolve away so she didn’t feel like she needed to put her hand out onto the wall whenever she made a turn. She felt an enormous sense of being pinned under the harsh florescent lighting. As terrible as her tiny cell truly was, it would be relatively dim and quiet compared to the busy hallways.

The MSE spun an angry little circle at her reluctance to jog to keep up with it and Rashala resisted a frown. It was just a droid, no matter how mouthy and chatty it got with her as she persisted in her walking gait, and wouldn’t listen to her anyway if she explained to walk any faster was to make her pulse stutter. As it was, she was already breathing fast, her tired body protesting the continued anxiety depleting her energy even faster than usual. She didn’t think she had lived one day in the Command Center and not felt her physical health struggle along with her mental and emotional fortitude but her knees trembled every time she unwillingly recalled how deeply entrenched that little explosive had been within her body. Or was it the slosh of that vitamin slush in her rolling stomach making the remnant sedative cling to the edges of her motions?

Rashala couldn’t bring herself to regret her foolhardy decision, though, especially as she stared at the stark efficiency around her. Now that the explosive was out, the Empire would have a much harder time simply disposing of her when they felt like exhausting their search in her inevitable escape.

And she had to believe escape was inevitable. The next rotation, and the next, and the one after that… they all depended on Rashala keeping hope alive even when she knew she’d feel like death was perhaps the better option than living in fear of what the Empire planned for her next.

The tiny data chips deep within the hip pocket of her skintight blacks reminded her she had more responsibility than just keeping herself going for her own sake. She didn’t know what was in the extensive files she downloaded, just that she had inevitably valuable information. Some of it might hold more than the key to escape.

Brrrrrap!

The MSE chittered at her, running at her intentionally before wimping out at the last moment to graze Rashala’s booted ankle, and shouted up at her in surprise she hadn’t moved for it.

BrrrrrrrAAAP!

“Don’t make problems for yourself,” she chided it, realizing she sounded like her oldest brother.

Brrrrrrip, the droid offered, spinning a tight circle for the sake of being able to do so before whistling down the hallway leading to Rashala’s cell. And it was a cell block, confirmed in Rashala’s bracer panel when she explored the Command Center in her armor before deployment to Desix.

The barracks were on the other side of the Center entirely, soldiers bunking in large rooms equipped with stacked beds and their own hygiene and entertainment facilities, and—despite the displeasure of knowing she was indeed a prisoner treated like a prisoner—she was also grateful she didn’t need to stand witness to some of the hijinks she overheard in the cafeteria. Growing up with three older brothers was more than enough familial chaos for a lifetime. At least her cell was quiet and, since she had disabled the audio and video devices behind the panels, private.

She should have known better than to keep her head down and eyes focused on the whirring MSE, the untrustworthy droid leading her tight around the corner and directly into a tall, solid mass.

“Watch. Where. You’re. Going.”

Her wrist cracked as she caught her full weight on one hand when she hit the floor. Rashala’s shoulder twinged under the heavy suppression of painkillers the AZ unit had given her before discharging her from the medbay. The man she had run up against on her turn around the corner remained standing but knocked back in more surprise than any hurt. The MSE cackled in pleasure, mischief managed, and the droid bumped repeatedly into Rashala’s hip with all the delight of a child poking another despite express direction not to antagonize others.

“Sorry, I’m—”

She cut her apology short as she stared up at Crosshair, her commander glaring down at her where she paused in her struggle to get up from the floor. His dark armor, matte and hard, had hurt. She held out her hand in expectation to be helped up and the gesture fell short in the space between them. Doubt curled her fingers into her palm when he didn’t take her offered grip.

The sniper simply continued to glare at her, moving to step around her with a disdainful glance down his long nose, and was so focused on ensuring Rashala knew his displeasure that he tripped on the MSE when it intentionally zipped under his boot. Crosshair flung out his hand to catch his balance and stumbled in the most ungraceful second of his life, managing to keep his footing but barely. Rashala, who had never before seen the commander so much as drag a toe besides when she pulled him down the sand dune, couldn’t help a light hint of a grin as the sniper’s normally confident steps stuttered staccato in the echoing hallway.

Crosshair seized the droid with a snarl, arm darting down like a snake and coming back up with the foot-sized MSE, and the unit sparked a bright blue around its track housing; the commander dropped it, swallowing back a grunt of pain while the MSE spun another circle around Rashala as a victory lap.

“Yours?” the sniper asked disdainfully, judging whether a landed kick would avoid or secure another shock, and Rashala made the mistake of shaking her head. Black-rimmed silver specks darting in and out of her vision only got stronger when she tried to stand up and yet she did her best to scramble to her feet when a low-tone alarm swept through the wide corridor and adjacent hallways.

The harsh ceiling lights never shifted from their usual piercing, artificial brightness but the sound was new; Rashala had yet to hear such an urgent blare but Crosshair knew from a single experience how essential the next few moments would be. Three officers, one after another, ran past Crosshair and ignored Rashala entirely as they jogged into what seemed to be a large meeting room in the sliver Rashala caught through the door before it swished closed behind them. Hurried shapes of humans darting in and out of view at the ends of the hallways proved the alarm wasn’t isolated to their small portion of the Command Center.

Rashala stared up at the sniper, frowning, waiting for an explanation despite the low-tone alarm crescendoing to a shrill pitch. A countdown began.

Surprisingly, Crosshair took her upper arm and hauled her after him without so much as glancing her way, scouting both sides of the corridor before sending her ahead into the cellblock hallway. He kept his hand on her, guiding her steps when she almost stumbled. The MSE, after a parting chi-whriiiiiiiiii, scuttled away after the officers and disappeared into an inset portal at the base of the wall, its metallic chitter lost in the droning alarm.

“What’s going on?” Rashala shouted over the noise, fear rooting at the base of her throat that the droid had abandoned her. It was supposed to see her back into her cell, to unlock the door and ensure she was safely inside, but it left her without consideration.

Crosshair didn’t answer, his grip tightening on her arm when she didn’t make enough of an effort to keep up with his long strides. She repeated herself, not caring that she sounded scared, and the commander flicked his attention to her for only a moment. He never broke stride, even as she struggled to match his steps to keep her arm from jostling; the incision in her shoulder flared with a deep-seated pain and she worried in the wake of the heat slowly blossoming under her collarbone.

“Security breech,” Crosshair finally answered, letting go of her arm as they stopped in front of Rashala’s cell door. “Get in and don’t touch the floor.”

“Stationary lockdown commencing in 10 seconds,” the impartial Command Center system stated over the continuing droning alarm.

“Wait, what? What’s wrong with—”

“Just get in.”

Crosshair glared so fiercely at her she shut her open mouth.

“—seven, six—”

Rashala stared the panel to her cell as the sniper quickly started to tap a long series of digits into the access keypad. He winced, flinching away from the sudden intensity of the faulty chip sparking against his brain, and his fingers tripped on the code. A red light blinked twice before allowing Crosshair to try again.

“—five, four—”

He was running out of time. Crosshair snarled at himself as he typed in another round of digits on the access panel.

“—three, two—”

Out of all the physical pain he knew at the Empire’s hands, he had yet to encounter what some of the regs called so excruciating that blasterfire was largely considered an ideal alternative experience, and this rotation wasn’t going to be his time to find out if he agreed with that comparison.

The door access panel flared green and he pushed her into the cell by the small of her back.

“—one.”

He followed without a moment to spare, the door sliding behind him. The Stassian stared at the commander, open-mouthed and blue eyes flashing briefly in shocked indignity that he’d join her uninvited in her own cell, but he pushed her onto her narrow bed and hauled her feet up alongside his own in the breath between the end of the countdown and the start of the high-level security protocol initiating.

The floor hummed, alive with electricity.

“Don’t!”

Crosshair yanked her back as Rashala made to put a foot down despite the danger, the conscript almost touching the ground before he tugged her back against the wall. His armor scraped against the thin padded top of the cot. The sniper swore he had felt a crackling tether reach up for his feet when he made the narrow leap onto the slab bed in the space between the final second and the surging thrum.

“What—”

“The floor,” the sniper snarled, gesturing unnecessarily at the ground even as he pulled his own boots back from the cot edge. “Lockdown.”

Rashala, confused, pointedly tucked her feet under her to sit with crossed legs lest Crosshair yank on her arm again; she rubbed the sore surgical site and regretted the action instantly, covering her wince by frowning at the floor. The large, dark metal tiles didn’t glow or shift but Rashala knew the hum of high-power currents from working in the NATSIC M. Transmitters took an extreme amount of electricity to operate and some of the equipment she worked with would easily kill her if she grabbed a cable with faulty shielding. There was a reason Scopsen was one of the only Guild engineers with the licensing necessary to handle electrical projects for Union-run communications centers: high industry mortality rates.

“But, why?”

“Keeps everyone where they are,” Crosshair snarled quietly, lips twisting as he thought of exactly how valuable the Empire considered its army when this barbaric method would fry a droid or a human indiscriminately. “Enough power to kill a man”

“You’ve experienced this before? How do you know?”

She didn’t mean to sound snappish but fear and worry overtook her better sense that she was speaking to her commanding officer while the cold, cynical man himself was hyper aware with concern. Crosshair turned his head slowly, fixing her with a firm stare. She rearranged herself tentatively at the end of the cot, putting almost an arm’s length between them. The sniper looked ridiculously vulnerable, his long arms wrapped bent knees, and she looked away when he pressed a hand to his head with an unstoppable wince. His fingers scratched at the dark red scar rippling over his ear and his obvious pain made Rashala hesitate before speaking again.

“You don’t think… Are they trying to kill someone?”

Crosshair’s simple tension gave her enough pause to keep from doing anything more than bending far enough over the edge of the bed slab to stare closer at the otherwise unremarkable floor. The dark panels didn’t look dangerous but, then again, electricity rarely ever did until it was too late.

“Likely.”

Rashala tightened into her hunch on the cot at Crosshair’s warning.

The single bright light she had yet to properly rewire, the tricky little lamp recessed into the ceiling and set behind a transparent panel keeping her from properly prying out the proper wires, began to flicker as the floor thrummed louder than when it first activated. A strangled scream, dimmed through numerous walls between them and the victim, proved touching the floor would result in nothing less than agony.

Rashala put her hands over her ears if only to drown out the curdling, high-pitched screech that seemed to go on far longer than any person had lungs to support; she closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall, not daring to move. Crosshair had practically thrown her to get her to safety. If he had tried to do anything but join her, he wouldn’t have made it. She breathed as deep as she could, letting out her air in a long, calming exhale through her nose, and curled up to rest her head against her knees.

“How long do these lockdowns last?” Rashala asked reluctantly, trying for nonchalance and failing.

Crosshair’s silence was enough of an answer that she didn’t ask again.

---

His throat tightened as all the ribs he'd ever broken sang out in a miserable harmony when another sizzling bolt cracked against the water’s choppy surface. Electricity surged through the cold, brine-whipped air, acrid and wild. The few functioning beacons on the narrow landing pad flickered out of existence with the proximity of the strike and a stuttering clap of thunder momentarily drowned out the sniper’s own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. Ropes of wind wrapped around his wrists, tangled around his ankles, squeezed at his shoulders until he couldn’t possibly hunch any further into himself. The storm would sweep him away to sink through fathomless depths if he so much as flinched against the cold.

Through the incessant torture of needlepoint raindrops, Crosshair's head was a fissure, a gaping hole, and he longed to simply fall unconscious. If he found himself fortunate, he’d never wake.

Crosshair’s gasp was the desperate inhale of a man drowning on dry land. A rippling sweat beaded his clammy skin and he pulled at his breastplate, wiped at his bracers, trying to release the water pooling against him. His hands collided with Rashala's as he fumbled in the dark.

“Shhh,” she tried to calm, the Stassian gripping Crosshair’s wrists in a desperate attempt to keep him on the cot. “Shh, you’re awake, it’s alright.”

The sniper’s shuddering breath betrayed his momentary fear as he transitioned the liminal space between nightmares and reality, temporarily unsure there was a difference between the two. His eyes, genetically sharpened and vision superior to that of any clone, quickly adjusted to the familiar dark of an Imperial Command Center cell. The room was freezing, ventilation grates spewing fiercely chill air tinged with the ozone overtone of overworked machinery, and Crosshair’s skin prickled beneath his blacks. The floor still hummed with deadly electric current. He wasn’t in his own cell.

“How long did I sleep?” Crosshair asked in little more than a grating whisper, tone urgent as he blinked away a shameful, panicked tear at the memory of the storm he almost gave himself to. Rashala was a vague form in the darkness, an approximate outline of a face and a neck and a curved shoulder, but—by how her hands struggled to find his and then how hesitantly she shifted on the cot—he knew he could see more than she did.

“I fell asleep first,” she whispered back, the forced concept of nighttime at the end of a long and eventful rotation pressuring her to adopt a perverse sanctity despite the circumstances. “I- I don’t know how long its been.”

The Stassian didn’t know how long she sat under the harsh cell light, forehead against her knees and palms flat against the sides of her head, but she felt significantly less woozy the next time she looked up. Crosshair had been sitting at the head of the cot, pressed into the corner like a morbid temple statue poised upon a dais, and the commander hadn’t spared her so much as a glance as he worried a wooden pick between his teeth. The drone of the electric river running under the floor panels had an audibly hypnotizing effect and she fought to keep a quiet place in her mind even while she dozed, acutely aware she wasn’t alone, but the promise of healing sleep pulled her under despite the justifyingly terrifying situation.

The untranslatable sensation of being absolutely drenched in a torrential rainstorm, cold wind buffeting her in brutal attempts to knock her off a high ledge and into a churning ocean, was a nightmare Crosshair’s brittle shout unexpectedly woke her from.

In the few seconds they sat together in the dark, cold fingers gripping tight, they communally pushed away the horrible lightning, even as the floor beneath the narrow cot promised as much pain as any wild bolt. Momentarily, they shared the space as equal prisoners of the Empire.

A brisk and sudden crackling, like paper crumpling under rough hands, flared through her jaw and down her neck despite the fact the AZ unit explicitly told her the painkillers it gave her before discharge would last well into the next rotation. There was no possible way she could have slept through an entire rotation huddled on the cot in the freezing cell, even despite the lingering sedative. This weariness, this exhaustion, this hurt… wasn’t all her own.

“You’re hurt,” Rashala said rather than asked, hushed as she felt a recognizable phantom-pain. A dull ache cresting into sparking flashes as powerful as unstable thorilide crackling in the mines of her home moon, a pressure against the side of her head where the horrifying memory of melting flesh wasn’t her memory. She felt it on Desix when Crosshair had bodily carried her across the sand dunes, relived a moment she never experienced herself.

Touching him again, experiencing more than the echoing hint of pain unfurling as a weak fog in the wake of Crosshair’s unintentional transference when he bandaged her in the medbay, Rashala knew for certain these feelings—these thoughts—were Crosshair’s. But how? Why?

The sniper pulled his hands from her grip with no little force, flinging her grasp off him even though he was the one who reached for her in the dark. Embarrassed by his own weaknesses, furious with himself for falling asleep while on self-imposed watch, he pushed back into the corner at the head of the cot.

“Leave me alone.”

Rashala didn’t try to argue, uncertain and uncomfortable. She struggled to orient herself in the intense darkness, giving her empty hands something to do by feeling out where the edge of the cot met the wall. She put her shoulder against the freezing, smooth surface to keep herself from potentially toppling to the floor with one wrong twist.

Deprived of her vision, every other sensation was heightened: the crackling ions of the conditioned air, the cloth of her blacks as she wrapped her arms back around her legs to curl into herself for warmth, the taste of metallic medication lingering at the back of her tongue… Her pulse pushed at the incision under her collarbone. She felt Crosshair’s breathing rasp against the dark in the space between them, heard the unsteady in-and-out before he regained a steady cadence. They both shivered.

The pad on the narrow bed was thermal, meant to maintain body temperature just like her blacks, but offered no comfort; she had previously tried to rip the thin layer with her fingernails, pry the edges up from the metal frame jutting from the wall, but with no success at making herself a blanket. Cold air continued to blow through the vent near the door. Rashala held her feet in cold, stiff hands, trying to warm them up without success.

“Why are they doing this?” she eventually asked, her voice too loud to her own ears. “Freezing us out?”

“I thought you were from a cold climate?”

Crosshair’s sneer wasn’t a question as much as a pointed cruelty Rashala chose not to bristle at.

“We have furs when its this cold,” she said simply, trying not to think of her favorite gloves and thick jacket likely long ago destroyed when the Empire took them from her upon arrival. “And indoor heating.”

The sniper’s lip curled derisively even as he debated telling her his suspicion for the hyper conditioned air. He didn’t have to fumble for another wooden pick from his utility belt, the practiced motion smooth regardless if he was up in a nest waiting for quarry or huddled in a cell and freezing in his plastoid armor. The rags of salt-tinged nightmares drifted into unsettled silence broken only by the whir of the icy ventilation and the threatening hum of the floor.

“As though they haven’t done enough…”

Rashala’s miserable whisper was so soft he would have had to strain to catch it if he wasn’t so aware of her presence.

With awareness to do any less would be dishonorable, and begrudging admittance he was no less flesh and blood than the Stassian was, Crosshair swallowed tightly before unlatching his left bracer.

“We were trapped on Basho,” he began, lips stiff with cold even as he spoke from the corner of his mouth to keep his pick properly trapped. “Tech couldn’t bring the Marauder down… the blizzard came in faster than expected. There was a cave, shallow, stank like bantha.”

He dropped the bracer onto the floor and a saw-toothed zap gobbled at the plastoid, a harsh buzz surging up before dimming down in a warning arc that flesh would be fried in an instant.

“Mission was kriffed. We hadn’t found the Separatist cache before the storm surged. Temperatures dropped, the sky was ice.”

The second bracer joined the first, the electrified floor surging again before leveling to its deathly hum. Rashala, arms wrapped around her legs and hands holding her feet, shuddered at Crosshair’s slow, high voice drawing a story from himself as reluctantly as he did his armor.

“And we had to wait for pick-up. Had to survive.”

The gliding snicks of magnet-latches giving way gilded the air and, had there been any light to see by, Crosshair’s breath could have been a whisp of hot condensation in a winter’s midnight sky.

“The blacks only keep you dry for so long,” the sniper said, curling his numb fingers around the edges of his breastplate as he stared at the feeble outline in his hands. “Hunter had scouted the farthest, pushed through the most snow. He was shivering. Couldn’t get warm despite the eth pack.”

He closed his eyes tight against another wave of pain, of punishment, the chip sputtering at the mention of his traitorous brothers. Confusion, confliction, sorted itself in the rasping continuance of a tale Crosshair lived but had never spoken aloud. Anyone he’d ever think to tell—not just about the hangup on Basho but any mission Clone Force 99 had managed to live through—had been there. Anyone important enough to hear about the Bad Batch from one of the 99s themselves was either dead or far, far away…

“We held him,” Crosshair said, voice strained under the conflict of knowing Rashala’s touch had temporarily pulled out the pain and wanting nothing more than to put as much distance between them as he could even while he braced himself to draw her in. “Put all our heat packs on his neck, over his chest, under his arms. Wrecker gathered him up and I- held his hands together between my own, spoke to him to keep him awake. When the storm cleared enough to get the ship down, Wrecker had to carry him out. The cave and the eth pack might have kept us from freezing but we kept Hunter from dying.”

He carefully lowered the breastplate over the edge of the cot, gauging the narrow approximation before he completed the current and dropping the plastoid shield to the floor to join the rest of his upper armor. The plate slid onto the metal with a fierce sizzle, rippling currents underneath it in a blue-hot sparkle; the electronics within seared and popped before the deadly electrical ocean ebbed to normalcy. In the brief, faint flash of cerulean sparks, he saw Rashala’s pale exhaustion, her knees under her chin and eyes wary even as she shivered, and then the girl was a smeary outline once more in his amplified vision.

“Who… who are they? Wrecker, Tech… Hunter?”

He let her questions go unanswered, had said enough already.

His legs nudged her own out of the way in a fluid movement and his sudden grip on her wrist softened without releasing her completely as he guided her into his unfamiliar embrace. Crosshair slid his hand up her arm as she leaned into him haltingly, unsure. His palm was calloused, fingers long and searching as he avoided fumbling by never breaking his touch, and Rashala obliged his pull with an anxious thrill for warmth.

Stiffly uncomfortable as they tried to wrap together, hard-won warmth dissipated as they unfurled from themselves and into one another, but their pride was too great to give complete control to their nerves. Touch, even for the necessity of heat, bordered on terrifyingly intimate unless Crosshair tempered the action with expectations of duty. Rashala didn’t speak, muscles greedy for heat even as she wanted to shy away from the commander’s necessary embrace.

The cot wasn’t big enough for both of them, a precarious balance if they tried to put distance between their tired, cold bodies. Crosshair closed his eyes against confusion and let his hands find their own way across Rashala’s shoulders to draw her close. If she gave one sharp push, he’d end up on the sizzling floor; he told himself keeping her closer was safer, even as his clinical assessment swayed under the increasing awareness of the body under his hands.

Crosshair let Rashala adjust her hips against his own, her arms tightly crossed against his torso in a curl uncomfortable to both of them, and the sniper could have sighed in exasperation at her inability to be still as she tried to find a way to rest in the tight space between him and the wall. The more she moved, the harder it was in every way to ignore her. She wasn’t the masculine, solid mass of muscle raging with an inner furnace to quickly warm a huddle of clones with good-natured joking and jostling, wasn’t part of a physical brotherhood of soldiers who knew how to survive off each other’s body heat when the mission left them no choice but to bundle together in a trench. She was soft, curved, formed like temporary company on a lonely night of shore leave, the sort of bedside service a clone might see as a reprieve from the horrors of war, a feminine press reminding a soldier he was still only a man.

“Have you never slept with another person?” he hissed in admonishment, finding her arm and pulling it across his chest and over his ribs in a wide embrace. He smoothed his callousness away from the action with a resigned sigh. Rashala’s temporary hesitation was just long enough to accidentally answer his inadvertent question.

Within moments, all awkwardness dissipated under the blessed bloom of heat wherever they touched, reprieve from the freezing dark now oppressively clinging to whatever inch was still exposed. Over time, Rashala relished her breath coming back to warm her nose and cheeks as she buried her face into the hollow of the sniper’s shoulder, her neck relaxing into the crook his arm made for her to settle into. He smelled like broken ceramic and metal oil, clean sweat and musk, a masculine overtone against the ozone pressing in from the bitterly cold vent. Still healing, her body protested the opportunity to fall asleep once more, prickles rising in ripples under her blacks and across her skin. Tentatively, so carefully she was afraid to twitch and break the temporary stasis of their stoic forms sharing space, Rashala let out a long sigh of grateful relief from solitude.

The sniper, against better judgement, did the same.

One deep breath, then another, then another, each breath a reminder they weren’t alone.

“Crosshair—“

He flinched and Rashala hesitated, summoning clarity of mind even as her body muddled with warmth.

“How often do they do this?” she asked, voice steading as shivers diminished in washing waves under the whispered reminder they suffered in the Empire’s cruel hands.

“Don’t speak,” the sniper ordered with a hushed intensity that only proved his self-disgust he had said too much. "They've heard enough already."

Rashala wasn’t fooled into forgetting they were both victims of the Imperial Army and, daring herself to trust him as much as he had proven he trusted her, she admitted her cell modifications at the risk he’d interfere against her continued privacy.

“I disabled the mic.”

Crosshair froze, ignoring the light press of her hand against his chest where he placed those chill fingers at his breastbone for warmth as he realized she meant what she said. Rashala took his silence for incredulity.

“One of my first nights here,” she continued. “I- I didn’t want them listening.”

“Listening?”

“To me.”

Her singing.

Crosshair frowned into the oppressive dark, closing his eyes tight in a relieved wash of realization he hadn’t hallucinated a woman’s voice, muffled through the layers between metal walls. Recovery from his tenure on Kamino’s wrecked territory had been a blur in the nights that left him breathless with pain, vivid dreams and recurring nightmares mingling with snippets of remembrance so strong he could have sworn he’d be able to reach out and touch the memories moving around him. He had no mother, no sister, no caregiver to lull him to comforting sleep as part of the human collective experience to those not decanted by long-necked scientists, but the singing hadn’t been a comfort as much as an accompaniment to his own sorrows. His self-pity, his denial, his regrets… The hints of a voice moving through familiar grief in an unfamiliar tongue, a language he couldn’t place without the help of a translator somehow completely familiar in how the half-heard words placed themselves over his raw internal wounds like a bandage… It was her. The Stassian, singing her grief, pouring out her sorrow.

Of course Rashala wouldn’t want the Empire to have one of the only things they couldn’t take from her by force.

The thought of them taking her voice, of stealing her Mid-Rim accent and slicing away her native tongue, filled him with protective dread at the possibility.

“How did you know where to look?” he asked, not particularly caring about the answer but understanding he needed to say something or she’d stiffen again in his arms at his unspoken distance.

“Trade you. Answers for answers.”

Rashala hesitated only a moment after making her whispered proposition, an exchange of information in addition to body heat. The punishing floor hummed too loudly for any true comfort. Crosshair’s own hesitation was a guess at the question he was most readily able to answer rather than answering the question that would tell her more about himself than he cared to disclose. He felt like a shady trader, a charlatan cheating the innocent with his tales meant to entrust and entice, but her touch did everything it promised: the sparking chip in his brain quieted in the connection between her skin and his, and he hated himself for using her even as he finally managed a deep breath without pain.

“I don’t know what triggers this level of security,” he answered truthfully, and Rashala thought the directness of his response would be mistaken for callousness in any other setting besides pressed within a temporary embrace. “If rumors are true, the current’ll stop a heart.”

“And the cold air?”

“To offset the incinerators.”

The floor continued to thrum.

Rashala flexed her arm where it wrapped around Crosshair’s chest, fingers tucked into her loose fist pressed into the heat under his shoulder, and felt as much as listened to his heartbeat. If she focused carefully, the steady pattern overpowered the electrical hum and reminded her she wasn’t the only thing with a heart in this cold, dark place. Pieces of him flowed in oceans beneath his skin and she burned for more: what, from all his missions, made him most satisfied?; what sunrise in which system did he find most beautiful?; of all the planets he visited, which would he live on if he had the choice to leave the Empire behind? Glimmers of his shredded humanity fell like tumbling stars across the black sky of perpetual guilt, choking shame, and confusion so thick and bitter Rashala had a hard time keeping his emotions from tangling with her own.

Against the tempo of his pulse, she found a cadence to try drawing his pain out in narrow, tugging threads, awareness she didn’t have his consent keeping her from testing her abilities any more than the toed line across accidental. If she used him any more than she already did for protection, for literal warmth in the freezing darkness, Rashala might not be able to forgive herself for using him to experiment with the newfound connections between her and the world around her. But how to ask when she didn’t know what it was she was doing? How to find permission when she didn’t even understand what it was she could do?

If the Empire wanted her for these strange, previously unconsciously wielded abilities, she must be a weapon.

The Empire might hurt her, convince her to hurt others in their name, but she didn’t need to actively seek corruption where her morals and ethics were already corroding.

“Was Hunter—"

“How did you disable the monitoring?”

Crosshair’s question pointedly cut across her own. A practiced, steady breath kept his heartbeat steady but Rashala felt, tracing the inadvertent pathway between them, something fiercely protective wrap around his very soul. Whoever the other soldiers were to him—and they must be soldiers, for who else would he ever speak about with such vicious combination of respect and disdain—they were far away and yet no less part of him than his own arm or leg.

“Back home,” Rashala said after a long moment, “I’m a technical communications specialist. I lead—led—lead the NATSIC M’s intergalactic transmissions system on Stassa II. I’d be bad at my job if I didn’t know how to identify and rewire a basic thing like the basic system they have in here.”

“What is there? In here?”

Her silence was a temporary reprieve from the light puffs of breath against his skin when she spoke.

“A recurrent video system with a mono audio feed” Rashala said softly. “Easily adjusted. When… when I was first brought here, I thought maybe it was because the Empire needed technicians. Maybe they were taking who they needed because they couldn’t fill needs with the workforce available… But the Empire seems to have access to almost everyone in the galaxy. They’d take an electrician if they needed one. I mean, the wiring alone in this cell is lamentable. I had most of it figured out in the first few rotations—“

“You didn’t know about the floors.”

“Who could possibly expect the floor to be wired for execution?”

“I’ve lived my entire life around things you couldn’t imagine,” Crosshair cut over her testily.

The floor hummed threateningly in the span of their silence.

Rashala realized she had become accustomed to routines, become too familiar with her surroundings to remember to be afraid of the seemingly mundane. The sniper stiffened when she tensed against him, his own brief flash of pain from the broken chip sparking in his head rebounding through them both until she pulled away with a heavy, shuddering breath. The feedback cycle of his jumbled pain subsiding, the sniper wearily pulled the pick from his lips and tossed it over his shoulder, the hiss and snap of the floor biting at the splintering wood loud in the cold little cell. The Stassian pulled into herself, stiff under Crosshair’s arm as she couldn’t quite force herself to wrap around him the way she had earlier.

“What makes the Empire torture their own soldiers?” Rashala muttered into the dark, curling her fingers into her neck to keep them from stiffening up after losing Crosshair’s direct warmth. “There is nothing here but misery.”

“The Empire didn’t build the Command Center,” Crosshair’s rasping whisper informed her. “The Republic did. All this was in place before the Wars were lost.”

“So you tip from one regime into another, just pawns…”

“We’re soldiers, and good soldiers follow orders.”

But even as he said the words, the hollow farce failed to give him any sense of belonging, stripped him further from the dignity of deserving basic respect as a human—even if he was a clone—and reminded him of the atrocities he had committed and would continue to commit in the name of the Imperial Army.

“Like you said,” Rashala murmured as she fought sleep unsuccessfully, “I’m a poor excuse for a soldier.”

“Like I said, you’ll adapt or die.”

“Death would be easier.”

He gathered her into his arms, pulling her into him with the protective curl of a hand over her short hair, and let his action speak for itself. He knew exactly how it felt to ask himself the same question, alone and terrified and yet so worn down he didn’t know if he had the strength to carry on even if he wanted to. Crosshair, reluctantly and ever so tentatively, closed his eyes and expected to breathe in cold sea salt and flaking electricity. Instead, the soft smell of clean skin and a faint, unique, natural scent that could only be Rashala at her essence cut through any expectation of returning to the watery hellscape of Kamino the moment Crosshair dared allow himself to follow her into sleep.

Warmth from the body next to his, their reluctant alliance keeping them alive when nothing was guaranteed from one moment to the next, was enough to buoy him along the calm waters of deep, unbroken rest.

---

The sniper was gone when Rashala woke and, for a bold moment, she was sorry to know she was alone.

Familiarly bright, the cell was lit for another rotation, the air vents no longer pushing brittle mechanical ozone through the walls in frigid bursts. With a frigid lurch, Rashala sat up and pressed herself against the wall, head pounding and stomach crawling its way around her sore ribs. She had slept awkwardly on top of her arm and the limb buzzed numbly. Even though Crosshair’s armor was no longer on the floor and the sniper was no longer in her cell, she hesitated before touching the tips of her toes to the ground.

Nothing.

Her comm brace flashed indignantly for her attention when she opened the kit trunk and Rashala paused to read the message:

Mission brief, 1400 UTC; Metalorn, Partisan activity

She was being sent out again, Crosshair’s elite strike force deploying by the end of the rotation, and Rashala could only sigh in heavy indignity. Of course the Empire would put them through a night of torturous waiting, like prey in a burrow as the predator gnashes inches above, and then send them on a mission.

She had time, though, to sift through the data on the hard-won miniscule disks from the AZ unit’s involuntary assistance accessing the medbay systems. Eagerly, seizing the data pad from its hiding place under layers of featherweight foam padding at the bottom of the kit trunk, the device woke at her touch. The first tiny disk slid into the universal access port without issue, files populating in neat stacks on the display.

Grabbing a small, chalky ration bar from the utility belt draped over the tower of armor, Rashala unwrapped the meager meal and arranged herself back atop the cursedly narrow cot, diving into the plethora of data that undoubtedly would save her life.

Chapter Text

Rashala confirmed three things in the first few minutes of studying the files stolen from the Empire's systems:

Of those listed in the document seized from the Jedi Temple, she was the last pulled from Stassa II. All the others, including Nish, had either died before the Empire rose to power or were captured and subsequently terminated.

From those seized from Risedel and its two moons, Rashala was the only one who survived this long in the Empire’s control.

And, of all the rare elements in the galaxy, the Empire considered thorilide one of the most precious natural resources essential to their operation. They were willing to murder to protect their access to the crystal.

Because of thorilide, no one on Stassa II was safe from the ramifications of the Galactic Empire’s claim to power.

She sorted and skimmed and sorted again as she hunched over her data pad in the calm of her cell. Her back ached and the incision under her collarbone itched wildly beneath her blacks but Rashala could hardly move for the incapacitating slurry of having almost any answer to any question she could have asked about the Empire but knowing she had not a single idea how to proceed with the data.

"What do I do with this?" she muttered into the screen, reading a report outlining recent restructuring within the Techno Union as a result of the Empire's pressure on the guild.

Shrewd and clipped in their business dealings, Rashala knew little of the Union beyond their involvement in the various guilds operating within their contract boundaries, including the guilds Rashala was a member of as part of her work in the NATSIC M. The licensing body operating the NATSIC M--the Technical Guild--sometimes invited others to tour the Stassian facility and use their extensive work as an example of what equipment and personnel benefits Guild membership brought to prospective members. The Techno Union oversaw numerous guilds, including Technical. Rashala recalled how difficult it had been to secure her communications licensing to operate not just as a member of the Guild but earn a limited place in the Techno Union's stringent roster of operationally fluent communications technicians.

The Techno Union had bigger issues on their hands than directly overseeing each communications outpost on every planet, moon, and station in their jurisdictions and left control with the Technical Guild, which in turn left the outposts to essentially manage themselves. Rashala missed her crew, missed the hustle of her day, missed the way she could slip out of her personal sorrows--mourning her parents, grief for her brother's mangling in the mines--and immerse herself into the steady flow of signals requiring a relay. She wasn't a healer or a teacher but she knew she performed an essential service and, until her abduction, that was enough of a calling to satisfy.

Wiping away a thin line of tears pooling along her bottom lid, Rashala pushed thoughts of Malivde and Scopsen and the NATSIC M away in pursuit of the rest of the report, the file only one of hundreds within a single digital container and only a single container out of dozens she hadn't even managed to get through over the course of the rotation. The next rotation would be a difficult one as it was, her bracer comm already flashing more Metalorn deployment orders as a dim red light barely visible through the cracked lid of her kit trunk. She had yet to sleep beyond the brief relief of Crosshair’s warmth.

Embarrassed at herself, she realized the tears weren't just from missing normalcy she chose for herself but were very likely from sheer exhaustion. Her body was still healing, her mind spinning as it tried to continuously shuffle aside her confusion regarding her commander, and her very essence seemed drawn thin. She could stay up all night for weeks and barely scratch the surface of all the data pulled through the medbay; why did she expect herself to not only read and sort everything but memorize it and determine what she needed to do about this information?

"Because my life depends on it," Rashala answered herself quietly, wishing she had a cup of caf.

---

She worked for hours, losing herself in data. Maps, command codes, and chain sequences linked to credit accounts all spilled past and Rashala filtered as much as she could without knowing exactly what could be useful to her in her immediate situation.

She was reminded of pulling clay from the banks of the hot springs for the village potter to make new vessels from, rubbing the mineral mud through a mesh and separating the clumps with pinching grasps to sort out the rough bits the potter wouldn't want. She knew nothing of creating a bowl or a cup, buying her ware from the potter as much as anyone else in the village did, but volunteered her time to help him--as had other villagers--while he struggled to recover after a long winter illness. Rashala remembered watching the others pretend to know what they were doing, or asking good questions of each other, as everyone tried their best at something unfamiliar.

Why didn't she know how to ask the right questions? Why couldn't she pretend?

When it came to the Imperial data she sorted through and read in despairing hurry, she felt just as she had then: elbows deep in squelching muck.

After clearing terabytes of waste—memo drafts with nothing written, copies upon copies of redundant files—she defragmented and sorted the remaining information between the two tiny data chips. Almost as an afterthought, giving herself a break from the mess she didn't know what to do with, Rashala rewrote some of the pad's security software and encrypted both miniscule data chips with her NATSIC M personal access code. The work was unnecessary but Rashala allowed herself the false satisfaction of identifying something she could control.

The familiarity of the work settled her nerves and quelled the continuously rising tide of existential panic, all while children's tales about Jedi and poorly remembered pieces of Stassian history wrapped themselves around new pieces of essential information: her moon was indeed a highly-valued asset held by the Techno Union for access to thorilide; the Techno Union supported the Separatists during the Clone Wars and thus found themselves on the losing side when the Empire seized power; social and political upheaval was still very much present in almost every way on almost every planet formerly known as Republic-protected entities; some planets were already starving under the Empire's control, resources pillaged just like the premature harvest on Desix, and other planets devolving into lawlessness, reportedly held together only by redeployment of the former Grand Army of the Republic as the Imperial Army...

She wasn't a stupid person—and had command of the most complex communications facility in her quadrant to prove it—but Rashala just couldn't think any more.

Setting the data pad at the foot of the cot and settling herself up into the corner, she pressed her back into the cold metal wall and hooked her toes into a seam in the thin thermal layer on the slab bed. She couldn't bring herself to lay down and whirl up even more conflicting thoughts. As it was, the room still held a slip of gunmetal in the air.

She should hate Crosshair as much she despised the Empire. She should think of him and be disgusted. She should remember his cold impartiality as he assessed the conscripts on their first horrible rotation in captivity and force herself to assign his grim visage as all that represented the Imperial Army. She should pretend he committed every war crime imaginable, compounding the sniper into little more than a monster in a man's body.

Rashala fell asleep wondering why she couldn't convince herself.

---

WWWWWHIR

The MSE spun frustrated circles in the middle of her cell, popping and whining as it struggled to wake Rashala. The Stassian blurrily opened her eyes and wondered what the commotion was about, completely disoriented as air pressure shifted through an open door and a droid hummed nearby.

Where was she?

Almost knocking the data pad off the cot as she unfurled herself form a tight ball, Rashala went to stretch before halting each muscle in a terrified clench.

The MSE, that sadistic little mess of a machine, was the source of the horrible noise.

The door was open.

The data pad was at the end of the bed.

"Get out!" she whispered fiercely at the droid, snatching up the data pad and whipping it into her kit truck. The droid rammed into her ankle and tried for a second attack, brrrrrrrrrring at her, and Rashala reminded herself she didn't kick droids any more than she'd kick an animal. But she couldn't say she wasn't tempted as the little unit continued to make her dance while she tossed her armor onto the cot in a heated rush.

How many had walked by her cell after the droid opened it? How long had the MSE been trying to wake her? If anyone saw that data pad…

Dee-da-WHEEEEEP

"I know I'm late. I know! Go! Tell them I'm on my way."

Mollified, the droid pushed both of the Stassian's boots far under the bed before wheeling out of the cell with a high-gear whir.

Rashala swore when she flipped through her bracer comm and saw how far away from the cell block the dispatch hangar was. She was due to report ten minutes ago. Crosshair was undoubtedly furious.

Suppressing oaths to sling the MSE into orbit before throwing herself into the nearest sun, Rashala barely managed to hook a finger around her boots and pull them out from under the cot.

"Kriff, Twelves. Got yourself a problem?"

"Jev hiate!" Rashala swore, banging her head on the bottom of the slab as she jumped. "Router!"

"Commander's karked off, Twelves," the clone warned, leaning against the doorway and clucking as Rashala crawled out from under the cot and shot him a weak glare. "That’s twice now."

Twice she hadn't been where she was supposed to be and twice she had essentially forced the squad to wait for her while someone tracked her down.

"This time wasn't intentional," she muttered, jumping to keep her balance as she pulled on armor. Router raised his eyebrows and Rashala regretted noting how similar the motion was on Router to how Crosshair had done the same. They are brothers deep down and in their own way, she thought ruefully.

"Intentional or not, this looks bad."

"I don't need it to look good, Router," she said with more than a hint of exasperation as she struggled with a clasp on her boot. "I just need to get through it."

"First time, one of the rear admirals caught you. This time, who were you expecting? Tarkin? Thrawn?"

Those names meant nothing to her as she forced the magnetic clasps to sit properly so her armor wouldn't pinch through her blacks, frustration ramping as she tolerated the lecture. Lack of rest had lowered her inhibition and she felt Router, of all people, would be more understanding of her thinning tolerance for her situation.

"I slept in! It isn't like before-"

"Soldiers don't sleep in, Twelves. They get up on time, they're dressed and ready to report to their commander without issue, and they do the work to complete the mission."

“But–”

“Routine and rest could make the difference between–”

"I never asked to be a soldier!"

Rashala's outburst startled her as much as it did Router but the clone did a better job of hiding his surprise than Rashala did. The Stassian hid her face and turned her back to Router before resuming her fight against the only piece of armor that didn't want to clip into place. She couldn't get a proper grip on the plate over her upper arm and resisted the urge to throw it across the room.

This anger, this fear building into rage... It wasn't her! This wasn't who she was!

She changed her breathing, closed her eyes, and pushed the anger away. If anger didn’t serve her, Rashala at least wouldn’t let it hurt others through her. Router didn’t deserve her frustration.

"Slow down. Let me see."

Router beckoned her over to the doorway and Rashala didn't know why she obeyed. Trying to push her dejection and shame into the back of her mind to deal with once she sorted through the rest of the emotional collateral she held in perpetual pause so she could deal with her life as it was instead of what she wanted it to be, the Stassian stood still while Router secured the plate with no more theatrics than wiping his nose.

"There," he assured, a rare soft expression crossing the clone's face. "Dex doesn't always remember to show you the best way to do something, just the right way according to the book. Which he helped write. Kriffin’ genius with plastoid, not so much with the explosives..."

Rashala didn't say anything, trying not to glance at her open kit trunk to check if the data pad was visible. If it was, Router didn't say anything.

"When Kamino was base, Dex would give a piece of candy to the youngling who not only properly dressed himself fastest but helped others with their armor, too," Router said, tapping Rashala's arm with his knuckles and gesturing for her to grab her helmet while he briefly reminisced. "No one knew where he got the stuff. We weren't supposed to have anything that wasn't from the mess hall and none of us ever had as much sugar as most younglings get. But I knew what that candy tasted like."

"Thanks," she muttered before realizing how ungrateful she sounded and softening her tone. "Thank you, Router."

"Don't worry about it," he smiled fondly, chuffing her on the shoulder. "You're gonna need to worry about the commander soon enough."

"Should I even apologize?" she asked, ashamed, riddled with fear as she nudged the kit trunk closed with her heel and followed Router out the door. The cell door locked behind them and Rashala kept up with Router's pace as he led her through the maze of hallways. "I never know what to say to him."

"Nothing to say, then don't say it," Router offered. "This isn't like life back home, making small talk with strangers and putting an effort on social niceties. Like I said, you're a soldier. Acting like one will make it all easier, including how to handle the commander."

Life back home...

"I hate this," she said, never losing stride despite serving up a core of her heart. "I hate this so much I don't know what to do with myself. Every time I think I'm out of tears, I cry. Every time I think I can hold onto who I am, I scream at someone or snap back or--"

"Punch a bystander?"

"Viz was not just a bystander," Rashala corrected against Router's sly joke, unable to keep from a small smirk herself. "But you know what I'm saying.”

The clone, shoulders back and neck straight, was the epitome of his training. Rashala stood straighter and did her best to match his bearing, earning her a stiff twitch of his lip as Router glanced at her and tried not to smile.

“You know what I'm saying, right?" she asked after a moment, unsure.

"No, but I hear what you're saying,"

"Is there a difference?"

"All the difference in the worlds," Router said, nodding crisply and respectfully to a high-ranking officer passing by with a large posse of underlings clutching large data pads, each one glancing nervously up at the nondescript man. "I don't have to walk your path to see what's in your way. You're making everything harder on yourself by resisting."

"How can you just accept this life?"

Router hushed her with a sharp glance and Rashala, feeling thoroughly corrected, stared straight ahead as she matched Router step for step through the corridors.

"I'm made for this, Twelves," the clone said eventually, hangar bay in sight as he guided her through enormous doorways and through a sloping tunnel. "We clones don't know anything else. And it's all changing. Life made sense in the Grand Army of the Republic. The GAR was our purpose for existing. Sure, we get shore leave and most of us have a rough story or two to tell about a night out at 79's, and some had plans for what they’d do after the Clone Wars. But we're soldiers, at the end of all things. Through and through."

"Of all the clones, Crosshair-"

"I told you before. The commander- Crosshair is one of those clones who never lived a normal life. Even for us, he's different. He's known no other way, even if his way is different than ours."

"I thought he'd be different enough to understand," Rashala admitted, grip tightening around the rim of her helmet as their squad came into view. "He doesn't like being here-"

"But that doesn't mean he isn't trying to find purpose, just like you," Router said, voice firming as he tried to wrap their conversation before anyone from the squad could hear them. "None of us like living in the Command Center. This isn't Kamino. But we're soldiers and can make do with what is thrown at us."

He stopped to face her, suddenly looking very old in the harsh hangar light, and prepared to put on his helmet.

"You don't need to question everything, Twelves," he said, voice heavy. "Sometimes it's easier to follow orders."

Rashala stared at Router's back as he walked briskly to the rest of the squad, glancing over to watch Crosshair shift his tall, lanky weight impatiently in an intentional signal for Rashala to join the squad before he took matters into his own hands.

She held her dark helmet in her hands as long as she could before taking one last breath of unfiltered air and settling the weight on her head.

---

Metalorn was a vast, stinking, oily planet.

Thick buildings jutted from rigid foundations, erect and blunt against the slimy sky, and each cubed street arranged itself in furiously blocky patterns as though intent on demonstrating the sheer immovable mass that was the calculated arrangement. Factories, each stair-stepped mass soldered in place and belching shimmering fumes, amplified the conduit structures woven as an impermeable web over Covalance City.

Dense metal edges whetted their teeth on hostile artificial floating stones of probe droids and transport blimps, branded equipment wedged on fibrous data towers in chunks; each curving dish was an offensive organic shape in the necessity process of curdling downlinks. Oxidized flames flapped around the gaping rims of cooling towers, vibrant greens and blues flaring as minerals burned and toxins billowed. Layer after layer of tarnished silver conduits, identical in their tainted logical lines, spread as an orderly virus across the body of what might never have been an organic planet beyond the molten core formed at starbirth in the mid-Rim cosmic cradle. 

The Stassian stared down the body of the ship to watch through the front shield as Metalorn grew larger and louder, a disgusted awe caught in her throat and pulsated between her ears; she had never even imagined a city such as Metalorn, much less an entire planet. A chipboard of circuits and wires lunged from the harsh grey landscape as the shuttle circled lower and lower. The pilot vented the defense-modified drop ship before Crosshair even stood to address the squad, exchanging the contained and sterile transport air with the pollution-dense stink of the industrial world.

Rashala tasted bismuth and magnesium despite her helmet filters, acidic sulfur a potent lattice for the slower slink of benzene. Sweet solvent fumes tapped at her buzzing mind, calming her despite her best interest to stay alert and untrusting. The thorilide mines smelled similarly when machines broke down, mechanics dismantling huge cogs thick with marbled grease and pumping containers of fragrant lubricants into hot metal mouths, and Rashala surged with homesickness at the unwelcome invasion of Metalorn's scent. Stassis II was a beautiful moon, thinly oxygenated and crisp with ozone and the watery freshness of snow: her home was nothing like Metalorn’s brittle crust of microphia.

The sniper unfurled himself from the passive, arrogant slump he held the duration of their relatively short transit from Coruscant to Metalorn. He pulled his helmet from his shoulders, short silver hair a glint in the transport's din, and rolled a slim wooden pick into the pinch of thinning lips as he assessed his squad. Twelve regs, the Stassian, and a voluntary conscript with dark blue hair and an obvious defiant dismissiveness for Crosshair’s authority.

A pitiful bunch.

All helmets turned toward him, weapons resting across knees and attention focused solely on their leader with the exception of the ex-mercenary, who fingered the trigger on his standard issue blaster with a despicable lack of respect; if he didn’t conveniently fill the ranks and give the sniper a modicum of extra muscle on this mission, he would have rejected the transfer order to his squad. Crosshair glared as he repositioned his helmet under his arm. He should have triple the men than he had now, this paltry group of cast-offs from other squads and experimental bodies the Empire put in armor and dared called soldiers.

Activating the map from the command link at his wrist, a blue datafield rippled to bisect his torso and cut through the troopers’ necks, forcing them to stand in order to follow along with the map. The datafield struggled against bleedthrough interference and hiccupped temporarily before settling; the tiny cluster of white dots representing the biofeed for each soldier followed Crosshair's voice through the schematic.

"The Empire is dissolving the Techno Union," the commander explained, all but the voluntary conscript leaning in to catch Crosshair's harsh whisper over the cooldown cycle rumbling through the transport's walls. "Metalorn is one of many planetary assets acquired from the defunct Union. It’s also the least secure. Intelligence proves Partisans have moved in on key locations within Covalance City."

Three factories and a command center lit in digital hues on Crosshair's projected map, Galactic Basic labeling each: a telecom operations plaza, two doonium refinement facilities, and a thorilide processing and distribution center.

Rashala's throat tightened and her hands clutched her rifle in a heady reflex.

There were only a few places in the entire known galaxy with veins of thorilide, far fewer with mining capacity to retrieve the blue crystals so essential to starship shields. Stassis II was the only moon and one of the only planets in the Techno Union that could even mine and refine their material to the point of stabilizing the mineral enough for off-planet completion of the complicated process to work the resource into the proper form for use in starship shields. Placing distribution responsibilities on a larger, more transport-efficient planet significantly decreased costs to both the arctic moon and the Guilds benefiting from Union partnerships.

Metalorn’s thorilide processing center—haloed in brilliant green and gleaming with all the digital wrapping of a gift—would undoubtedly be familiar with Stassian shipping routes and cargo vessels.

Rashala flushed with giddy hope under her helmet and forced herself to breathe normally when the sniper glanced her way. Her biomonitor flashed in her bracer comm panel, alerting her to her rising heart rate in comparison to her squadmates. The commander said nothing but his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as he briefly wondered what the Stassian was planning.

"Insurgents calling themselves the Partisans are a rogue resistance group, extremists," Crosshair continued with a twisted lip. "An intercepted transmission hints a small shuttle will arrive within the next rotation. The Partians took responsibility for a recent bombing on Mechis III. Thirteen Class-2 explosives. 410 civilian fatalities.”

The clones stood stoic, listening intently, but Rashala shifted nervously despite a slight guilt she couldn’t feel the proper amount of shock and horror at the numbers the commander shared. 410 innocents dead and she couldn’t stop mentally tracing the shapes of the Stassian cargo ships in vibrant outline.

Crosshair fixed her with a flinty stare, satisfied when she stood perfectly still and impervious behind her helmet. She could have passed for a shiny if not for the few scrapes from Desix on her grey plastoid. Inadvertently, he looked for the 99th mark on her shoulder, seeking a pale grey skull that never existed as a badge on her armor. The memory flare angered him, grated at his teeth and worried sharp needles through his gums as he banished Hunter and the others to the back of his mind.

Now was his turn to command the mission instead of following traitor's orders.

But for all his heated and visceral revulsion, for the small power he held but power nonetheless as he addressed his squad, Crosshair felt the perpetually cold chill of abandonment thread through his blood.

"Red team takes the north quadrant," the sniper ordered with little more than a practiced lazy raise of his brow in Router's direction. Router, continuously proving himself the natural leader and aware he could unintentionally undermine the pale commander, nodded sharply, adding a “sir, yes, sir” in a reminder to the rest that Crosshair’s direction meant mission orders: undeniable and enforceable by every rule the clones held firm.

"The ops plaza and two refineries are within the same quarter,” Crosshair said in his dark, rasping whisper. “An easy patrol."

How any patrol on Metalorn could be described as easy was either Crosshair's arrogance or his belief in his squad to excel despite extreme circumstances.

“Blue team, you’re with me,” he continued, tapping twice into his command link to divide the white dots into two brightly colored groups. “We take the East quadrant. They’ll be looking for sympathizers, will likely try to do as much damage as they can to spread fear–”

“That don’t make no sense.”

The mercenary tapped his short, hairy fingers on the barrel of his blaster with an impertinent smirk, the expression ugly on his broad face. One of the fortune-seekers who had invaded the Command Center with the Empire’s blessing, Rashala recognized the blue-haired man as part of the group that always turned the cafeteria into a rec center, bold and loud and arrogant in how much space he took up and how many heads he managed to turn by sheer noise from his enormous frame.

Crosshair flattened his brows and tried to keep from a snarl, muscles tensing as he held onto his control rather than unleashing his temper.

“Then sit with it in that thick head for awhile,” he said tersely, deciding he owed the voluntary conscript no patience beyond what the blue-haired man had already been given. “The rest of you, prepare to disembark.”

“Why would these… what you call ‘em… Partisans? Why’d they think they could get support from blowing up a bunch of folks?” the ex-mercenary persisted, hoisting his ankle up over his knee by a careless grab-and-tug of his pants leg.

Unlike Rashala and the clones, the voluntary conscripts were given a lax policy on uniforms and the blue-haired man took full advance of the Empire’s turned head, wearing only half his standard issue white plastoid armor and all that he did choose to wear strapped around bulky, wrinkled grey layers. His long-sleeved and heavily patched shirt bunched around the edges of his breastplate and the thigh and shin guards were smeared. The helmet he had disrespectfully put on the floor the moment the squad entered the drop-shuttle shifted with the motion of the ship. The engines shifted into a high-pitched hum as the pilot positioned over a landing zone and the whistling tone rattled in the plated walls.

“Terrorists have their own agenda,” Router offered simply in the hollow, disdainful space Crosshair refused to fill.

“Yeah, so what does it matter to the Empire?”

The blue-haired man let out a snort and sped up his tapping on the blaster but he had no sense of rhythm. Acutely aware all his men were watching him for a response, Crosshair breathed through his nose and spit out the wooden pick. It rolled across the shuttle floor and stopped against the ex-mercenary's helmet. The sniper’s faulty chip pulsed twice in the side of his head and the patch of skull above his right ear began to warm.

Not now, he silently begged, expression never changing. Not now.

Crosshair doubled-down and ignored the ex-mercenary, displaying a restraint he knew Wrecker would have commented on at the most inopportune moment and would have earned the sniper a demeaning but well-intended pat on the back from Hunter. The Q-8 wellbeing droid attending him after his rescue would have affirmed his effort as an acknowledgement he had to be a commander to assume command, would have confirmed Crosshair understood he had to shift his expectations of himself in the wake of change, but the sniper only wanted to forget the relief he used to feel when he gave a fool what was coming to them.

“Report here by 23:00.” An orange square outlined a skyscraper littered in scaffolding and haloed at its peak with a small, round landing pad. The map scattered to reform as seven holoscans of individuals of varying species, including three female humans and a Twi’Lek with distinct scars on his lekku. “Don’t engage unless you have absolute identification on confirmed insurgents.”

The blue-haired mercenary snorted, making a show of sizing up the sniper and dismissing Crosshair’s command as little more than suggestion. None of the regs were impressed and everyone selected a launchchair to prepare for the drop, pointedly ignoring the merc as he continued to grumble.

From the security of her helmet, Rashala watched the tall fury that was Crosshair remain self-contained, unperturbed. He had no tells and Rashala stared at the commander in quiet study, looking for a hint she might be wrong in her assessment something had ratcheted the already high tension in the ship. The sniper had no physical tic of any kind to prove his internal anguish but there was pain, severe and sparking with intensity, sifting through the space.

Face hidden behind her helmet, Rashala closed her eyes and tried to grasp the frayed ends of the tangled emotions snaking their way around her. Like a scent in the air, she felt Crosshair in the jumbled mess but she was blind to exactly where he was compared to the mercenary and the other clones; the mercenary was a sore spot on the horizon of energy she didn’t know how to intentionally filter, the regs a baseline heartbeat pumping as one, but Crosshair… the sniper was a crescendo of discomfort, his presence a pitching jumble of pain.

She listened for how his body spoke in the little space between them the previous night, reached out for the right match for his specific tempo, but his energy was spiked beyond his familiar resting intensity.

He was nervous?

Even as her brain moved in a rapid search from concept to concept of outlandish escape scenarios that didn't end up in death or dismemberment, Rashala reeled in her reach, letting go of the invisible spaces around her to focus again on only her own heartbeat and emotions.

As though he could hear her thoughts, Crosshair stared back for a long moment before continuing.

“If you do engage,” the sniper warned the group, “take them alive. Dead is no use to the Empire.”

Crosshair terminated the projection and released the link back to the ship’s communications system, pushing data to the soldiers with a single tap and receiving a synchronicity confirmation from each suit of armor in return.

This was where Hunter would say something brave and thoughtful, or Tech would chime in with an unintentionally quippy fact, or Wrecker would flex an arm and laugh at the simplicity of the mission ahead. Search, identify, capture. The Batch would have collectively agreed they were wasting their time with such mundane orders while staying completely aware simple could turn complicated in the blink of an eye. Crosshair had no words of wisdom, no parting advice, nothing to rally his squad with.

Momentarily, gut-swooping helplessness threatened to weaken him enough to press a palm to his aching head; Crosshair caught himself just in time. He didn’t know what to say to the squad and so said nothing at all, putting on his helmet with a fluid movement and giving the pilot a cue. Those soldiers who knew what to expect sat back in their seats and lifted their weight from their feet as the sky opened up below them.

Rashala stifled a gasp as the gears beneath the soldiers cranked sharply on the flooring and she tightened her grip on her blaster rifle involuntarily as the seats tilted forward. Wind whipped up into the ship as the panels swept out and the ex-mercenary's helmet dropped to the landing platform, bouncing and rolling across the verdant-stained copper rooftop of a massive skyscraper. The ship was too large for the platform and couldn’t land on the soft metal even if it tried, tipping the soldiers out into Metalorn’s circuitry instead. Rashala kept from worrying about breaking her legs on the drop only when she watched Router land on his feet without subsequently falling to his knees. A moment before the seat fully dumped her out of the safety of the ship, Rashala slid out.

The rush of falling, a wild and wonderful feeling, cleared Rashala’s head. For a handful of heartbeats, she was held by nothing and everything, completely dropping through the air without tethers or strings, and only wings would have made the moment better. She misjudged her tilt and landed leaning forward, rolling to her feet in a simple, painless tumble, and couldn’t deny the slim satisfaction when Router gave her an approving nod.

Crosshair dropped down after her, a sleek arrow through the dirty haze. The sniper's heart rate momentarily raced, distracting Rashala from resuming her whittling plans of finding transport and jumping from the planet on a thorilide cargo ship.

Unintentionally, she heard Crosshair's blood surge suddenly in her ears, such a visceral and unpreventable response to falling bleeding through the barriers between them, and her head over her right ear was a sparking mass of pain. She retreated from the accidental connection, focusing on her own disappointment as the freedom of falling dissipated into the gloom of shimmering green-tinged pollution.

“Move out,” the commander ordered the moment he landed, his direction a whispering hiss through his helmet filters. Router beckoned to the rest of Red team to follow and she wished she were going with him, trying to ignore the sensation of having been left behind.

---

The planet's substrate was little more than discarded resin and glass, metal shavings shiny in a murky stretch of night. Fissures yawned fathoms-deep, the city structure hollowed into canyons and trenches below the strategically reinforced foundations. A guess was all the explanation for what kept the enormous weight of technology aloft. Vaporous air buffeted through the wide filters of grate walkways and limb-like scaffolding, everything humid and humming warm. Lights pulsed, flickered, died and resurrected in incoherent patterns across the immense cityscape, a forest of visual chatter with inaccessible cores at the center of electronic trunks. There was no need for advertisement, no neon push for purchase, not a single pull into falsified forbidden allure: this was a working city, every centimeter an investment by some corporation expecting a hearty return.

That a place existed, much less continued to operate at full and impartial indifference to the chaos the Empire sowed across innumerable lives, only served to feed Rashala’s unfamiliar anger.

Anger crept up from her sore ankles, wrapped around her legs to sap her muscle strength, tightened around her hips like a cruel lover’s grip, and squeezed her midsection like a vise. Since the extraordinarily long climb down the building’s barren stairways to reach the streets–a climb Rashala was fairly sure would kill her if she had to take the same way back up–she witnessed indignity after indignity, injustice after injustice. The Stassian was at a loss at what could scrape out a community’s heart to allow such poverty and disease despite immense technological innovation.

Crosshair sent the rest of his soldiers from Red team to scour the streets, keeping Rashala and Kie with him as they navigated the mire that was Metalorn. The sniper led them through narrow streets and through grate-bottomed alleys, down chipped remains of old sidewalks, by lengthy service lines where tired, ragged crowds barely kept peace amongst themselves as those without work waited to receive a dose of medicine or a handful of dried foods. Signs in Basic decreed these service stations to be operated by the generosity of the Techno Union and not guaranteed to provide resources beyond a limited daily capacity.

Rashala wasn’t able to read a language and comprehend as quickly as she could when she heard the same language spoken instead but, even at the brisk clip Crosshair kept as they searched the groups for signs of Partisan presence, she saw the signs tacked up around the service stations that admonished and shamed the needy for their apparent laziness in requiring service station assistance. The loose, weary snippets of conversations she overhead and understood were from those who lost their jobs for various and seemingly unpreventable reasons.

As they passed an alley with trash stacked tall against the crumbling brick walls, Rashala saw a huddle of children splitting a quarter-slab of a hardbread riddled with fuzzy mold. She froze when one of the smaller girls kicked at a fierce, large rat encroaching on the smell of spoiled food; the rat’s teeth grazed the girl’s bare foot when she punted the oversized thing down the alleyway, the rat rolling in a wet-brown clump of fur and long, dull tail. She had never seen impoverished children before—there was no such thing on Stassa II—and the sight horrified her. Her village would never have allowed a child to go hungry, no matter the circumstances.

Rashala tensed when she realized Crosshair was standing alongside her, the Stassian anticipating a correction for stalling the group or a terse comment that she had stopped for anything but an insurgent. She didn’t know what to say when her commander pulled a small packet from his beltpack med kit and tossed it to the child. The girl, stringy hair bobbing around her face, unfurled the antiseptic wipe and set to treating her foot without a word of thanks, stuffing the moldy bread into her mouth before the boy near her could snatch it out of her hand.

“They’re just children,” Crosshair said in his rasping hiss, explaining his actions as though he could see Rashala’s lips part in astonishment under her helmet. The sniper’s quick tilt of his neck forced Rashala to shuffle her feet and follow him back to Kie, leaving the orphans of technological war behind.

–--

Tick trailed the Twi’lek with a firm grip on his blaster, abandoning opportunity after opportunity to stun the scarred man for want of a consistently clean shot.

The insurgent blended in with the majority of the messy, milling crowd, his heavily damaged lekku wrapped with thin leather bands and a threadbare scarf. Taller than the average Twi’lek, the Partisan fighter wove between the Metalorn citizens and clutched his long poncho around himself as though he was cold despite the heated, steaming rancor of the trenched streets; Tick didn’t have to assume the Twi’lek had a weapon, a blaster barrel poking against the thin cloth under the insurgent’s arm. The clone’s own blaster bobbed and dipped as Tick tried and failed to find the decisive moment to stun his target. Darting around a rusty cart stuffed to the brim with discarded droid limbs, the Twi’lek disappeared around the corner of a looming factory to disappear into the shadows, and Tick followed.

“Target sighted, pursuing,” the clone muttered quickly into his com, sending his coordinates to both the Red and Blue teams before skirting the variegated sheetmetal corner of the belching building. “Edom Dira. The Twi’lek. Factory Quarter, Plaza #37.”

The clone’s heavy boots ground the dried slopes of discarded sodium bicarbonate into a gritty, shale-like slide as he followed the twist of scarred lekku into the grey haze. Tick hunkered into a defensive crouch when the Twi’lek spun around to face the soldier.

Tick’s shot ricocheted off the metal walls when a brutal slam into the back of his helmet knocked the soldier unconscious.

A second kick and Tick was gone.

---

Before long, the streets blurred and the repetitive static push and pull of polluted air through Rashala’s helmet filters became a rhythm to move by as the Stassian scanned the crowds. Walking for hours on the hard metal and broken stones of Metalorn made her back hurt and her hands were permanent claws around her blaster but Rashala had time to think on the data she gave up sleep to read and sort, specifically how to transmit all of it to Stassa II.

One of the chips was still in the data pad but the second chip was still deep in her hip pocket; she felt the tiny thing rubbing in the hollow of her hip bone, like a grain of sand burring through the fabric against her skin. The chip was a secret she couldn’t ignore and a burden she was more than pleased to carry if it meant she had something to gain from her captivity.

The factory sector was a disaster of architectural planning, building after building seemingly dropped onto the roof of those creating the foundation below, all metal and lined with tubing of every size. Copper-lined pipe was protected by electrical currents, the expensive stuff buzzing with the flaring cage of blue-bright current guaranteeing death if touched. Desperate thieves had tried to disconnect conduit lines, couplings broken open and dented for the effort, and unfiltered duct work rattled with the force of blowers and fans at every mouth. Each plaza was almost identical, unimaginative, dirty and blocky in a way that no natural life had ever or would ever grown in the space.

Regulation meant inhibition to progress to Metalorn and the lack of consideration to worker safety and environmental pollution was obvious. Rashala noted the high amount of amputees and physically scarred among those in the service lines and, looking at the factories, she understood why. Piles of byproduct and waste leaned in enormous piles around the factory rims, chemicals of all colors dripping or dusting from leaky connections.

Too close to the toxic waste were more lines, individuals standing one after the other in a chain tethered to small huts with a single grated opening where people could pass their credits and receive a bowl of gruel. The stench from large vats on open fires at the back of the huts mingled a yeasty, sickly, vaguely sugary smell that mingled poorly with the bitter taint of minerals and powdery byproduct from perpetual production. Employee uniforms, some orange and others green, were all ripped and mended and ripped again, some coated in dark sludge from the knees down. Everyone–-human, Togruta, Twi’lek, Sarkhai, Wookee, Teevan, and even Farroan–-stood in line in their dirty factory uniform before handing over far too much pay for far too little to eat.

“Um, with permission, I’ll review the meal lines for outliers to the new chain codes,” Kie offered, unable to keep the hesitancy from his lukewarm offer to do anything but navigate the hazardous ephemera littering the factory perimeters.

With Crosshair’s nod, Kie dismissed himself from scouring the factory perimeters, tracing the lines with his blaster in hand. Rashala frowned beneath her helmet. These people didn’t need interrogation, they needed help.

“Anyone familiar?”

The sniper projected the images of the known members of the Partisans from his bracer comm as he questioned the sullen masses, the digital rotation flipping from insurgent to insurgent, but none of the workers leaning against the variegated sheet metal walls with their disposable bowls of roughly-ground meal did more than glance up.

“How ‘bout now?”

Crosshair pulled a ration bar from his belt, holding the chalky mineral stick loosely in his gloved grip, and a few of the weary workers stared at the food in recognition for the prize they were now competing for. One of them, a short human of indistinguishable gender, oily smears from wiping sleeves on the sides of their bald head, nodded once at the projection after a beat.

“That one,” they said, voice harsh and high. “Just a bit ago. Went 'round the back of the building.”

The Twi’lek man’s harsh grimace, lekku riddled with old wounds, reflected in Crosshair’s visor. With a pause serving as silent warning he was not to be lied to, the sniper tossed the ration bar to the worker and gestured to Rashala where she stood in the crumbling street.

“Scan for explosives signatures. Patrol left, meet in the back,” he ordered, slinking down the other side of the factory entrance before disappearing around the corner, rifle loose against his shoulder. With a glance back at Kie, Rashala obeyed, cautious as she entered the narrow alleyway between the impossibly tall factory walls.

The short hairs at the back of her neck prickled as she stepped into the dark.

–--

Crosshair skimmed the narrow span for any sign of life, his sensors pinging on heat signatures from the overwrought factory equipment and masses of huddled workers nearby so as to be useless in the dim alleyway. A patch-furred Lazat slumped against a sloped pile of vivid green powder dusting from a broken tube rattling against the alleyway wall, his fur collecting the toxic granules like dew; an empty inhalation unit, still dripping tafflan, lay cradled in his enormous blue palm. The sniper’s helmet tossed an exposure warning up into the corner of his visor display, warning against exposure to the presence of a recreational drug known to the Republic as a leading cause of death in anything but a pure and controlled dose.

The Republic… The Imperial Army hadn’t managed to purge all references to the old regime across all databases, obviously.

He stepped over the Lazat’s limp foot and continued his search.

---

Exploring the limitations of her suit’s environmental sensors, Rashala quickly learned how to recall and dismiss information in her visor display by simply shifting her eyes, almost playing with the technology as she learned how to move her expressions with subtle twitches for a full range of control.

She skimmed information about her surroundings that her suit provided in addition to her senses: she saw shoulder-height drifts of sparkling white powder and the sensors told her it was sodium bicarbonate, largely harmless and used as a slurry by Trendachnian Industries, marked on her map as the factory she skirted as an electric conductor in their production of copper for circuit boards. She stepped in a puddle of harsh green cyanide and the sensors told her to avoid skin contact. Rashala touched a dark umber smear on a metal pipe and the sensors stated the blood was approximately 42 rotations old, likely of indigenous Naboo ethnicity based on the amount of antigen skewing towards Gungan, and part of a splatter pattern as supported by her helmet’s visual feed.

The technology was brilliant and yet Rashala could only focus on the ache in her heart as she thought about what the data meant. People, real people with lives spent in the sludge of Metalorn’s corporate ambitions under the Techno Union’s control, were sick and starving in the squalor of poorly maintenanced streets. Many were hurt, many more unemployed, and the employed were practically indentured servants to the companies promising wages but overcharging for a place to sleep and a plate of barely edible food. Rashala was hesitant to even pull up a history of the planet, knowing her sadness would only deepen to learn if any natural resources or native animal or plant life had been eradicated by the toxic wasteland created for the benefit of the Techno Union. She hadn’t seen a scrap of life, not a single plant or creature in the street, that wasn’t barely sustained in a cage and loudly displaying a price for purchase.

That her own Technology Guild was a benefactor of the output from this devastation set doubt in her heart that she might be a bystander reaping the rewards of a steady career and reliable credits. The atrocities around her were already too much to handle...

A sharp, rapid tone at her wrist echoed in her ear and Rashala fumbled at her bracer as a message came through, breaking her from her contemplative scan of her surroundings. Unsure how to acknowledge the alert, she had to run the cue twice before she could make out Tick’s hushed confirmation he was pursuing the Twi’lek target. Crosshair’s spidery voice interrupted her effort to manipulate her map to find Tick’s position.

“I’m going after him,” he said, his tone tight and tense in her ear. “Continue the search.”

Rashala stood still in the alleyway, weapon heavy at her side, and thought for a moment about running away.

She was alone, trusted to follow orders like a good soldier would.

But she was not a good soldier.

The explosive chip in her shoulder was gone, the hair-thin wires pulled from her muscles and unclamped from her arteries, and the Empire couldn’t hit a remote detonator to destroy her. She owed no loyalty to the squad, nothing but passing gratitude to Dex and Router, no parting words to Crosshair. She could lose herself in the greasy, dirty maze of Metalorn and make her way to a Stassian cargo ship or trade her suit and weapon for passage anywhere but back to Coruscant.

The very thought of slipping through the Imperial Army’s grasp made her shake.

She hurried down the alleyway, ducking when a pinging stun-shot rattled off a metal wall nearby. The direction was hard to place but wherever it came from wasn’t in her immediate vicinity and certainly nothing she could see at the end of the long alley. Crosshair’s slim, quick form was a brief silhouette in the dirty orange sodium glow of a single lamp dangling from the side of a tall factory wall and Rashala held her gasp when she recognized his dark armor and sight-assist on his helmet. Crosshair had his rifle ready and ran as though his success depended purely on his speed.

Mine does, she thought, whipping off her helmet and comm brace. She could probably have gotten a few credits for them in an effort to pay for passage but the trouble of leaving the Empire a trail to follow her by wasn’t likely worth the risk. The armor tumbled between two tall piles of dried white slush to roll to a stop against the factory’s rusty walls.

She almost threw her weapon into the shadows but stopped herself before the blaster left her hands. Although she had been a naive, overly trusting young woman when the Galactic Empire stole her, she’d seen too much to pretend a blaster wouldn’t be useful in her efforts for escape. Reassuring herself she didn’t have to use it, just keep it on her to warn away any who’d pose a lethal threat, Rashala justified her decision.

I’m free, the Stassian shouted in her head, fingers trembling and knees going weak. I’m on my way home.

Nearby, her helmet beeped an inaudible alarm as sensors picked up an explosive device set for timed detonation just a few meters away.

She would have heard the footsteps behind her if she had been paying attention to anything but her own hope.

Chapter Text

Tick’s blood was bright red and bubbling in the puddles of maroon-stained sodium bicarbonate, the edges of the widening rivers sourced from the back of the clone’s head starting to oxidize into a coppery crust. Crosshair never liked regs–and Tick was a shiny if there ever was one–but the body in the dim, dirty alley was still that of a brother, was still biologically so much like his own.

Crosshair didn’t have the same heightened senses as Hunter–was thankful for it in the stinking, noisy alley–but he had as good of hearing as any other clone trained for ambush. He’d held vigil in treetops and against skylines, down in muddy trenches and rushing waters, waiting long enough over the course of his life to know what to listen for. And someone was breathing far too loudly, wrongly assuming the rattle of the open fans overhead and the wide hiss of superheated boiler steam billowing from an open duct would cover them.

Silent, as deadly as a sniper of his caliber could be, Crosshair crouched behind an enormous pile of bone-grey factory waste and waited for the Twi’lek to make a fatal move. The clone wouldn’t kill the man, no, but the Empire would. Once they pulled the information they were looking for from each crevice of his brain, the Twi’lek would meet his end after serving his purpose, and Crosshair almost regretted setting his rifle to stun; a fatal shot was tempting mercy.

Edom Dira was a soldier, through and through, and his busted face and ruined lekku only proved his Imperial file was accurate.

Waiting him out was a waste of time and Crosshair positioned the barrel on the edge of a chalky rim of dried industrial waste hiding him from the narrow throat of the alleyway, setting his feet under him in a crouch ready to spring.

“You’re done, Dira,” the sniper called out, helmet pulling his thin voice into a commanding tone that Tech used to claim was surprisingly authoritative for a man of Crosshair’s usually silent demeanor. His well-meaning brother was rarely one to give a compliment and usually failed in his attempts but Cross always held onto that statement, holding it close as a secret coveted object in the small but protected hoard of affirmations he’d ever received.

“I said, you’re done,” he repeated, acutely aware of Kie’s sensor showing the clone was heading his way for backup. Rashala’s sensor, strangely enough, remained in the alleyway two factories over, almost exactly where he left her searching for Partisan explosives.

“This work… it’ll never be done.”

The tall Twi’lek shouted without exposing even a slice of skin to the sniper, Crosshair rumbling in his throat with displeasure that he was forced to wait out his quarry while his squad consisted of a bunch of battle-young regs and a Stassian immobilized by her own fears. He always hated the helmet displays when he was trying to work, limiting his visor assists to distance markers and lens adjustments whenever the rifle leaned into the sensors at his shoulder, but he quickly pushed a message to both Red and Blue teams. If any of them were worth their weight, they’d gather to Crosshair’s location at a sprint.

“We have the others, Dira,” Crosshair lied, annoyance smoothing his rasping voice into a prompt for the Twi’lek to consider himself outmatched.

The sniper held his trigger finger absolutely still when the Twi’lek emerged from behind a shale-slip pile of old, messy bicarbonate, recognizing immediately the activated grenade for what it was; only the firm pressure of Dira’s squeezing grip would keep the device from exploding. The Twi’lek took a step forward, hatred in his pale brown eyes, and Crosshair took a crouched step back.

“That’s right,” Dira shouted, his Rylothian accent thick and stumbling. “Run away, Imperial scum! Run away from the truth.”

Crosshair took another step back, steading himself as he rose, keeping his rifle trained on the Partisan terrorist.

“You massacred my people!” Dira’s voice rattled against the metal walls that seemed to narrow around the words rending from the Twi’lek’s throat. “You destroyed us. Rape, slavery, murder!”

“We fought alongside you,” Crosshair replied slowly, taking another tentative step backwards. “During the Clone Wars, we reclaimed and defended Ryloth when you couldn’t.”

The sniper had nothing to gain by advancing, especially not with the explosive in Dira’s hand lit up like a landing pad as it waited for the detonator release. He suddenly missed Wrecker, never so aware his hulking brother was far from him when Crosshair realized he was listening for Wrecker’s confirmation the grenade wasn’t built as part of a series to trigger chain reactions of hidden explosives nearby.

Wrecker was always a talented munitions specialist but few who knew him before his accident could remember how quick on his feet the big man used to be. Crosshair always held both Wrecker’s lives in his head: before the M-08 almost took off half his face and after he recovered enough to rejoin the rest of the Batch. And in the mess of a Metalorn alley, Crosshair missed both versions of his brother enough to set his heart on fire.

Refuse sludge crawled down the metal wall in icicle-like formations, water quickly wicked into the overheated air and freezing the bicarbonate in mid-motion. The pollution in the air was so thick, so prevalent, that dark grey swirls marbled the dirty white clumps as they dried. The rattling fan sped up, poised to fly off the belt if only the nut and bolt would give way. Steam, already scorchingly hot against Crosshair’s dark armor, whistled and panted as pipes rerouted from one engine to another, spewing new metallic tints into the humid air. Kie’s blood was already attracting insects, droid-like beetles and millipedes unearthing themselves from their dusty knolls deep within nickel-powdered corners of rusty machinery parts, and Crosshair stifled his revulsion as the miniscule swarm began to ingest and refine the iron from the blood.

“The Republic fought alongside us,” Dira said, practically playing with Crosshair’s attempt to maintain a set distance between them as the Twi’lek advanced. “The Empire… You killed Taa and framed our own leaders. You took our refineries, stole our industry. Everything we rebuilt…”

Crosshair waited for Dira’s inevitable mistake. They always made mistakes–always–when they let their emotions overtake their task at hand. Dira’s task was to make a martyr of himself and take an Imperial sniper out along with him.

Crosshair’s task was far simpler than that.

He took one more step back, trusting Dira would take a step forward and align himself fortuitously with a small, damaged grate leading into building ductwork, the broken cover gaping open and leaving the factory exposed to vermin traveling in and out at will.

Too blinded by the growing light of whatever the next life held for him, Dira stepped forward and gave a final, cruel grin.

Crosshair reset his rifle and aimed as the Twi’lek released the grenade.

--–

In the murky light of the alleyway, Rashala managed to pick out only the most obvious identifying features of the Partisan from the reel of confirmed terrorists before blocking the unexpected attack. The woman was short, fierce, and bellowed with the cry of a much larger person as she ran at Rashala, and the Stassian barely had time to dodge as a serrated blade tried to stab between her plates of armor.

Rashala took a stumbling step back and the Partisan stepped into her, losing her momentary advantage as Rashala knocked the blade away in an instinctive effort to keep from being stabbed. The woman only came up to Rashala’s shoulder but her right hook was powerful, her knuckles smashing against plastoid as Rashala knocked her arm up as Router taught her. She missed defending against the other hand, though, and caught a blow in the face. Rocking back, Rashala gasped in pain. Blood was a sticky flow down her mouth, gumming up around her lips as her opponent rushed her again and landed a kick in Rashala’s gut. Despite the breastplate and armored protection around her torso, the wind threatened to knock out of her and Rashala barely kept her feet as the woman went for the fallen knife.

Anger–rushing, raging tides swelling up under her tongue and streaming down her throat to sweep away all inhibition–untethered Rashala’s restraint.

Part of her mind couldn’t believe her own actions, even as she directed her knee to smash into her attacker’s cheek. The Partisan cried out and curled away from Rashala’s second attempt, rolling away and partially burying herself in a pile of dried bicarbonate. The factory waste was slick under their feet as the woman tried to get up and Rashala advanced, both of them slipping in the mess. Rashala leaned backward as the Partisan slashed out with the blade, her dark eyes sparking in the orange lamp pressing against the rapid darkness of Metalorn’s weak and setting sun; the knife cut through the thin foil funneling powdered carbide from one floor of the factory to another and fluorescent blue silt blew directly into the Partisan’s face.

The compound flooded the alley in fluffy clouds of drifting powder before slowing to a trickle, both women coughing and wiping their eyes as they anticipated the other’s attack. Rashala tried to run but the Partisan, hearing her retreating footsteps, ran after her and barely managed to catch up. Rashala cried out when the blade bounced off her backplate and narrowly avoided a ricochet off the ground; the thrown knife would have dug into her thigh had she not twisted to the side and launched her arm as a barrier against the Partisan The short woman caught Rashala’s defense straight in the neck and began to choke.

Rashala kicked the knife away when the woman reached for it again and shoved the flat against of her boot against the Partisan’s shoulder, almost tangling in the netted poncho wrapped as a scarf up around the woman’s shoulders, and the fluorescent blue powder smeared in her trail of uncontrollable tears. The woman wasn’t ready to give up and launched herself at Rashala again, trying to grab the Stassian’s blaster.

In a strange blend of full awareness and mind-numbing fear, Rashala realized she had a weapon and, if she didn’t use it, she’d be as good as dead.

Fumbling the settings to ensure she wasn’t about to murder her attacker, no matter how valid her defense might feel in the moment, Rashala shot to stun the woman. The Partisan dodged the shot at such close range by diving forward, hitting Rashala in the knees and knocking her down; her desperate reach up to grip Rashala’s hands and knock the blaster away was blind and animalistic. The Stassian accidentally hit the trigger and a stunner launched off the metal walls to spin brightly down the alleyway before dissipating within seconds. In the flaring light, Rashala saw the attacker’s expression was just as twisted in desperation as her own.

“Get off!”

Rashala spin the woman into the rusty metal wall and a cascade of dried mineral caked like lichen on the factory ribs fell down on them in heavy sheets. With a fear-ridden, rage-fueled twist, Rashala leveraged her height to spin and heave the shorter woman over her shoulder, falling into an ungainly sit as the Partisan hit another foil artery weaving ribbon-like in and out of the walls. Warm sludge, water-logged sodium bicarbonate responsible for the chaotic piles of bone-grey mess slipping from joints to riddle the alleyway in huge piles of wasted product, coated the woman.

“Imperial scum!”

Rashala’s attempt to run away was immediately foiled when she slipped in the hot muddy slush and roughly fell down with a strangled shout. Her blaster floated down the alleyway as the saltwater blend sent old bicarbonate to fizzle weakly in the rapidly flowing muck, the knife lost as piles dissolved like sugar in a teacup. The alleyway flooded, the broken ductwork spewing sludgy bicarbonate and thick, salty water, and the Partisan tried to wrap her fingers around Rashala’s neck. The Stassian fought back, throwing punches blindly while her eyes stung and her mouth filled with gunk.

With enormous effort, the women threw each other way, the Partisan and Stassian both hitting the opposite sides of the alley to sit waist-deep in silty, corrosive, chalky mud. Rashala met the Partisan’s snarl with one of her own, each eyeing the other distrustfully as they caught their breath and found their bearings.

“Jev hiate..,” Rashala swore under her breath, twisting her wrists to shake the tingling away, stopping when the Partisan frowned in surprise.

“Stassian?”

The woman’s accent was full of entirely flat, rounded vowels, proving she lived early, formative years learning Basic as a first-language. Dark skin and darker hair were smudged with remnants of fluorescent blue carbide in her locs and in the corners of her weathered face, the rest of her absolute coated in sodium-rich muck. Rashala swept a hand through her short blonde hair and wiped as much of the same mess off her neck as she could in one swipe, nodding. The hot slush cooled rapidly in the uncomfortable cracks between her armor and even her battle-tested blacks couldn’t keep the moisture from making a damp discomfort from her head to her toes.

“I’m running away from the Empire.”

“You’re dressed like a soldier.”

“Because they tried to make me one.”

The Partisan cocked a thin eyebrow in disbelief.

“Deserter.”

Rashala nodded again, making the mistake of trying to brace herself in her slouch and sticking her hand down into the slowly receding waters.

“Why should I believe you?” the woman asked coldly, rolling her shoulder where Rashala had stomped against her. “Why shouldn’t I just kill you right now?”

“Please, try,” Rashala shot back with no small amount of fear-fueled anger until she controlled her unfamiliar flash of rage, realizing how her frustration only fit the image of an Imperial soldier. “Your knife’s gone.”

“I could kill you with my hands,” the woman shot back with tired ferocity before immediately dissolving into wet coughs.

Rashala dared tried to bark a laugh in disdain of the Partisan’s threat but ended up in a coughing fit herself. If she wasn’t mistaken, the woman started laughing before she did. The attempt to even pretend to be a bold, callous soldier seemed so utterly ridiculous that Rashala laughed at herself as much as she did the situation as a whole. Both women caught hold of themselves gradually, elbows on knees and heavy sighs throwing a pause on their battle.

“What’s your name?” the Partisan asked with a rough chuckle, wiping bicarbonate silt out of the corners of her mouth.

“Rashala.”

“Ola. Nice to almost stab you, Rashala.”

“Nice to almost drown with you, Ola.”

The women sighed simultaneously before the Partisan tried and failed to get to her feet, needing one more moment of rest.

“How did you know I’m Stassian?”

“Look at you. Listen to yourself. It’s obvious.”

Rashala was too drained to ask another question, shivering as her blacks tried and failed to wick away the wet sludge from her skin.

“You should know… if you’re really running away…” Ola’s breathing was labored as she continued to spit muck from between her teeth. “There’s two bombs on the left, behind the factory. Do with that what you will.”

Rashala’s momentarily horrified expression was all Ola needed to resume a petty sneer and the Partisan rolled her eyes as Rashala stumbled through her protests.

“But, the workers? The people– People inside, won’t they die?”

“What does it matter to the Empire who lives and who dies?”

Rashala flattened her brows and fixed the woman with a reproving stare before remembering she was talking with a terrorist.

“Disable the bombs.”

“Why does it matter to an Imper-”

“I told you, I’m not Imperial. I’m running away after they stole me and forced me to serve.”

“Still blood on your hands, though.”

“Disable the bombs, Ola. Please.”

Ola shook her head and tapped at the metal wall behind her, dislodging slop from around the broken ductwork.

“Know what this factory makes? And the one behind you, and the one behind that, and the one behind that?”

The woman’s intensity set Rashala on edge as the Partisan leaned forward to put her elbows on her knees and pinned her with a tough stare.

“Circuitry for droids,” Ola said, biting off each word. “Specifically, B-series battle droids. First for the Separatists, now for the Empire. War’s over, ‘Shala, and who do you think the Empire is going to turn those droids loose on?”

Rashala sat back against the factory wall, the last of the watery slush from burst tubing puddling around her feet, and resisted the urge to rub her eyes. Everything was a confusing mess in her head and she was absolutely exhausted, hardly believing she was simultaneously free to run away and talking with a member of a resistance against the Empire.

“Killing innocent workers isn’t any better,” she finally said, gesturing weakly at the factory at Ola’s back. “So many civilians dead in your last attack… Terrorism isn’t any better than Imperial force.”

“We don’t enslave people,” Ola argued. “What the Empire forces us to do is nothing compared to what we have to lose.”

“It’s not right.”

Ola spat onto the wet ground, features almost lost as Metalorn’s neon-tinted twilight diminished into murky night, and the single sodium lamp at the end of the alleyway did little to elbow away the darkness.

“You Stassians… Idealistic, closed off from the rest of the galaxy–”

“We live peaceful lives! We don’t want to be outsiders somewhere else when we could belong where we’re supposed to be!”

Rashala huffed at her own outburst, reining herself back in even as a sliver of an idea began to grow. Both women were acutely aware they were nearly out of time to recover, running toward the end of any conversation before the temporary truce came to an end and they’d become adversaries again.

“They come for everyone, ‘Shala,” Ola said, wisdom of her years putting her well beyond Rashala’s youthful naivete. “They come for everyone. Now, if you’re ready, we can either fight this one out or go our separate ways. These bones are tired, though, and we don’t have a lot of time before those bombs go off.”

“How– how much time?”

Ola didn’t respond, groaning as she got to her feet and rubbed her shoulder. Flakes of dried bicarbonate drifted from her like snow.

“Take me with you.”

The Partisan’s bark of laughter shot through the alleyway with a clapping slap echoing in the night.

“Not gonna happen.”

“I’m running away and you’re going–”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m taking you anywhere near the resistance,” Ola said shortly, leaving little room for argument. “Especially dressed like that.”

“But–”

“You’re not part of this cause, girl. You still want me to disable those bombs?”

Rashala didn’t answer, proving Ola’s point.

“You ain’t comin.’ That’s that. You might be lying, you might be tellin’ the truth, but we’re parting ways here, ‘Shala.”

The Stassian swallowed hard before making a decision she wondered if she’d regret for the rest of her life.

“What if I had something you wanted?”

“You got nothin’ I want.”

“I’ll trade you, a favor for a favor.”

“We don’t work on favors.”

“You’ll want this.”

Rashala shifted her armor to awkwardly access the pocket in her beltline, pulling out the little chip containing half the data she pulled from the medbay system. Ola stared at it, the tiny silver bit glinting on Rashala’s chalky finger.

“Chain codes, security maps, officer profiles, Imperial plans for seizure–”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’ve been a forced conscript for more than three months in the Command Center on Coruscant and I want–”

Embarrassed, Rashala cleared her throat when her voice broke unexpectedly.

“I just want to go home.”

Ola stared at the chip, the whites of her eyes mimicking the silty mess smeared across her skin like warpaint. Rashala’s heart squeezed terribly when the Partisan shook her head reluctantly.

“If you’re not with us, you’re against us,” Ola said hesitantly, covetous stare at the chip betraying her even further. “Saw’ll shoot me himself if I bring an Imperial soldier onto one of our ships.”

“I’m not a soldier!”

“You’re as good as one!”

A blastershot rang out over the buzzing thrum of machinery and perpetual factory noise, followed immediately by a shuddering boom. Rashala momentarily thought the metal wall at her back was going to come down on her and curled up tight, clutching the chip in a desperate fist as the ground shook. Sirens, a varied multitude of alarms wailing and beeping in a cacophony of emergency, pierced the air and pressed at Rashala’s lungs, sheer noise wanting to steal the breath within her.

“Give me the chip!”

Ola held out her hand, almost screaming to be heard over the noise, and Rashala shook her head desperately.

“Take me with you!”

“Give–”

“NO!”

The women stared at each other, the time for talking past. Rashala’s ears hurt against the intense pressure of sirens. Ola crossed the alley and crouched next to the Stassian, Rashala momentarily afraid the fight was beginning again and knowing she couldn’t defend against the Partisan’s muscular frame if she were to be pinned.

Salt, pickled and teeming with a wild taste that reached far beyond the pollution of Metalorn, burnt the tip of Rashala’s tongue and tightened the back of her throat. The sirens washed over her like suffocating waves, an unbearable and panicking pressure sucking her down, and the Stassian could hardly focus on the body leaning into her.

“I’ll find you passage!” Ola shouted into Rashala’s ear, breath hot and skin warm. “Coruscant?”

Rashala nodded, motions tight and quick in her rush of nerves, and the briny, brutal, flaring pressure died away as fast as it had debilitated her. As suddenly as they started, the sirens diminished, a final whine whooping down into nothing from the horn nearby, but alarms continued to blare in the close distance. She twisted her head just enough to see Ola’s dark eyes crinkle in a determined grin.

“10 rotations,” the Partisan said, loudly but no longer having to shout into Rashala’s ear. “Get to the Underlevels. Sniv’s Canteen.”

“What–”

“Get to Sniv’s Canteen on Coruscant by midnight,” Ola insisted, “and they’ll bring you as far as Lothal. You’re on your own after that. Now, give me the data.”

Rashala stared at Ola’s open palm, her heavily lined hand expectant, and the Stassian couldn’t control the confusing blend of doubt and hope crossing her open expression. Ola jostled her hand impatiently, tilting her jaw at Rashala’s reluctance.

“Do we have a deal or not?”

Decisiveness was never one of Rashala’s strengths unless she was in the NASTIC M with her trusted crew at her back. Even then, the vast majority of her decisions were never life-or-death, usually reaching no further impact than whether or not a transmission properly routed or if a satellite uplink was dropped prematurely.

This… this was the course of the rest of Rashala’s entire life, entirely dependent on whether she trusted a stranger—a terrorist, at that—to deliver on an extraordinary promise.

Closing her eyes, Rashala temporarily severed herself from the noisy stench of an oily, sore, ruined planet and breathed in mountain air, frozen earthiness rejuvenating her as much as any handful of water from a cool stream, and the Stassian felt as though a second sight came over her, coating the backs of her eyelids and pouring through her sinuses to fill her head with the cushioned darkness of worlds beyond worlds. A release of any and all expectations to survive lifted from under her skin and sucked doubt from her heart. She felt her family and friends and village elders gathered around her, their strength and the strength of her ancestors gifting a moment of pure clarity.

What mattered more than life was how she lived.

Certain she was strong enough to walk the path no matter where it might lead her, Rashala gripped Ola’s hand and let the woman pull her to her feet.

The Partisan’s hand was warm, soft with a gritty layer from the dried bicarbonate. Rashala let the chip slide between their palms. Ola pocketed the data within a breastpocket under her poncho and nodded briefly, arranging her layers to tuck up under her chin and cover her muscular, feminine figure to disguise herself as best as possible.

“Sniv’s, 10 rotations,” the Partisan warned. “If you can’t make it there, I can’t help you.”

Rashala noted the difference in the woman’s voice and tilted her head for want of an explanation, unable to completely give in to blind trust. I, not we.

“Thought you said no favors? This isn’t Partisan help?”

The woman allowed for a twitch of her cheek to serve as a polite acknowledgement of what should remain unspoken. Rashala gestured in reference to the chip, keeping her gaze low lest she try to find a kindred spark in eyes that only held temporary tolerance.

“There’s a security code on it,” she explained briefly. “861-24. Can you remem–”

“Got it,” Ola said, tapping the side of her head and stifling a wink.

“Can you– if you can, please… Send as much of that data as you can to Stassa II. Route it through the NATSIC M if you can, convince them it’s from me. Please–”

“No promises,” the Partisan cut her off with the dregs of empathy, untangling the threads between them to leave Rashala with the clear expectation to expect nothing at all beyond what the woman already gave her word to fulfill. “No promises.”

Ola turned to leave, stopping only to give Rashala’s dirty armor a disdainful glance. Pain, deep and emotionally charged, made itself obvious in the way Ola’s lips parted as though to say more than what her personal boundaries would normally allow.

“My sister was on Onderon when– when she died. They killed her. She was just a civilian. And the Empire killed them all like they were nothing. Why should the Partisans hold back when the Empire never will?”

Ola pulled her shoulders straight and glared at Rashala’s breastplate, following the deep red stripe from abdomen to neck, fixing a firm and final stare on the Stassian.

“A droid recorded and transmitted the entire massacre,” Ola spat, picking up her knife where the serrated blade stuck out from under a slushy, half-melted pile of dirty white mineral waste. Rashala didn’t look at the weapon directly, keeping her eyes on Ola as the Partisan held the knife in a contemplative grip. “The soldiers wore armor just like yours.”

Sheathing the knife, Ola set a brisk pace down the alleyway, never looking back even as she called out loud enough for Rashala to pick up every word.

“Remember, Stassian… 10 rotations.”

Rashala watched the woman disappear into the gloomy dark, briefly silhouetted at the end of the alley before breaking into a sprint and leaving Rashala behind.

For a horrifying moment, Rashala wondered if she’d just condemned herself to a disastrous end before reminding herself of the absolute peace she felt when she made the decision to hand over crucial information to the Partisans.

She had to trust.

If there was a life worth living, it was a life where she did what she believed in and held hope against all odds. Hope and faith in the idea that people in every corner of the vast and unfathomably deep universe would do the right thing if given the chance.

Aware the Partisan hadn’t disabled the bombs and the factories were still teeming with the sounds of workers moving through their production lines despite the chaos outside, Rashala stooped to grab her bracer comm, fitting the caked display back above her wrist. The helmet was full of bicarbonate and dirt and she tucked it under her arm before picking her blaster out of the slush.

Ignoring the comm alerts, Rashala made her way to the nearest factory entrance, leaving the messy alley on quaking knees.

--–

Dira cried out when Crosshair’s bullet shattered his wrist, the Twi’lek falling to the ground in agony as blood sprayed the sheet metal wall. The grenade rolled along the sharp rim of the open grate before topping in and Crosshair turned to run before Dira’s knees hit the ground.

A flaring heat, hungry and brutal in its intensity, knocked Crosshair to the broken brick and the sniper rolled behind an enormous pile of bicarbonate, desperately clawing his way through the hard crust to bury himself in the silty, dirty discarded byproduct. His helmet sensors warned of imminent suffocation, closing off the filters and flashing rapidly depleting oxygen levels on his display, but Crosshair ignored the alarms in his effort to cover himself in the fire-retardant mineral. The explosion rolled with the intolerable threshhold of a sunspot. A percussive blast smashed the clone where he flattened himself under the choking weight of bicarbonate and his helmet padded the roar of the detonation.

For a moment, the sniper felt as though he’d die, bones burned down to indistinguishable dust, and his brothers would never find out what happened to him.

He always thought he’d fall alongside them, a valiant effort to complete a mission resulting in success because of his sacrifice, and the remaining members of Clone Force 99 would mourn him as a good man fallen too soon.

He waited for death to take the last, worst parts of him away.

Salt flooded his mouth, anoxic oceanic waves clawing at him and forcing mineral shards into his abused lungs. He was back on that landing pad, open sores and burned skin and hopelessness pushing him to the brink of death. He had tried to dig the chip out of his own head and his skull was hot, too hot, bone baking in the rare open Kamino sky…

Effervescent strength seeped into his clenched muscles, an invisible cooling hand smoothing over his sweating brow despite the impossibility of a touch reaching through his helmet, and the second of relief pressed calm into his skin like a balm. He felt a brisk, fresh sheet of clean air wipe away his weariness. An unseen gathering, numerous energies pushing attention on him, swept away his anonymity and waited for him to find his way back onto his feet.

Get up… Get up…

His chest hurt and muscles strained as he crawled his way out from the weight of crusted bicarbonate, the industrial waste saving his life but threatening to take it slower than an explosion if he let it smother him. His suit sensors flared and muted as Crosshair tested his limbs and joints, the sniper rolling onto his back and coughing to clear his sore throat. His rifle, heat-scarred but otherwise undamaged, fit into his hand within an easy reach and he pulled it to his chest to cradle with the relief of a doomed man granted another chance.

The factory walls on either side of him were shredded, peeled out and curled into grotesque shapes from the force of the grenade. Ash, grey and wide like crumbling leaves, drifted slowly on the thick, humid air. The only light through the curling clouds of particulate debris was the ominous toxic orange of the Metalornian night sky. Embers glowed and faded with whispering crackles. A scrap of hipbone and a charred femur–all that was left of Edom Dira–crumbled into glinting charcoal to carry in the disturbed eddies of what was once an alleyway.

Slowly, so deep and low Crosshair felt the buildings around him move rather than heard the tectonic shift, Metalorn’s fragile, diseased, and fallible surface began to give way beneath the factory foundations.

---

The cavernous din of the dirty, rusting factory amplified the creaking gears and squeaking arms of machinery running mazelike through the enormous space. Bulbous hoppers gobbled a steady stream of brown gravel from unsteady conveyor lines, grinding the massive piles of dry earth in gullets of sharp blades and crushing knobs, spitting out the fine powder to dust the space in fine particulate. There wasn’t a surface free of filmy white powder. Aged robotic buckets shuffled a weary dance in circles so steady their wheels wore tracks into the cold concrete floor. The broken windows set high against the sagging upper floors were poorly boarded, paper hinges flapping in the blast currents from the sweltering furnaces. The factory was a death trap before a bomb was ever placed in its bowels.

Rashala darted among the workers, shouting, but unable to be heard over the constant noise. Loaders dumped clanging boulders to roll through hollow metal tubes, vacuums sucked up slurry while hoses hissed polluted water into open-topped barrels, and a tram system rattled around the edges of the room to dump chalky bits of skeletons into the bicarbonate solutions at regular intervals. The Stassian ran to a woman dressed in a baggy uniform creased with powder and grabbed her arm.

“You need to get out!”

The woman stared back with dull eyes, unable or unwilling to stop in her repetitive motion to even attempt to hear what Rashala was telling her. Almost afraid for the deadened response among the workers to the sight of an Imperial elite-forces soldier shouting at them to get out of the factory, Rashala didn’t know what to do but continue to try to get someone’s attention.

“You all need to get out!”

An entire row of children, dozens of short bodies almost completely caked in pasty bicarbonate where they directed the hot-slurry mix from one hopper into another, looked down fearfully when she approached.

“There’s a bomb! You need to leave!”

The youngest child, brown eyes wide in worry, pointed to their ear and shook their head before the boy next to them smacked the hand back onto the big metal handle. Rashala’s lungs filled with powder as the children heaved together to shove the lever and push slush into the next barrel on the line, drifts of dried flakes sieving off the poorly patched tubes, floating thickly through humid air to blow like fine, icy snow into their faces. The little child looked to their companions for guidance as Rashala coughed, the kids keeping each other in line.

“They’re deaf.”

A broad-shouldered man, half-Zabrak, was the only one who looked up from his work to address Rashala as she spat slurry onto the floor. His left horn was chipped and the thin metal collar denoting indentured servitude was a marr on his dark skin. He wore the symbol as a necklace, the tight metal no more bothersome than the tan patterns winding wide rivers across his face. Pale eyes so light as to be white rimmed with the faintest purple assessed Rashala with the practiced sweep of sizing up a potential enemy. The Stassian was suddenly immensely conscious of the weapon in her hand.

“They can’t hear you,” he said, his Iridonian accent lilting and beautiful through the clamor of machinery. The waxed sacks at his feet filled with bicarbonate powder and he easily swapped the heavy bags for empty ones under the hoppers, pausing Rashala as though she were waiting for a meeting with an important stakeholder for a reputable corporation and not sweating into her dirty armor as she watched him move with practiced fluidity. Steam billowed out from under the vented conveyor and the wet heat sealed the bags, scorching the Zabrak wherever his skin wasn’t protected by his damp work suit. The skin across his hands and wrists was mottled with burn scars.

“You have to get out,” she repeated, helplessness and fear fighting in her tired voice. “There’s a bomb outside!”

“Then why aren’t you running?”

The Zabrak’s glance was so lackadaisical she wondered if he heard her correctly over the noise.

“I’m trying to save–”

“This is a trick the Union has pulled before,” the man said without pausing the latching of bags to funnels. “They won’t believe you.”

The tired bodies and sweating masses moved as automatons through the cramped, dusty space, some daring glance at Rashala as they passed by, but most kept their heads down and refused to look at the woman shouting for them to do something they couldn’t trust.

“But–”

“Last time, they set a fire. Anyone who fled was listed unhirable. Those of us with this–” he hooked a thumbnail under the edge of his collar “-were shot. Go.”

Rashala’s gaping mouth insulted the man, earning her a firm glare not entirely unlike her commander. The children pushing all their weight behind the massive lever as another silty batch of slurry overpoured was a sight curdling Rashala’s very marrow.

“They’re just children!”

Her panic held her firm even as she wanted to take the Zabrak’s permission to run. She didn’t want to die in a poverty-stricken canyon of sewage and sludge, obliterated under the crushing weight of a factory so old and underserviced the building might just collapse under a strong breeze much less the power of a Partisan bomb. But she couldn’t live with herself if she abandoned a chance to save others, especially those who couldn’t save themselves.

They were just children.

The Zabrak stared at the Stassian, sizing her up once more, and a modicum of hope spun up in her widening eyes as the man straightened his stooped back. Hope flared to reactionary fear when he lunged for her blaster, Rashala rearing back and leveling the weapon directly at his dual hearts. She almost dropped her helmet but held the blaster steady without so much as a twitch. He smiled only with a twist of a lip and a brightening of his illuminant eyes, vaguely impressed.

“So you are a soldier,” he shouted over the clanking of a tram belly opening to vomit bone shards into the bubbling bicarbonate brew. Rashala bobbed her head despite herself, glancing at the wide factory doors. She had no idea how much time she had left to try to get people moving. The Zabrak, poised on the balls of his feet and ready to spring, pointed above them.

An immense cog, rusted iron silvered in bicarbonate, boomed a steady beat over their heads. Quickly, Rashala saw how the factory machinery all fit together and how it would all fall apart.

She didn’t hesitate, swinging her arm up and firing three rapid shots into the bottom of the corrupted bolt suspending the 50 meter wheel impossibly high for its weight. She’d have moments to clear the space.

With a brutal scrape overpowering the chaos of the massive factory, the cog slid free from the bolt and plummeted. Like a rock thrown into a river scatters minnows, Rashala’s action shifted the air pressure so intensely people began to flee instinctually, trying to get out from under the inevitable weight. Almost instantaneously, the enormous cog no longer powering the mechanics of the room, machines began to explode. Unrelieved pressure of overfull hoppers shot hot bicarbonate slush to flow in lava rivers around colliding barrels, slurry tipping and smothering the boilers, and splintered calcium rained from the frozen tram as the delivery system seized on its tracks; cuttlebones and chalky sticks of aquatic skeletons clattered like spilled jewels.

In the single heartbeat she had to make her voice heard before the world shattered around her, Rashala screamed.

“RUN!”

People shouted, cried, wailed their fear as the factory doors ripped off their weak hinges at the throng of pressure. The crowd rolled out of the breaking building, a mob bursting through the meager plaza. Moving with a warrior’s grace, the Zabrak caught two stumbling children by the back of their ragged shirts, pulling them up into his scarred arms as he pushed at the back of the mass of escapees. Rashala shoved her helmet onto her head, using the display calculations to determine just how far she had to run.

Seconds slowed to quarter-seconds, milliseconds, the world momentarily ceasing to spin as Rashala ran towards the narrowing slice of open air threatening to close before she made it out from under the falling cog.

A single panicked cry–-one of the children who hadn’t kept up with the group dashing for freedom through the doors–-froze Rashala’s heart even as her feet never stopped moving.

She skid without losing momentum, holstering her weapon and sweeping the boy off his feet even as she was momentarily torn between trying for the edge or running back to the open center. Narrow but feasible, she might not make it if she didn’t run the fastest she had ever run in her life. Shadows flattened around them as Rashala made a leap of faith.

The falling cog grazed the top of her head as she propelled herself into the middle, rolling with the frail child tucked tightly against her. The world speeding up far too fast again, Rashala stood tall and straight, shaking, holding the scrawny boy so tight neither of them could breathe. With barely an inch to spare, she had gotten them into the center of the cogwheel where the girthy axel once churned.

No one had been crushed.

Busted pipes leaked cooling slush and dried bicarbonate pumiced the landscape and an enormous plume of toxic dust pillowed up around the wide, blunted spokes. Rashala let the boy go long enough to put her helmet on the child’s head before scooping him back up again, running low and fast through the factory waste fogging the suddenly cool air. She barely skipped backward to avoid a swinging pipe, the ragged copper slicing through choking dust to leave a wide wake. A washer, bouncing and cutting a path with the rest of the exploding machinery, cut her scalp–-barely a scratch–-but blood poured from the shallow wound to dye her blond hair crimson down the left side of her head and trickled down into the collar of her blacks in a warm, sticky stream. Falling debris rippled currents and billowed curtains of terrible dust.

With a sonorous groan, the building began to sink into the scaffolded foundation.

Enormous chunks of duracrete, pocked with duraslug larvae, dropped out from under Rashala’s feet and she leapt with every ounce of strength within her, child tucked tight in her arm. The little boy clung to her neck with a petrified grip. She stretched, the fiber of her being reaching out to help her under the strain of escaping the collapsing factory.

For a moment, Rashala was a speck of dust on a sunbeam, a mote drifting from one side of the universe to the other as the span underneath her completely fell away.

Rashala’s boot tread gripped the edge of the threshold and she barely kept her legs under her, stumbling into the plaza. Her knees cracked against the ragged brick and a rushing storm of dirt, metal shavings, bicarbonate, silica, glass, and innumerable pollutions flowed over her. She buried her face in the crook of her arm and huddled until the wave thinned.

The little boy slipped from her arm and ran, Rashala’s helmet bobbing on his head. He disappeared into the toxic gloam, lost among the vague shadows of frantic people struggling to get away.

Her bracer comm beeped frantically, interrupting the numbing hum dulling her pain and smoothing the jagged edges of her fear, and Rashala smacked her hand over the display to wipe away the crust just enough to read the message.

Crosshair was hurt.

The district was in ruins, the squad scattered. Everyone around her reeked with panic. A few of the hungry wretched grabbed glops of gruel from the overturned meal hut on their path through the ruined plaza. Steam spewed from busted pipes and fluffy grey debris tumbled across Rashala’s narrow line of sight in the gloom.

She could run. There was no one to stop her, no one to recognize her or keep her from making her way to the cargo ports. If she couldn’t find a thorilide tanker, she’d barter for transportation, join a crew, stowaway on a ship… anything to get away from the Empire.

The overheated, stinking, gasping planet seemed to shake as the Partisan bomb exploded deep beneath the scaffolded surface of the collapsed factory. Rashala clenched her teeth at knowing how close she’d been to death. The other factories swayed on their weak foundations but held fast, even if some were at a permanent lean after the ground ceased shaking; had the bomb been at the surface when it went off, everything under the immediate shroud of bicarbonate-laced dust would be leveled. Ola hadn’t lied about the bomb: it was real and now buried beneath the remnants of one of thousands of factories spread like parasites across Metalorn.

Getting to her feet, Rashala put her hands on her knees and spit residue, hacking and coughing until she could get a clean enough breath to stand straight. Making a decision, Rashala left the exploded pit behind.

Her bracer comm continued to beep.

--–

“Come out, come out,” the mercenary taunted, and Crosshair couldn’t move even to curl up under the alleyway debris. He had no qualms hiding if staying out of sight saved his life but the indignity was the same either way. With hundreds of pounds of weight bearing down on half his body, he didn’t have much of a choice.

Straining to peer around the blocky edge of the duracrete pinning him to the soupy alleyway ground, Crosshair caught a glimpse of blue hair and a thick neck; the tip of the barrel on the mercenary’s rifle was scanning, searching… The sniper forced his shoulders to relax, then his free arm, making his body listen even as he suppressed the natural panic welling at the base of his throat. He tried and failed to push up on the duracrete slab trapping him, mind recognizing the waste of energy in the effort even as his spirit wanted to continue to try and free himself.

When the world shook and the buildings leaned and everything seemed to tilt precariously before finally giving way, Crosshair twisted just in time to avoid taking the toppling slab directly to his head. A large portion of the factory wall folded outwards and onto the piles of bicarbonate, the crumbling powder flattening to leave a gap beneath the massive grey masonry just narrow enough to avoid crushing a tall, thin body. His armor whined under the pressure, all suit alarm overrides negating under the consistent weight trapping half his limbs and a good portion of his abdomen, and an automatic alert went out to his squad that their commander was compromised.

If anyone was still alive, they’d come for him.

He dared hope someone would come for him.

“Playin’ or just a coward?” the mercenary called out, pebbles tumbling off sloped debris as he haphazardly picked his way through the rubble.

Crosshair desperately wanted a pick to distract himself as he became prey.

“Can’t say anyone’d miss ya. Bit of a bastard, aren’t ya? Pickin’ fights…”

Hunter always hated the automatic suit-generated alerts, too. Tech managed to convince the leader not once or twice but three times that the genius had disabled the suit alarms only for Hunter to discover the lie once the rest of the Batch came to his rescue. The only way they would have found him on Serenno, Skako, or Kooriva was with the help of the suit alerts. Still, the tattooed soldier complained in his gruff, disapproving way that a piece of plastoid could overrule his own better judgement.

Now the sniper knew why. He never would have sent out a distress of his own will, especially if the mercenary was anywhere nearby.

“If your shitty army didn’t pay so well, I wouldn’a stuck around,” the mercenary said, pitch shifting momentarily when he slipped on uneven mortar. “Clones… buncha kriffin’ weirdos. Buncha driek-lickers.”

Unlike Hunter, he never had to worry about his own squad shooting him when he was most vulnerable.

Before the Empire, that was.

Agony—gripping, grinding, aching, boring, clawing—squeezed him tighter than a vise, pressed him into nothingness, surpassed the weight of the duracrete a thousandfold. The pain, the betrayal… Loneliness, sheer and utter loneliness, threatened to torture him the rest of his already shortened life.

Soldiers weren’t made to stand alone. There was a brotherhood, a comforting in belonging to something so much bigger than himself, that he’d never truly shed no matter how much he pretended to try, no matter how much he actually tried, and Crosshair wished the loss would finally kill him because he was too much of a coward to do it himself.

Blind allegiance makes you a pawn…

Behind the safety of his helmet, Crosshair let his stoic sneer crumple.

“Might be doin’ everyone a favor,” the mercenary said, heavy footsteps getting closer.

The horror of being trapped under an insurmountable weight, alone and waiting—always waiting, in the shallow crevices of his weary heart—for brothers who had abandoned him and would never return, seized him by the throat and left him gasping for air. His helmet filters rasping as harsh as his own voice, Crosshair knew in terrified certainty he gave himself away, but couldn’t keep fighting his body’s desperate reaction to being crushed. Thick boots, muddy and non-regulation, stepped into his peripheral.

“There you are.”

A rifle barrel pressed against his helmeted forehead.

He chose to face the end with open eyes, even as his lungs pressed for more air and he gulped back all the things he had never said and wouldn’t ever get a chance to say and the moments leading to the end of his life were panicked, rushed, racing, tilting and tripping and falling through him to set every nerve, every neuron, every ounce, inch, pound, millimeter of his body stretching to keep up with his blindingly fast thoughts that still couldn’t outpace the tumbling and insurmountable force that was the certainty he thought death would be different, calmer, colder, quieter, more certain and more welcome because then he’d have done something for someone besides just following orders—

A single blaster shot whipped through the filthy night.

“Crosshair!”

To hear his name—his name—split the darkness…

Rashala slipped on cracked silica sheets and deceptively round chunks of shattered brick, bicarbonate shifting like sand under her feet in her efforts to get to the sniper. He wasn’t moving, completely still where the duracrete slab had him pinned like a beetle in a shadowbox. The blue-haired mercenary slumped on the spot where she had stunned him, unconscious, and the Stassian inadvertently kicked his ridiculous rifle aside when she finally made it to Crosshair.

“Sir! Commander!”

She pushed at the enormous slab with a foolish effort, knowing it wouldn’t budge and trying anyway. Ten of her wouldn’t do so much as shift the wall off the sniper by a hair’s breadth. Only when she holstered her blaster to kneel and slip her hand under the precarious angle to press her fingers to Crosshair’s neck did she understand the clone was unconscious.

“Crosshair?” Rashala asked quietly, the sniper’s heartbeats slow and stuttering in the terrible way she knew nothing could last long with such a pulse.

Tentative like a child, scared like she was when her brother’s mine shaft collapsed, as lost and lonely as when she interned her parents after their death, Rashala pulled the hand away only to push it over her trembling lips.

If he died, she’d be free. She wouldn’t need to fight the guilt of leaving him to suffer under ruins in a disgusting alley. She could go and, whether or not she found a transport, would have nothing to look back on as a failure to do the right thing.

But he wasn’t dead—not yet—and a plan threatened to form in the back of her mind if she dared return to Coruscant.

Placing both hands on the edge of the duracrete slab, Rashala begged herself to go. Pleaded with herself to abandon the callous, unyielding, cynical sniper. She owed no one anything, had no desire to do anything but reclaim as much of her old life as she could. Stassa II was waiting for her return: she could leave the Empire with nothing to look back on as anything but what she was forced to do as a victim of circumstance.

If the sniper died, she could go without regret.

The Sahaslia mountains, pastel pink and amber gold in a sunrise even the best painters couldn’t capture if they tried, beckoned in a prayer so insistent she listen that Rashala’s hands clenched in absolute desperation. Rivers and streams serpentined silver ribbons through overfull valleys flush with broadleaf and targatails, animals making their homes in the deep burrows and wide canopies of the forests bordering the village, and the familiar marbled orbs of Stassa I and Risedel spun overhead. Cups of tet-roasted coffee and gooey sap candies and steaming hunks of venison waited at the tavern, a mug of barrel-aged brew pushed into her grip by a grinning, laughing best friend who only wanted to dance and sing whenever possible. Her brothers, her childhood home, even her tiny cabin house near the base of the trail that led up to the NATSIC M… All of it waited for her.

Under Rashala’s hands, the minute spaces between duracrete particles started to spin effervescent, heat and pressure building to pop the borders of needle-like silica fibers. Microscopic crystals flared and burned under the intensity, a wildfire raging with in the harsh confinement of the molecular structure compiling the slab pinning Crosshair to the ground. The electrons shuddered and forms failed, the massive chunk of duracrete beginning to shake from the pressure, and Rashala let out an infuriated shout that held as much grief as it did rage.

Conflict, boiling inside each muscle and every vein, poured from her. The duracrete couldn’t withstand the stress. In a thousand shards, the slab exploded, and Rashala pushed the broken pieces from her without knowing how. Debris rained down to tap like wet drops against the wasted bicarbonate and scattered in clattering bangs against the remains of sheet metal factory walls. Rashala bent into herself, covering her head as pulverized duracrete powdered her thoroughly, and leaned into Crosshair’s sprawled form.

She made her choice.

Trusting Ola’s promise there would be a transport waiting for her if she made it through the undercity on Coruscant, Rashala made peace with her decision as easily as fitting a cup to a saucer. She felt nothing but relief as she stared at Crosshair’s helmeted head and waited for a sign of his return to consciousness.

Chapter Text

Intense headlamps and landing lights were little more than shifting smudges in the blizzard of grey, fluffy dust spinning up under the engines as the transport barely fit in the empty industrial plaza. With the ground as unstable as it was, landing arms rested the bulky metal gut for just long enough to load the soldiers before retracting again, the ship rising quickly through the pillar of spun bicarbonate and factory rubble. Rashala didn’t look out the front shield to see if she could glimpse the gaping hole left in the planet’s crusty surface where an enormous factory once stood: she’d seen enough of Metalorn to know she’d never willingly return.

Router clipped Crosshair’s field gurney to the side of the durasteel wall and secured a medical pack from under the cargo bay benches, moving quickly but efficiently through the thin metal container. Router stuck Crosshair’s neck with a long needle and the Stassian barely managed to sit down before her knees gave out. The sniper tried to turn his head but sank under the drug without recourse. Whatever was in the syringe didn’t take its time.

With Tick, Kie, and the blue-haired mercenary gone, only a handful of regs remained, and the ship was overwhelmingly loud in the absence of bodies to absorb the sound. Most of Router’s Red Team was missing but Rashala couldn’t bring herself to ask him what happened. He hadn’t asked her yet about Blue Team, the explosion, or Crosshair’s injuries. She was grateful for the reprieve from the undercurrent of worry about having to explain, as she herself didn’t know exactly what happened even though she lived through it.

She lived through it.

The Metalorn mission was over and Rashala made it out alive where other, more experienced soldiers hadn’t.

Her luck persisted.

Dipping her head between her armored knees, Rashala breathed slowly, calming her racing heart and settling her jumping stomach. Everything was starting to hurt, from her ankles to her elbows to her neck, and the residual adrenaline that kept her moving through all the chaos was little more than a nauseous trickle through her veins. Like a faucet, her survival chemicals turned off when the ship engines fought the pollution for oxygen and pushed into the atmosphere, and Rashala was left cold and shaking.

“Get on the floor if you’re gonna pass out,” Router told her, his helmet filters modulating his voice into a timbre indiscernible from his brothers. “Hurts less that way. And I’ve already got a patient.”

“I’ll- I’ll be fine. I’m fine.”

“Then come help.”

The other soldiers slumped into their seats, each pulling their tired bodies in on themselves as they came off the same rush Rashala struggled out of. She wondered if they felt the same guilt she did that she made it and others hadn’t.

Although she was exhausted, Crosshair’s slim form was unsettlingly still on the gurney and it wasn’t fair for Router to have to attend to their commander by himself if she was able to assist. Her legs still shook but she made it across the cargo bay without falling until she got to Crosshair’s side and had to grip the side of the gurney to keep from a second collapse when she saw the damage to the sniper’s armor.

His breastplate was almost concave on the left side, the dark armor pressing into his broken ribs, and fractured plastoid bit into his arm through his blacks. His collar was rimmed in a thick band of grey dust and white bicarbonate flaked from him as the ship jostled in the last layers of turbulent stratosphere to finally clear the technology planet’s sickly light pollution. The mesosphere, riddled with stars and blank with the airless vacuum of infinite space, deepened the shadows in the cargo bay. Router activated a harsh light over Crosshair’s gurney.

“Take all that off,” Router gestured at Crosshair’s armor, “I’m gonna check on the boys.”

Router’s dirty, scraped white plastoid shifted glaringly bright as he moved out of the blue-tinged spot, leaving her alone with the commander. Rashala heard Router’s voice shift as he took off his helmet to speak with his men and, although she wasn’t able to see him through the darkness beyond the border of light, she let his leadership comfort her. Router knew what to do. She didn’t have to figure out how to be a military medic or how to convince a disheartened squad to follow her: she could be a follower without losing part of what she strove so hard to learn and earn in her control of the NATSIC M. In her attempts to simply make it through the mission in one piece, Rashala didn’t think to consider leadership until she saw Router’s skills in action once again. Over and over again, he proved himself a natural commander, even beyond Crosshair’s own extensive knowledge and experience.

Crosshair.

The sniper was fully unconscious, the stick from Router’s administered sedative leaving a pinprick glisten of blood against the pale dirt smeared into his skin. Rashala stopped herself from wiping it away with her gloved thumb, hesitating at the sight of her filthy hand, and instead removed the broken armor crossing the commander’s chest.

Disconnecting the damaged breastplate was harder than she anticipated and she was almost embarrassed for the clumsiness in which she removed his armor. He’d sneer at her with no real malice, all teeth and no bite, if he was awake to see the attempt. Rashala spared a relieved sigh to see no bones pierced through his skin. The blacks were ruined, bleeding gashes oozing where the armor cut his arm, and Rashala did the best she could picking the ceramic-shielded shards from where they snagged on weave and flesh. His thigh plates were equally damaged and she unclasped them with a quiet duty, moving down his body until only his boots were left.

Checking he was still heavily sedated and his oxygen mask secure, Rashala pulled a tweezers and strip-tape from the sanitary wrappers, starting in on the careful work of removing debris from Crosshair’s pale skin. The vibrating thrum of the engines stabilizing, burning out the last of the Metalorn particulate as the pilot mapped jump coordinates, set the din to a familiar hum not unlike the equipment whirring in the NATSIC M.

Router’s familiar voice was a comfort in his distant conversation, reminding Rashala of Scopsen and her crew going about their duties without her direct supervision. She focused on her task with a heady familiarity that calmed her racing heart and gave her a brief, thin burst of energy. She tapped the removed rubble onto the lid of the medical kit, rubbing and pulling the strip-tape over the finer splinters to tug them out of his skin, and cut along the torn edges of the dark fabric to ensure she didn’t miss any.

Refusing to hesitate lest she lose her nerve, Rashala removed her gloves and opened a bacta packet, pushing the gel into the wounds after sanitizing her hands. Crosshair’s skin was cold and the bacta colder. Salt welled in the back of her mouth and trickled down her throat, her lungs suddenly burning with a sting she couldn’t cough out, and she was desperately parched for water. She wondered if she was about to collapse, hallucinating an ocean when she’d never even seen one with her own eyes, but removed her hand from Crosshair only to find the sea-swept ache dissipate from her sore muscles as quickly as it appeared.

“Doin’ good work,” Router said over her shoulder, startling her into dropping the empty bacta pack on the floor. She grabbed at her throat with a gasp, wheeling on the clone for scaring her.

“That’s twice now,” she choked out, muttering a Stassian curse as she wiped the gooy bacta gel onto her grey thighplate. Her armor shed crusty bicarbonate at the motion, flakes drifting to the ground.

“Your problem,” Router smiled wearily, inspecting Rashala’s work. “Nice job on the arm.”

“Doesn’t feel broken. I’m not sure.”

“Leg?”

“Haven’t gotten that far.”

Router pulled the roll of strip-tape across the gurney and started in on Crosshair’s thigh, using his hands to scatter the loose rubble from the sniper’s hip. He pressed his scanner to the sniper’s own tech, the bracer barely functional as it tried and failed several times to push data from Crosshair’s comm brace to Router’s; the stack Rashala made of Crosshair’s damaged armor shifted as the transport jostled.

“He’s not gonna die but we’re gonna keep him sedated. Or he’ll wish he would have died, if he wakes up before we get him into a bacta tank.”

“That bad?”

“Well… I’ve seen worse.”

Router’s confidence could have been misconstrued as false hope had Rashala not believed him by nature of who she knew him to be. Router hadn’t ever lied to her, as far as she knew, and—as she took the offered dressing forceps—Router had no reason to lie to her now.

“Get some of that larger frack out of there,” he ordered, pointing at Crosshair’s chest. “I’ll start in on the leg.”

“I can-“

“It’ll be bloody.”

Rashala stopped herself with the awareness Router was likely doing her a kindness as much as he was reminding her she knew nothing practical about field dressing a wound. Letting Router work without interruption was the best thing for Crosshair.

Calmly, ebbing the flow of regret and phantom saltwater coursing through her nervous, exhausted body, Rashala picked duracrete rubble from her commander’s open wounds.

---

Kamino spun a perpetual tempest. Crosshair couldn’t remember the last time he fell asleep without the howling lullaby of a thunderstorm beating at the thick glass windows.

Wrecker’s snores, punctured by the occasional whiplike snap of thunder against the hull, were hardly out of the ordinary. Nor were Hunter’s mumblings from across the room, vicious memories struggling against the dampening efforts of desperate sleep; the leader was hardly alone in his nightmares, each of the brothers struggling at one time or another with the involuntary response of the brain’s attempt to make sense of their mission aftermath.

Missions. A dozen turned to hundreds turned to thousands, all with one hundred percent success rate: Tech made sure of it, massaging the paperwork and advising their verbal reports. Kamino was a long way from anywhere and the clones, this bad batch, always had plenty of time to agree on an official version.

This last mission, though… that agreement was long-argued and hard-won. The official report: no insurgent activity.

But everyone in the bunkroom knew the truth.

Tech and Wrecker, polar opposites in every way but morality, were the last to agree despite Hunter’s near pleading as Kamino came within sight through the Marauder’s front shields. That the report was filed later than usual for Clone Force 99 disturbed no one but the bad batch themselves; no one said much of anything, not even Tech, as they landed the gunship and made their way to their barrack. Wrecker immediately curled in on his tooka doll and went unusually quiet until his even breathing shifted to snores. Echo and Tech wearily agreed with Hunter’s insistence they all just needed a good night’s sleep before anyone could do anything about what they encountered on Onderon.

Only Crosshair’s silence was authentic, the others fighting their instinct to let their voices be heard in what they respected as Hunter’s court of authority.   

And now, stretched out in his blacks and rolling his tongue behind his teeth, the sniper listened to the restless skies and wished for half a moment that sleep could come as easy as the questions rolling through his mind. Fear twisted his gut as his headache shifted from a dull throb to a stabbing pain over his right ear, a pain he didn’t yet know would become as familiar to him as bitter solitude.

All of him hurt and he didn’t know why.

---

Router spared Rashala most of the work stabilizing Crosshair’s leg, the Stassian forcing herself to keep from cringing whenever she heard a snap or a thud. She could only guess what was Router resetting Crosshair’s joint back into the hip socket and what was the splint pulling thigh and shin bones back together. Router pulled several injections from the bottom of the medkit, including an all too familiar medicine from Rashala’s medbay stint rapidly mending broken bones under pharmaceutical influence.

She focused on Crosshair’s skin as she worked, letting the severity of his wounds guide her first pass and following trails of scars on the second. So many old injuries, few of which were treated with any care, marred his pale skin. Sparse, dark hairs curled in the middle of his chest, patches of shiny scar tissue mottling the thin trail down his stomach and down past his beltline; although Router kept the bottoms as intact as he could, the clone had helped Rashala remove the shredded top and showed her how to apply kineseo bandages to the heavy bruises beginning to ripple across Crosshair’s damaged muscles. To avoid watching exactly why Router had so much blood on his hands as he worked, Rashala kept her eyes on Crosshair and didn’t look away.

Even when fully unconscious, he held an aware intensity Rashala had never seen on another person before. The reticle tattoo did its best to harden the sniper’s features and distinguish him even more from his brothers but the severe lines on his face did the work for him. No matter how tan, broad-shouldered, and generally jovial the generic clones might vary from individual to individual, they all were undoubtedly members of the same genetic map. Crosshair was uncharted waters, an island in and of himself. His long face and aquiline nose stretched thin skin like a grey canvas; although closed, as cold and bright as frozen amber, his eyes brought a vital spark of something human to his otherwise impenetrable pallor. Dark stubble crossed his jaw and a thin sheen of recently shorn silver hair covered his scalp but for the terrible molten patch above his ear. Rashala studied the helmet when she placed it under the gurney: if he hadn’t been wearing the customized bucket, he’d certainly be dead.

She worked to a steady internal rhythm, a clarion bell reverberating through her blood whenever her heartbeat and Crosshair’s temporarily matched tempo. She removed brittle, crumbling pieces of duracrete from the wounds, rinsing with saline and brushing with bacta before bandaging with clean white linen patches, and the work became easier when she accepted the ebb and flow of phantom sensations every time she touched his skin with her own. Metallic rain from alien storm clouds chilled her beyond the deepening cool of space travel and a sterile taste bloomed on the sides of her tongue to contradict the strange, watery brine Rashala was sure she had never experienced herself in her entire life. Worry cycled up through her, amplifying with each pass through her confused, tired mind, and she calmed herself with the tidy work she made of Crosshair’s damaged skin. The medical tools were more than adequate to patch him back together, Router showing Rashala how to use each one as the clone finished work on saving Crosshair’s crushed leg. She couldn’t help but to stifle an unexpected yawn.

“You’ll get the best sleep of your life when we get back,” Router joked half-heartedly, the soldier just as tired as Rashala and the rest of the squad. In the fringes of the spotlight hovering over the gurney, the other men slept, some dozing off immediately after Router gave them permission to rest and others trying and failing to keep their eyes open while watching Router and Rashala work on the wounded commander.

“Doubtful,” she said, pointedly staring at Router’s bloody hands. The clone wiped his fingers on a sterile cloth, point taken.

“Before the Empire reorganized us, I was part of the 212^th. Ghost Company. When the long-necks put us through our paces for assignments ahead of our first deployment, before I was sent out under Cody’s command, I showed aptitude as a medic.” Router tightened one of the bandages on Crosshair’s leg before placing a thermpack under the thigh. “Tested out of every one of the exams with flying colors. But medics don’t have a chance at becoming ARC troopers. Not by a long shot. And that’s all I wanted to be.”

“I’ve been shot out of the sky, blasted halfway across Ryloth, and blown out of at least two Nu-class shuttles but I only sleep as well as I do after fixing up one of the men,” he continued, unfurling a thin sheet from the end of the gurney. He covered Crosshair up to the sniper’s throat, Rashala moving out of his way as Router worked. “The rush of just trying to keep up with Cody and the General was unlike anything else. Especially when the 501^st got involved… But keeping a soldier from dying? That’s work you can see… Work that makes a difference. Keeps the nightmares away.”

Router checked the brace around Crosshair’s neck and tucked the corners of the thermal blanket under the sniper’s shoulders, mind obviously elsewhere as he backtracked battles Rashala couldn’t begin to imagine. As it was, the horrors of Metalorn would join Desix in her terrible dreams, and the Stassian didn’t know if she could ever sleep well again knowing the freedom she might have given up in favor of a wild hope at a safer way home. Navigating Metalorn might have been extraordinarily risky but could she forgive herself at the end of each rotation for delivering herself back into the Empire’s hands?

She tucked Crosshair’s hand under the crinkly blanket, adding another thermpack at his wrist. A stringent flavor bloomed again across her tongue, a sense of salt-soaked skin souring to sores leaving a prickle across the back of her neck, and she shuddered.

“You sure you’re not hurt?”

Router watched Rashala as she stood at the sniper’s side, the Stassian frowning to herself as information from her illicit datapad tumbled together in the jumble of tired thoughts slogging between her ears. She spun a theory in her mind, Router’s reminiscing about his place in a famed battalion pulling a key concept into striking contrast.

The General, leading Router through battle… Battalions were led by—

“Who was the General?”

“What?”

“Of the 212^th. Who was in charge?”

Router’s face fell before he pulled each muscle into a stoic mask against Rashala’s inquisitive stare. He hid something, she was sure of it, and he didn’t seem like he was going to budge against her questioning if she pushed the matter.

“They were all Jedi, right?”

“And what does that have to do with this?”

By the way he gestured at Crosshair’s unconscious form on the gurney, Rashala was painfully aware he was trying to distract her—even shame her—away from her sudden expectation of an answer.

“Router, can you do me a favor?”

“Little busy at the moment,” he countered, flattening his brows in frustration as Rashala leaned against the gurney and crossed her arms in weary thought.

“I- I know why the Empire wanted me,” she admitted, “but I’m not sure exactly what that means. Miter told me something before Desix, when we were on the transport…”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated, realizing this wasn’t something she knew how to explain in any way words could realize.

“Do you trust me?”

“Sure, but-“

“Give me your hand.”

Router’s sidelong look at Rashala didn’t stop his fingers from their work preparing another injection for Crosshair, the clone’s wariness proving he didn’t know if Rashala was joking or not.

“Don’t know what you’ve got going on in your mind but I don’t have the energy for anything you’d call a good time on Stassa-”

“I’m not hitting on you, you wefta. I’m figuring out if the Empire was right about me.”

Rashala’s unamused, unimpressed frown gave Router reason to pause. The clone raised a dark eyebrow in horrible mimicry of Crosshair’s own silent prompting for Rashala’s unspoken motive to make itself known before he agreed to something he’d regret. Scrunching up his chin, Router sucked on his teeth as he gave Crosshair one more injection to guard against infection.

“About why you’re here.”

A statement, not a question.

“Yes. And what I can do, or what the Empire thinks I can do.”

“That’s something you’re still not sure of?”

“No.”

Router stared at Rashala in semblance of unamused disbelief.

“You’re joking—”

“I’m not.“

“But you must be. I haven’t seen someone throw a man without touching him since Rex went over a bridge with General Skywalker on his heels.”

“But-“

“You’re blind, deaf, and dumb if you don’t know why the Empire took you by now and how to use that power.”

“Thanks, Router, but-“

“No, listen here.”

The clone put both hands on Rashala’s folded arms, intensely focused as the Stassian closed herself off from even regretting asking Router for help.

“Everyone in the galaxy wants to be told they’re special,” he said, “but that isn’t the way the galaxy works. We’re millions upon billions of tiny specks, none of us any more or less important than the others, but that isn’t the way things go. Some people are treated like gods and some are treated like trash and none of it is fair.”

“You’re not all that special,” Router continued before Rashala could speak, tilting into a brotherly grin when she tried and failed to keep from a self-depreciating smirk. “You’re No One from the mid-Rim sticks without more than a stick and a half to rub together now that you’re off that kriffin’ moon. But the Empire knew what they were after when they took you and, Maker help you, now you know, too.”

“But-“

“So why are you wasting your time asking questions you already know the answers to? Why are you running back and forth with yourself? Accepting who you are is only part of the work you need to do.”

Rashala recognized the truth for what it was and despised her own insecurities at the relief Router said exactly what she needed to hear.

“Put that energy into surviving,” the clone insisted with a rough pat on her arm.

Router nodded at her like her oldest brother might and Rashala felt just as embarrassed as she did after Thulig was done lecturing her. Thulig, tallest and loudest in the family, would try to fix her with a sober stare cracking under the pressure of trying to be serious when he’d rather laugh at Rashala’s inability to hide her own thoughts and intentions. Suddenly, in the cold hum breaking the silence of an otherwise quiet ship hurtling through space, Rashala felt like Thulig was there with her, Router’s hands turned to her older brother’s where they rested on her crossed arms. She laughed despite herself.

“What’s so funny?”

Rashala, fully aware chuckling just inches away from Crosshair’s comatose body was fully inappropriate, laughed harder. She heard herself edge in on giggles when Router’s frown fell under her contagious noise and the clone shook her gently.

“You’re cracking up, soldier.”

“No, no, I’m okay,” she argued even as she laughed, realizing she didn’t sound like she was okay in any sense of the word. “You- you just reminded me of when I was busted trying to sneak out of the house and Thulig-“

She tried to get ahold of herself even as she chuckled, squishing down thoughts of home and brothers even though they chased away the darkness lapping at all sides.

“I’m sorry, Router. Really. But I’ve never been able to do what the Empire says I can do. I don’t know what the Force is, or how to use it, or even anyone else who knows about it. Jedi were children’s stories where I come from, nothing more.”

“But the war-“

“I work in intergalactic communications and I still have no clue what the Clone Wars involved,” she admitted, shaking her head. “I never paid attention to any of it. I didn’t need to. Stassa II was fine until the Empire showed up.”

A blindingly bright image of Timp’s blood in the snow and Sisrai chatter filling her ears, Rashala sobered up from her momentary lapse of controlled emotion. The few rare and beautiful things she held close in the night, accompanied by songs of her homeland and hymns from her village, weren’t deserving of a spacecraft audience limping back to an inner-Rim planet after an arduous, bloody battle fought on behalf of an oppressor.

“Router, just give me your hand.”

The clone frowned but gave her his open palm with the severity of a tired soldier looking to end an uncomfortable conversation, which was exactly what Rashala felt when she took his hand in a tentative shake. His exhaustion was palpable, his concern justified, and he pulled back when she slipped quietly along his fraying nerves. Aches in his feet crawled up his legs; an old wound that never properly healed pulsing with pulpy animosity under his left rib; his head hurt—not any more or less than usual since the Order was given—and his left eye was partially clouded; if they found out about the eye, they’d decommission him, he’d be gone, separated from the others and diminished to nothing more than work in the shipyards until the rest of him fell apart, he’d never see another rotation of service if they found out about the eye—

Router’s slip of panic at Rashala’s inadvertent invasion unsettled both their systems and Router coughed to skip his heart back into rhythm. The little bit of strength she had left to heal herself was suddenly split in half, an exponentially decreasing part of herself bounding along Router’s nerves. Catching herself in her proverbial fall through Router’s thoughts, Rashala recentered her focus on rebuilding the broken pieces flowing through her friend, Router’s cells restacking in the proper order, and she tugged on a tangled line in the weave of Router’s very essence; as though blinking away remnants of sleep in her own eye, Router’s vision began to clear before the connection was broken. The clone flushed when he yanked his hand away.

“What did you do?”

Rashala took a deep, shuddering breath. The intuitive reach toward Router’s most pressing pain was startlingly clear. All she had to do was focus and—

“Did you feel that?” she asked with a gasp, the start of an excited smile falling from her face as she felt the intense pressure of Router’s severely startled stare.

“And what did you do?”

The soldiers around them stirred, some of them starting awake at their leader’s concerned voice sharpening over the droning engines.

“You were hurting,” she said, suddenly afraid she just lost an ally when she couldn’t stand the thought of truly facing the Command Center without someone at her back. “I tried to think- healing thoughts?”

Router stared at his hand, flipping his fingers and rotating his thumbs as though he could see through his own skin, glancing at Rashala as the Stassian kept herself from shifting nervously from foot to tired foot.

“It didn’t hurt, right?”

“No… No, not at all.”

“But you’re upset.”

For a moment, everything made sense. Everything had a place. All Rashala did was see where the pieces didn’t quite fit and shift them back, as simple as using a single finger to slide a coin across a table. She practically shook with the realization she had not only intentionally made a change but a change for the better. She stared at Router in tired but elated awe.

“I’m-“ Router paused to find the right word and Rashala didn’t interrupt, watching the clone think very carefully about what he was going to stay next. “-I’m not sure what to feel. Twelves, this… This is beyond me.”

Rashala shivered, shaking off the momentary wave of amplified exhaustion in the wake of trying to intentionally heal someone with an ability she barely knew she had, much less how to control. When she opened up the awareness she needed to see all the moving pieces, she couldn’t regulate the flow of her own energy, giving all or nothing. Rashala watched Router try to come to terms with what just happened.

“Have you always been able to do this?”

“No! No, I’m just as confused as anyone else.”

“And you’re, what? Looking to experiment on someone?”

“Router, please-“

The clone put a hand to his face, hesitating only a moment when he realized the fingers massaging his furrowed eyebrows were the ones Rashala held just moments before. He heaved a sigh from the tips of his toenails, waving Rashala to stay as she tried to sidle down the gurney and away from the confused soldier.

“Just- just give me a moment.”

He waved her to stay and she barely obeyed, trusting their—friendship?—to hold despite the high strangeness she’d put on him.

“Does this happen every time you touch someone?” he asked, as brusque as though he asked for a mission report.

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that was the first time I did it on purpose.”

Router’s dark glance flickered over Crosshair.

“Can you heal him?”

“I think I accidentally did, a little,” Rashala admitted. “But I can’t control it as well, not when I touch him. Not like just now, where I had to think about what I intended. That was just me reaching out to you. Nothing came back.”

“What do you mean, nothing came back?”

“No salt, no rain. Nothing but presence, like- like a plant-“

“Oh, thanks-“

“Yrisadael, wait for this poor man to catch up,” Rashala swore in Stassian on the moon’s patron goddess, fixing Router with a flat stare. “I don’t know how else to put it, Router. I’m figuring this out as I go along.”

“Obviously.”

“But, my point is, I didn’t get anything back but confirmation you’re there. You. Like, you’re there but you’re not pushing back.”

Rashala looked at Crosshair over her shoulder, aware of every ache and bruise in her own body as she did so. The sniper was so pale she momentarily worried if he breathed, waiting for his chest to rise and fall in a full cycle under the thermal blanket.

“I always get something back from him, whether or not I want it,” she said, staring at the commander. “When he helped me in the medbay, after Viz… I think Crosshair knows something he doesn’t want me to know but I don’t-“

“He knows you’re Force-sensitive, Twelves. That’s why he was put as your commander, after Kamino. The Batch-“

Router cut himself off, catching Rashala’s full attention as she watched him struggle with exactly how much to tell her.

“Look, it isn’t my place,” he explained, almost embarrassed for what felt more like gossip than truth. “Cross… doesn’t get along with everyone. Kriff, anyone. But he tolerates you.”

“That’s all well and fine-“

“He’s gone through things he won’t tell any of his brothers about, or the upper officers, or probably even the med droids. I can’t- I can’t tell you what I found when I pulled him off Kamino. That isn’t my story to tell.”

“If it helps me understand him, if it helps me understand what I can do,” Rashala balked, “then does it matter whose story-“

“We’ve gone over this more than enough, Twelves,” Router cut over her. “You’ve been dropped into the middle of something not even the rest of us understand and then expect answers like we have them to give.”

“But-“

“The Batch were genetically modified beyond the Republic’s goal of making soldiers. They’re Force experiments gone wrong!”

Router spit out his statement as though the words were distasteful to say aloud in decent company.

The ship suddenly felt very cold and extremely loud, the engine-noise pressing at Rashala’s ears. Router seemed desperate for escape from the conversation and any soldier previously sleeping was now only pretending. Rashala was acutely aware of the spotlight pressing down on the gurney with harsh light casting short shadows on the grated floor. Her armor and her blacks weren’t enough layers for space and she shivered.

“The rest of us, we’re all tweaked here and there. The original material started to degrade near the end. We… we could tell.”

The clone wouldn’t look at her as he spoke, embarrassment and shame mingling to match her own as she regretted pushing him so hard even as she knew she needed answers to better forge her own path.

“Every soldier was created in a lab,” Router reluctantly continued, “and some of us, well, we needed more adjustment than others. But we all came up the same, the long-necks made sure of it. The Kaminoans were cruel, Twelves. They weren’t like you and me. They had their own agenda, answered to their own rules.”

“Had? What happened to them?”

“Does it matter? They’re gone.”

Rashala stared at Router and the clone looked almost pained as he cut his voice down to a whisper, leashing his increasing frustration. He wiped the back of his hand over his ear, rubbing at the side of his head.

“I told you all this back at base, your first rotation in the caf-“

“But how does this explain- Can you all use the Force? Or, this… this Batch, you call them? Are they the only ones?”

“The Jedi commissioned us all, each and every one of us,” Router said, his intensity like a snapping band across the humming air. “They got what they asked for. But that’s never enough, is it? With some of us… they took it too far. And we hated them for it. More or less.”

The clone stared at Crosshair’s unconscious grimace before crossing his arms to stand at the head the gurney in a loose attention, glaring down at the unconscious man. Rashala knew he was pointedly ignoring her question but didn’t want to risk pushing Router beyond his undoubted breaking point. He wore the armor so well, bore the brunt of command so easily, that Rashala—even with her outsider’s empathy and unique perspective—forgot he was no machine. Her guilt curled in her gut and she mouthed a soft, inaudible apology that Router accepted with little more than a brief tip of his chin.

The engines roared around them as Rashala and Router each studied Crosshair with quiet intensity.

“Salt, you said?” he eventually asked, glancing at her warily.

Rashala nodded, afraid she had pushed Router too far and anything akin to friendship was washed away, but Router simply sucked his teeth thoughtfully behind closed lips as he stared at the reddened patch of scars on the side of Crosshair’s head.

“That’s not my story to tell,” he repeated eventually, turning from the sniper. Surprisingly, he leaned back against the edge of the gurney and nudged Rashala’s elbow when she refused to look at him. “What? You’re shy now?”

“No, I-“

Rashala realized her childish worries when Router nudged her again, their plate armor clicking like muskala horns.

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he joked, not quite covering the exhausted worry that only a soldier’s intentional stoicism could mask. “Scare me half to death with that Force hujuidu but I’ve never personally known a Jedi. Didn’t work with the General directly. That was always Cody’s—”

Router stopped himself as conflict jammed up his words.

“I’m not a Jedi,” Rashala quickly amended, cheeks flushing despite herself. “I don’t even know how the Force works.”

“That’s obvious.”

Rashala smiled despite herself, Router’s good nature setting her a little more at ease. They rested against the foot of Crosshair’s gurney, listening to the ship’s engines and taking in the transitory moments between Metalorn and Coruscant. They had survived a Partisan attack and lost many men—Rashala regretted she wouldn’t see Tick and Kie again—but they had made it out alive. When she shut her eyes against the needlelike slip of stars at lightspeed, she saw the mercenary’s rifle pushed against Crosshair’s helmet. What if she had been a moment too late? She shuddered again. Router pulled her out of her thoughts with another clack of his elbow against hers.

“All the di’kuts in the galaxy and you end up with all the goods,” Router chuckled half-heartedly, no real malice in the action. “That’s a lot on someone who just wanted to stick around home all her life.”

Rashala didn’t know what to say, grateful and exhausted and no less confused than before but significantly relieved.

“So, I take it you’re gonna give the Imperial Army a chance? You didn’t run.”

She froze, holding her breath as she waited for Router to call her on her bluff returning to Coruscant only to escape into the undercity. Nervously, she waited for the soldier to tell her he knew everything—Ola, the data chip, throwing away her armor in a chance to run only for misfortune and bad luck to put a Partisan in her path—but Router said nothing, waiting on her expectantly.

“I- I didn’t know where I’d go once I got to the processing centers,” Rashala admitted, telling the truth. “Metalorn… It scared me. It’s a big planet.”

“Metalorn’s a scary place,” Router agreed, a slip of his usual good nature bobbing his chin and setting mischief in his eyes. “But you’ve never been to Geonosis.”

He stared at her, waiting for her to ask him why, and she knew he’d pull her leg just as her brothers would if they were telling the same story. After a beat, Router forged ahead.

“They’ve got bugs there the size of both your hands put together. And mean pinchers. They’d bite my ankles clean off if I didn’t dance like a Twi’lek on Open Stage Nite at 79’s.”

“They don’t-“

“They do! And they spit.”

“Bugs don’t spit.”

“Bugs do spit and you’d know this if anything but sixteen layers of fur kept a creature going on that glacier of a moon.”

“We have bugs!”

“You think you have bugs but have you ever seen a Minetawash mosquito? They spit, too.”

“You’re an expert on bugs?”

“Only if you’re an expert on ice. How many icicles does it take to make a decent antenna out there?”

Rashala’s genuine smile was as unexpected as anything else she could have thought to do at Router’s teasing. Satisfied, Router gave her one last tap of his elbow against hers before resuming some semblance of leadership in the wake of an unconscious commander.

“Glad you decided to stick around, Twelves,” he said, giving her a quick nod and the last dregs of a smile. “This isn’t the life you wanted but you’re making the most with what you have. That’s admirable in a soldier.”

A glacial chill ran through her blood.

“Besides,” Router added with a soft wink, “I’ve never had a sister-in-arms before.”

---

Raindrops stabbed at the stilted city, seeking a weakness in the tempered outer shell, feeling their way down the vulnerable transparency with long and probing fingers. Crosshair wasn’t one to look for patterns in the chaos or seek answers in the mundane but nonetheless watched the lightning shudder against the windows. He could pretend the distraction was simply something to do besides stare at the blank stretch above his bunk but knew himself too well than to believe the alchemy of transmuting a lie into truth was anything like medicine.

His head ached with the struggle of reconciling what he knew was right and how much easier it would be to ignore orders in benefit of avoiding a fight with Hunter. The pain slipped like a vice around his forehead, pulsing into the back of his brain, and the grip tightened over his ears with such force Crosshair replayed the mission’s events to check if he hadn’t taken a headwound after all.

Nothing in review but the perplexity of why Hunter made the decisions he had. The clone force had rarely been so divided and yet everyone eventually fell in line, even Crosshair.

There was little to do when an hour slipped into two, bordering on three by the time Crosshair slipped from the room, sheetmetal thunder shrouding the whisper of his exit. His brothers watched him leave and not a single one made a move to stop him.

---

The 2-1B medical droid was a terrifying humanoid presence in the bacta chambers, no less unnerving than the busted FX-7 pillar of tubes and needles dormant in the main medbay. Rashala secretly wished for the A-Z’s annoying but secure presence as she helped guide Crosshair’s gurney in a brisk clip through the landing hangar and down a long hallway to a dark, strange room.

A steady row of narrow bacta tanks stood vigilant, row upon row of thick glass and wide metal cuffs emulating the soldiers within. Few were empty but fewer still held clones, the familiar build a rare sight compared to the variety of occupants. Rashala, slipping around the gurney to distance herself from the approaching 2-1B, tried to keep from staring as Router guided Crosshair’s unconscious form through the utilitarian satellite medbay.

She had never been to this part of the Command Center and had no reason to want to come back. The room was warm but humid in a sickly, sour way. A hush of muted lighting filtered through the glowing tanks with a strange phosphorescence shimmering along the edges of the glass tubes. She remembered a storybook tale about Trandoshan jungles—specifically, an illustration of hard moonlight pressing past glossy-leafed canopies to light the paths of venomous creatures on their nocturnal hunt for warm flesh—and she shuddered. The bacta in the tanks was gloppy, a gelatinous slick that looked more welcoming to stinging Doshian jellyfish than inviting wounded soldiers to float in the healing fluid. Rashala looked away as the 2-1B examined the three of them with a quick sweep of its ochre-tinged optical sensors.

“The tanks are all occupied.”

“What do you mean, occupied?”

Router’s question was no less harsh than the 2-1B’s creaky voicebox. Its blank cheeks and elongated skullplate gave it an unintentionally menacing emptiness, further reminding Rashala that to expect humanity from a droid was to prepare for disappointment. Its mechanics were jerky, the neck swiveling on a harsh hinge as it peered at Router.

“There are no vacancies.”

Rashala frowned as she saw the same thing Router did: out of a dozen nearby tanks, two were empty, and only one occupant among the others—a clone with a vicious head wound and a stump for a left leg—seemed to obviously require the precious resource of full-body emersion. The man in the tank nearest to Rashala seemed radiant with health, thick hair and muscular legs bobbing back and forth in a gentle ripple through the bacta.

“How ‘bout one of those over there?”

“Reserved.”

“I’ve never heard of it!” Router barked. “Reserved? For what?”

“As per Imperial implementation, rule-shift 391 as decreed by Vice Admiral Rampart, acting Officer-in-Command of the Coruscant Federal District as per Governor Tarkin, as decreed by-“

“Get the point, skuff-bucket.”

“Officers of Rank 3 and above are allowed rejuvenation sessions in 30 minute increments, not to exceed three sessions-“

“Rejuvenation!”

Rashala’s stomach swam through her organs before settling somewhere up around her shoulder blades as swelling, rushing indignity tried and failed to make room inside her. Her involuntary outburst of noise might have been a dissenting strangle to the 2-1B’s clinical explanation as to why the unoccupied bacta tanks were unavailable but she choked herself off when the droid stared directly at her.

“Which of you require medical services?”

“Is it not obvious enough?” Router asked, malice and menace and shock and horror blending into a tone Rashala never wanted to hear a grown man—a brave soldier—ever use again. He sounded like her oldest brother when he asked their dying father why the Mining Guild wouldn’t pay for more Shilmer’s Syndrome treatments: confused, part of him understanding all too well and the rest of him in absolute disbelief. Rashala tried to clear her throat and banish the unwelcome memory but only succeeded in catching the 2-1B’s attention.

“He was crushed,” Router continued, throwing back a portion of the thermal blanket to reveal Crosshair’s bloody leg and damaged torso. “He needs bacta!”

The 2-1B took milliseconds to examine the wounds before declaring Router’s work was adequate.

“Adequate? These are field dressings. Not a solution!

Rashala held her breath until she couldn’t anymore, waiting on the droid to say something—anything—while the horrid construct ran whirring calculations in its struggling processor.

“A tank will become available in 8.2 minutes,” the droid stated, emotionless. “I will alert Second Lieutenant Adsay that their delay in toenail regrowth treatment is due to CT-9904’s-“

“Tell the lieutenant whatever you want” Router ordered, pointing at Crosshair’s body, “but this soldier is getting in one of those tanks!”

“If you persist in aggressive behavior, I will be forced to-“

“Yeah, yeah, you hunk of rusting junk,” the clone sneered, and Rasha had never before had such respect for Router as she did in that moment, “just get it done.”

The 2-1B plodded off, leaving Rashala and Router in anxious wait under the luminescent burrs of bacta tanks.

Router muttered to himself, righteously furious, but Rashala had no words. Edging back around the side of the gurney, she tucked the blanket back over Crosshair’s damaged leg and shifted a fading thermpack tighter under the sniper’s arm. The dim blue glow permeating the room pushed his harsh features into deathly pallor. Rashala wondered, fearfully, why it mattered to her whether he lived or died.

She based her decision to return to Coruscant on the trust of a Partisan’s word that safe passage would be just a clever jump away from the prison she lived in since her capture. She told herself her freedom would be short-lived and all but permanently lost if she tried to navigate the impoverished, sickly, criminal maze of Metalorn transports she’d have to barter for with servitude; the Empire was cruel but Rashala knew what crueler men might do to a desperate woman willing to bargain. She promised herself she’d do whatever she needed to keep her dignity and her life—a life was only worth living if she could live with herself—but Rashala’s panic threatened to sweep her feet out from under her.

What had she done?

What had she done, coming back here?

She should have run and never looked back. Given her body, her mind, her very soul if that was what got her back to Stassa II. She should have been more than desperate—she should have been the most desperate potential passenger the transport docks had ever seen—and now she was trapped again.

Rashala began to shake.

“He’s not gonna die in the next eight minutes,” Router chided her, obviously distracting himself from the dregs of his own indignation, and Rashala hid her trembling hands. “We were laughing on the transport just a bit ago.”

“I- I don’t like that droid.”

“No one likes that droid. Gonna use it for target practice if I ever get the chance.”

Router put his fingers to Crosshair’s wrist and frowned.

“He’s not doing great, though.”

Rashala snapped out of her spiraling anxieties with an emotional whiplash to leave her crippled if she didn’t get herself under control. She stared at Router over Crosshair’s suddenly vulnerable, prone frame. The sniper seemed so small under the oversized thermal sheet, completely at her mercy, and she hated the feeling as much as she hated everything else about the Empire. She hated feeling the way she did, standing at Crosshair’s gurney, and the entanglement of confusion and exponentially increasing rage almost caused her to panic again.

“Elders help me,” she muttered in Stassian, swearing as her mother once used to over something as simple as spilled syrup. To Rashala in her old life, such an oath would be all in a tough day’s work in the NATSIC M. Now, as she prayed on a planet that didn’t even know she existed and wouldn’t care if she lived or died, her words seemed like curses. “Yrisadael, help me.”

“What are you saying?”

Router’s surprising gentleness further disbursed the sloshing waves of anger and grief over a wider but shallower field in her heart. His friendship didn’t deserve her intransigent view of the situation at hand: she wasn’t going to die in the next minute any more than Crosshair would. Her own anger with the Empire’s callous, dismissive treatment of their soldiers frightened her and she pushed the unfamiliar tangle of emotion aside, taking a deep and clearing breath. The air was laced with bacta droplets, the room humid with the thick dew of healing medicine, and Rashala forced her racing heart and fearful thoughts to rest.

“I’ll be fluent in Stassian by the rotation’s end,” Router prompted, “but I can’t say you should go around repeating any of what you’ve heard me say in Mando’a, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m thinking”

“Sounds like it hurts.”

Rashala almost—almost—spared Router a weak smile. She felt dizzy, sick to her core, and leaned on the gurney; the hover-gears whined at the extra weight. What she felt she needed to do and what she knew was proper were two very different things, especially after Router’s response to her experiment on the ship, but the clone seemed to pick up on her thoughts quicker than an uplink reroute.

“Do it.”

“Router-“

“Do it.”

“He can’t give consent,” she argued, frustration ramping when Router practically laughed at her naiveite. “He can’t agree to this.”

“We’re clones! We don’t have choices.”

His single bark wasn’t much of a chuckle and cut short immediately when he realized the Stassian was serious. Rashala frowned at Router as though he had just called her childish.

“Your idealism is appreciated but, Twelves, you probably can’t do anything bacta can’t fix.”

“Just because you say it’s okay-“

“I’m the acting commander until this shabuir wakes up. If you can help a fellow soldier, you do it.”

“This… feels like assault,” Rashala admitted, helpless to explain how she felt when all she knew inside her was a tumultuous current of repressed fear and foreign anger and deep, deep regret for doing the very thing she knew was right. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

The Stassian didn’t quite catch Router’s glance between the woman and the marksman, his suspicions starting their first real growth spurt since watching Crosshair sprint to Rashala’s side in the disaster that was the training room brawl. The sniper was a confusing clone, an outlier even among his own kind. Before he saw Crosshair’s protective snarl as he pulled the unconscious Stassian into his arms, Router had no doubts the commander would rather take the entire SF squad—Rashala and Router included—and shoot them twice each if Rampart ordered it. As he saw Rashala stare down at the sniper’s drawn, pale face with unguarded concern, Router kept his thoughts to himself.

“He can’t forgive you if he’s braindead,” Router offered callously, roughing up Rashala’s already conflicted edges. “Just… Give it a shot. You really won’t hurt him any more than he’s already hurt. Can you do more damage than a building collapse?”

Yes, she thought ruefully. I most certainly could.

Rashala appreciated Router looked the other way when she put her fingertips on Crosshair’s wrist. She didn’t expect Crosshair’s relief to rest so obviously across his face as Rashala carefully threaded a thin line of intentional energy between herself and the sniper.

“I won’t hurt him,” she repeated, reassuring them both, focusing on the steady beat of Crosshair’s pulse and ignoring Router’s shuffling back and forth. “Did I hurt you?”

“Well, no, but…”

“But what?”

“Something shifted.”

“What do you mean?”

“In my eye. That eye-“

Router glanced roughly at Rashala before turning away to scan the tanks for any sign of the 2-1B following through on its compromise.

“You know, the eye,” Router hissed in little more than a whisper, almost poking himself in the face with the wild gesture. “Got hit by some rock on Umbara. Knocked my bucket off, took me down. I was such a karkin’ shiny then…”

“Can’t you get it fixed?”

“It’s- it’s stupid,” Router flustered, glaring at Rashala and the sniper in equal turns. “I thought I had more time, and… Don’t you need to focus?”

“This is better than silence.”

Better than hearing myself thrash in my own head, she thought bitterly, reaching through the tentative connection and feeling the now all too familiar bite of oceanic memories swim across her tongue.

“They’ll- I think they’ll decommission me, now. If I go in.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just rumors. Clones gone missing, soldiers disappearing—”

He kept his back turned to her and Rashala wished he’d let her see his face, to break the cycle of her brothers hiding their own fears from her when their parents were losing the fight for their lives.

“No one knows what happened to Cody,” Router admitted. “If something happened to him, that’s a damn fine soldier to disappear off the map without a word to his men. If he left, well…”

Rashala wondered how she could have let her own grief blind her so much to the grief of others.

Instead of apologizing to Router for an act she didn’t commit or offering up empty words of false comfort when Rashala knew she had no reassurance left to give in the wake of her own petrifying terror of living with the consequences of her actions, she focused on healing Crosshair.

Without knowing exactly what she was doing, Rashala conservatively sipped at her own reserve of energy, dismantling iota from iota, plucking at the stars in the cosmos of her existence from parts of the pleated fabric of who she was as a Stassian human, and hoping she would never notice the absence of their light. She fed each of these miniscule glimmers through the shaky bond, sending each into the rapidly depleting energyfield that was Crosshair. His pulse stuttered when she went too fast, slogged when she slowed, and Rashala began to fear he’d actually slip away under the promising weight of everlasting unconsciousness if something didn’t intervene soon.

“You’re not done yet,” she muttered, forcing herself to transform her anger and heartbreak and shaky terror into something that could heal more than just the physical wounds on the sniper’s body. “We’re not done here.”

Rashala tried to ignore the primordial gleam of those words deep within her soul.

She wasn’t done here. There must be a reason why she made the choice she made. She had to believe there was a bigger purpose behind her actions than just constant fear and tentative hope.

Rashala felt past the invisible data-code tattooed into Crosshair’s wrist, traveled the itchy streams of strengthened blood healing his skin and bones, came to the precipice of a constant pain—a larger source of guilt and hate and rage and hurt than Rashala could have imagined she’d find that could ever not just match but surpass her own boiling turmoil—and-

“You may proceed to Tank ALT-7.”

The 2-1B’s creaky voice shattered Rashala’s focus and she lashed backwards, dropping Crosshair’s arm. The sniper’s wrist lay limp over the edge of the gurney and Rashala gave a fierce shout, snarling at the droid even as she stumbled away. Router began to argue with the 2-1B unit, demanding it assist them with rigging up the harness, but the droid dismissed them both to do as they would with the time remaining to the patient.

Glaring at the 2-1B as it shambled away once more, Rashala tried to catch her breath, body and mind reeling from the experience.

“He’s not gone yet,” she huffed, reluctantly answering Router’s silent question. The clone pressed his fingers against Crosshair’s sallow cheeks, watching the blood flush and flow beneath the papery skin.

“Let’s get ‘im in there, then.”

Rashala, still in her filthy armor and even more exhausted than her first full day of conditioning after her capture, followed Router as he pushed the gurney down the long, ominous sentinels of occupied bacta tanks.

---

Nine rotations.

Rashala stared into the harsh dark of her cell, waiting for sleep despite her growling stomach and aching limbs.

Nine rotations to get out.

Trying to part the artificial night to stare into the blank sky of a ceiling panel was a fool’s task but she saw terrible things every time she closed her eyes. Despite exhaustion, the image of the Metalorn orphan kicking the rat in the alleyway embossed jerky patterns across the backs of her eyelids, the half-Zabrak running through the collapsing factory with a child under each arm flaring like a brand, and Rashala was sure she’d always see the blue-haired mercenary with his rifle pointed at Crosshair’s helmet when she thought of what her worst moments might become out of her conscripted service.

Because she was going to look back on Metalorn and shudder no matter what memory her mind insisted on sorting in the tough, gritty squeeze between sleeping and awake. Desix was horrible in its own way but Metalorn was a completely different type of nightmare.

Router sent her to clean up and eat something shortly after they submerged Crosshair into the slim bacta tank and, despite her worry for the sniper, Rashala couldn’t help but obey Router’s order without protest. She tried to convince herself she was simply being a good soldier, finally doing what Router and the others wanted her to do to become a compliant teammate, but Rashala knew the truth under her feebly woven lies: She was tired. She was hungry. She was bruised in about three dozen places and cut in a dozen more.

But she couldn’t stand seeing Crosshair floating in the bacta.

Rashala ran her fingers through her short hair and massaged around the long scab where the factory debris cut the back of her head. The ionic shower had scrubbed away the dried blood and toxic pollutant residue, remnants of crusty bicarbonate flurrying into the vacuum tubes in tiny vortexes as the harsh air neutralized Rashala’s dirty body into a somewhat clean semblance of self. She had to stand in the med-stall and receive a jab of anti-infectant in addition to a full body scan, trying to forget her lovely little cabin back on Stassa II had a soft bed and a half-bar of fragrant soap, and she bear the weight of a computer analysis informing her the abrasions in her lungs significantly increased her opportunity for long-term medical concerns. The horrors of Schilmer’s Disease—thorilide particulate ruining the soft respiratory tissues and polluting the body--were enough for Rashala to know what her future might be.

After dressing in new blacks, she found she couldn’t eat the standard-issue chalky nutrient bar in her beltpack, couldn’t bear the idea of standing in a cafeteria line around other soldiers like she hadn’t just come back from a fight for more than just her own life, and she went straight to her cell instead.

To keep from crying, hyperventilating, or panicking, Rashala cleaned her armor instead. Slowly, she coaxed a song from her tired throat but could only hum, the awkward alto of a four-voice hymn bland in the cramped space of her cell. She even tried to read about the Jedi on her display pad, accessing the single chip of data she had left, but quickly hid it in her kit trunk when she began to sweat nervously at the mere mention of the Force in her own file. The automatic lights-out was a blessing in disguise.

The Stassian laid in the dark and tried to think about anything but her fears.

---

They left me…

They left me.

---

When he woke in the bacta tank, Crosshair realized he had been dreaming about Ryloth.

Not the times when the Batch beat back the Separatist army or when they shuttled essential medical supplies to the Twi’lek caravans chased to the outskirts by war and disease but the last time Crosshair himself had served on the steep mesas in the name of the Empire.

The last time he tolerated betrayal before taking desperate action.

Crosshair pretended the gasp was the removal of the respirator suction on his face, faked an impassive expression while the 2-1B droid scanned him. He hid the chilling wash of awareness he had been dreaming and not fighting a nightmare.

He had dreamed he was standing at the top of the Western Rim butte and staring into the constellations, following the thin cerulean glimmer between each star. The night breeze was warm and smoky from campfires, the faint din of a celebration carried on the wind, and pumiced sands curled around his boots. He was searching the sky in patient expectation, rolling a pick between his lips as he waited. Someone—Wrecker?—asked him a question he couldn’t hear and the sniper answered back without understanding his own words. All was well and the night was his.

Solitude but with the promise of company. Company but the preferred variety, people he loved, people who mattered. A sky free of rain, the air full of the scent of earth. Stars he stopped to cipher. His rifle leaned nearby, waiting for him.

It was a good dream.

Everything hurt all the more to know the moment never happened—would never happen—and Crosshair turned his face from the 2-1B when he was finally lifted from the tank. He didn’t want the droid to see how he polluted the bacta with an uncontrollable tear.

---

Nine more rotations…

Rashala fell asleep with just a few hours left to rest before the training schedule would force her to the gymnasium, her mind finally letting her body release the dregs of adrenaline as she counted.

Nine.

---

Ryloth tortured him.

Crosshair knew was literal torture was—any of his brothers could tell the story of when they got their marksman back from the vicious House Serenno on Count Dooku’s Outer Rim stronghold—and the sniper didn’t care to repeat the experience.

Kamino had been actual torment.

But the Ryloth his bacta-tainted thoughts spun from physical trauma and emotional suppression did more than disturb him.

He tried to sleep but couldn’t. The sniper made excuses: the cell was too dark; the cell was too bright; the air return was too loud; there wasn’t enough noise; he didn’t know what happened to his rifle; he was hungry; he was too tired to actually fall asleep.

Crosshair gave into desperation, seizing a terrible moment from the cesspool of dishonorable duties he performed at Rampart’s command. 

Senator Taa was a fitting tool in the vice admiral’s effort to reshape the Twi’lek home world in the Empire’s image. The refineries were necessary for regional employment and galactic commerce, Rampart declared, and Taa followed through in securing the legalese keeping from outside interference. Despite Cham Syndulla’s leadership, Taa officially spoke on behalf of the citizens of Ryloth. Crosshair knew defeat was bitter medicine for more than just the disgraced freedom fighter.

Crosshair thought of his directive to chase down the Syndulla girl. He thought of Captain Howzer’s foolish effort to revive the otherwise abandoned standards of ethics among the clone soldiers. He even thought of the exploding refineries that promised swift punishment on the Twi’leks for combatting the Empire’s efforts for a secure foothold on the planet. But his worst memory of that all too recent mission wasn’t just watching the Marauder escape the thin Rylothian atmosphere.

It was knowing he was no more than a two-credit mercenary, killing on command rather than fighting for a cause.

Senator Taa’s avarice weighed his fleshy body down with his own guilts and failures but he was dead before he hit the ground. Crosshair could at least give the ignorant Twi’lek politician that much dignity. Taa was buried under the duricrust of his home world, which was more than the insurgents on Onderon got.

Closing his eyes tight, Crosshair wrapped himself in the needlesharp memory of screams and blasterfire, blending the truth about Ryloth into another of the worst mistakes of his life.

---

The training range was full when Rashala arrived.

Although the clones and mercenaries were allowed access to weapons lockers whenever they chose, Rashala was forced to wait for the rangemaster to distribute a standard issue blaster and a half-depleted cartridge whenever her training schedule marked her for mandatory attendance. She was used to keeping her head down and feet together until the automated booth registered her identification and allowed the RMD-2 to deposit the controlled items into the collection bin. The machine was little more than an automatic processing system, ancient and far too simple for any actual droid brainbox, and the hydraulic arm moved more slowly than it would take a hundred-year-old Stassian grandmother to walk through a snowbank in a blizzard.

Not that Rashala didn’t enjoy target practice—sknetchecht was something she had been good at since her brothers introduced her to the moon’s favorite sport and she tanned them all within a few seasons of casual effort—but focusing on a steady object and tugging the trigger until her cartridge ran out on whatever jammed blaster the RMD-2 gave her that session was still easier than running the mandatory miles per non-deployment rotation.

But when she entered the range and stood awkwardly at the door for a booth to open up, ducking her head to avoid returning the inevitable dirty looks at her invasion of a soldier’s space, she was surprised to find nothing but welcoming glances. Never before had she been greeted with anything but wariness or flat-out animosity. A stranger called to her.

“Hey! Twelves, I’m done over here,” the clone said, waving her to the last booth. “Just packing up.”

Rashala was sure she misheard him but walked across the room with her shoulders back, confidence growing when the clone glanced around the opaque barrier with a genial smile. In fact, every soldier who spared her a glance did so without the suspicious resentment of her very presence; extremely conscious of the shift in reception, the Stassian kept walking with a quick step to the back of the low-ceilinged room.

“That’s- that’s kind of you.”

“No problem at all,” the clone said, tucking the last of the miniscule cleaning kit back into his utility belt and giving Rashala a deep nod. “Though you don’t need the practice, from what I heard about Metalorn.”

“I’m sorry, but who-?”

“CT-8110. Clipper.”

“You don’t- please don’t—”

Rashala knew the small, helpless gesture she made with her hands meant nothing as the clone laughed. She was aware long ago that the soldiers talked about her but nothing positive had ever come of it before now.

“Router’s been tellin’ everyone who’ll listen at first meal,” Clipper said. “You saved a clone. And a bunch of factory kids! Scared off some Partisans-“

“I didn’t do anything.”

“So you’re calling Router a liar?”

He winked just like Miter before Desix, like Kie before Metalorn, faces blending into an amalgamation standing in front of her. Rashala tried to find something to say but the realization she lost more people than she knew in the time she’d been the Empire’s captive sobered any weak smile she could have forced in return.

“No, I just don’t see it like that.”

Rashala stared down at her blaster and immediately felt like she needed to hide it behind her back. The barrel was a crosshatching of lacksidasical scratches and a negligent dent on the trigger guard embarrassed her. She wouldn’t let her crew treat equipment in the NATSIC M with such neglect and she didn’t want this new clone to think she treated her weaponry with disregard. As it was, she had only been allowed something other than a training stunner in the range since Crosshair’s last brief lesson before the Desix mission.

“Well, you should, soldier,” Clipper said with a clap on her shoulder as he left the booth. “See you later.”

Rashala’s wince wasn’t easily stifled, the clone tapping her right over one of the enormous bruises Ola had left in their alleyway scramble. Or was it from falling debris when she shot down the lodegear in the parts factory? Or was it when she helped Router heft Crosshair off the gurney and into the bacta harness? She hurt, even after a few hours sleep, copious stretching, and an easy jog around the track. Rashala timed the exercise while most of the clones would be in the cafeteria to break their fast, unwilling to pretend she had a place among them after alleged acts of heroics. She wanted to check on Crosshair but doubted the commander would welcome her worry; Crosshair wasn’t the sort to seek a kind word and Rashala wasn’t sure what she’d say. That she worried about him to begin with was uncomfortable, a growing attachment the Stassian didn’t want to explore. She thought about the clone, Clipper, welcoming her with a friendly smile. She didn’t want friends, she wanted to escape, and Rashala barely kept herself from looking to Router or Dex for constant guidance in the meantime.

If Router knew she really was trying to abandon the squad at a weak chance to be captured by slavers or delude herself into servitude in exchange for a spot on a tanker ship that would never come… He’d never so much as look at her again, much less laud her to the other soldiers.

Soldier. She wasn’t. She could only continue to pretend.

The Stassian stood in the narrow booth by herself and took a deep breath. She’d felt nervous all morning, as though someone would see the bruises on her face and know a Partisan had not only knocked her repeatedly on her ass but then became an ally to Rashala’s long-game escape. Her secrets and lies were riddled in the clues of marks across her body; as it was, she had to forgo her breastplate and upper body armor because of how badly even their light weight pushed on her sore body. Her utility belt and lower armor were leaden anchors. An organ under her left rib ached with the warning she wasn’t completely well internally. Her headache pulsed with her heartbeat.

With a sigh, Rashala reset the target counter at the end of the lane and flicked the safety off her aged weapon. She rolled her eyes when the device jammed on the first shot.

“Where were you?”

The sniper’s presence snuck up to cross her like a shadow. Rashala twitched, muscles protesting the surprise in a startle her tired body couldn’t quite perform to full effect. She bit back her relief Crosshair was up and moving, surprised at her relief. His question was a slow snarl she knew wasn’t entirely directed at her; he had lost quite a bit of time between when she found him and when he undoubtedly woke up from the bacta treatment.

“In what context?”

Her commander waited over her shoulder for the expected honorific and she tacked on a hasty “-sir.”

Rashala couldn’t keep the discomfort from the respectful address and knew he bristled. She didn’t turn to do anything akin to standing at attention, didn’t so much as think to give him the respect of a salute.

But when had Rashala ever done those things without prompt anyway?

“When the building fell.”

Rashala tried to unclip the cartridge from the blaster and almost fumbled the slim tube.

“Which one?”

“Don’t be clever.”

“I submitted my mission brief, sir.”

“So you know what you omitted.”

Rashala took a slow breath as she reset the ammunition and blocked the hammer, giving the trigger a squeeze to pop the lever back into place. No sooner than she activated the cartridge, the trigger fell out of position. She didn’t have time for this.

“I included all relevant details, as per training-“

“You lied.”

Crosshair’s slim satisfaction at the way Rashala tensed her shoulders at his hissing accusation was little more than relief she confirmed his suspicions. He had listened to her report in the privacy of his own cell as his chip sparked in exponential arcs. Router’s report had included things Rashala’s had not but the sniper refused to admit he only caught the omissions on his second playback of her verbal statement.

He grimaced to himself when he had realized her voice slowed the rising dread of his chip beginning a malfunction with a severity he hadn’t felt since initial activation. Crosshair tried and failed to convince himself he sought the Stassian out to clarify the muddy time between when he shot Edom Dira and when he woke up back in the Command Center.

“I included supplementary materials, even a-“

“You shot that mercenary.”

Crosshair touched Rashala’s shoulder, grazing her collar as he turned her to face him. The flame in his skull flashed through them both and the Stassian gasped at the intensity. Just like the sparking flares she felt on Desix, Rashala recognized Crosshair’s sneering stoicism as a well-practiced front for a pain he couldn’t be free of. She couldn’t take a step back for the breathlessness. Just a single second of that sympathetic agony in her head left her almost immobile and Crosshair wasn’t only walking, he was asking her questions about the mission? She couldn’t have done it.

The sniper stared at the flat bruise across the side of Rashala’s face, the purple sheen a dark mark sliding from temple to jaw to cup the underside of her eye. Someone had hit her, someone who knew what they were doing and intended to hurt her. A possessive surge at the sight annoyed as much as momentarily confused him. He wasn’t the type to fight another’s battles but he was the type to fight, and Crosshair wanted to ask Rashala exactly who did this to her. He could do more than rough up a bratty clone and, as the sniper frowned at the puce halo around the puffy bruise across Rashala’s face, he didn’t so much want to throw a punch but take out his blaster.

“What. Happened?”

“As I said in the report-“

“This.”

Rashala stopped speaking as Crosshair brushed a short wave of hair away from the bruise; he tucked the curl over the arch of her ear and the gesture might have been the softest action she’d ever known him make had the featherlight touch not sent another painful wave crashing through her.

“Crosshair, you’re-“

“Who.”

A command, not a question.

“A Partisan.”

“And you shot them?”

“No.”

Crosshair’s narrowed eyes weren’t meant for her and Rashala let out a shaky breath.

“You’re still hurt.”

“Where were you when the building fell?”

Rashala swallowed down her frustration, reminding herself to be short with a commanding officer—even one who had saved her life and confused her with his mercurial reactions—was a poor choice. The pain cresting each time he touched her wasn’t just concerning: Crosshair needed immediate help.

“Again, which one, sir?”

Crosshair pulled his hand away where it hovered over her loose blonde hair. He noticed how she pushed it back to make it sweep back across her head, hiding the length, and spared the brief relief from increasingly immobilizing pain to unwillingly note how the color was the same as a Pantoran sunrise.

“The one that fell on me,” he grimaced, turning his tense words into as much of a snarl as he could muster.

Crosshair’s jaw tensed as Rashala watched the wave of pain rush over him, observed how he tightened his lips and frowned deeper as he kept from a shaky gasp, and he broke for just a moment when the fire turned to an inferno in his head. He swayed forward and Rashala steaded him.

“You need to go to the medbay.”

“No,” he said in little more than a harsh snarl. “No, I need to know-“

Even just touching him through his blacks sent rolling waves of electricity frying through her nerves.

“You’re scaring me,” Rashala whispered, unaware the sniper could even lose this much of his careful control. Besides these moments of flaring agony, there wasn’t a single thing Crosshair ever did that wasn’t fully within his control. Some clones had ticks, others had habits, but—in all Rashala knew about him from each and every interaction—Crosshair had never so much as inadvertently twitched his finger. Now, under her hands, he practically shuddered in agony, his eyes tightly shut.

“The bacta?” she asked, Crosshair holding perfectly still as the wave crested and the pain ebbed enough for the sniper to take a weak breath. “We can get the AZ to-“

“No,” Crosshair muttered, not daring to shake his head even infinitesimally. “I need-“

His pride—what was left, worn down to brittle slivers—crumbled entirely and yet he couldn’t speak the words.

In the unsought but undeniable tether between them, Rashala heard his body talk through her touch.

Crosshair needed her help.

Router’s worries about medical assistance for his eye, his fears of decommissioning for something so simple in the hands of the Empire’s vast medical databanks and well-programmed droids, snapped into place in Rashala’s mind. If even a commanding officer couldn’t trust the medbays, and if the care the clones needed in the aftermath of battle was so hard-won, the Stassian understood Router’s fears. That they even had to advocate for Crosshair to access a bacta tank over non-emergency treatment in deference to Imperial officers of higher rank…

A slip of humanity was hard to find in the tightening grip of the Empire across everything it touched.

“I might make it worse,” Rashala breathed, searching Crosshair’s tired face and finding only the remnants of the mask he showed the rest of the galaxy. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He stared down at her, knowing she felt his pain, his desperation, his shameful fear… Whatever was wrong with the chip hadn’t ceased after Crosshair’s dip in the bacta tank, spinning out of any semblance of temporary inactivity to grenade over and over again in his brain instead. The first overzealous spark began shortly after he managed to fall asleep to the exhaustive repetitiveness of his failed attempts to follow orders, punishing him in increments narrowing as the rotation went on. If he went to the medbay, there was no guarantee Rampart wouldn’t dismiss him once and for all...

Rashala was his only hope to escape out from under the agony.

Or he’d at least die in the company of someone who thought his life worth trying to save.

“It was you,” Crosshair mumbled, bracing against the start of another brutal surge of pain bubbling concussively in his head. “I felt you, when I was… You stopped—”

Rashala shushed him, feeling how much the sniper struggled under the weight of speaking aloud, his tensing muscles bunching under her hands as she continued to steady him with a light touch on each shoulder. He didn’t need to relive the moment before Rashala stunned the blue-haired mercenary, didn’t need to try to recall the missing details the mission reports didn’t satisfy. His heartbeat sped in anticipation of the next crash of electrical tide even despite his excellence in marksmanship: Rashala knew he could rest his pulse with a simple breath, having watched him—the quiet trigger finger, the absolute focus—in their target sessions. Crosshair wasn’t in control anymore and that loss alone degraded the rest of everything he thought he was, embarrassed him for Rashala to know simply through a hand on his clothed shoulder.

But this connection wasn’t simple, not by any means, and they struggled together through another intense surge as the chip malfunctioned.

That Rashala held some of the pain for him, gathered the agony to her and spindled it away from shutting down his mind before allowing the snagging threads to unravel back through their bond, was more of a gift than Crosshair deserved. He knew it even as he knew he asked for her to give this to him. He knew that to beg for her help after all he had done—not just to her but everyone the Empire gathered into their hungry ranks—and despite who he was—a murderer, a traitor—and to receive her help was impossible selfishness.

Crosshair hated his Empire, hated his brothers for abandoning him, hated the galaxy for spurring the course of events that led Rex to send the Batch after Echo but failing to repeat the same fidelity to their trusted marksman… He hated himself. But he was afraid to die.

Exactly what kept him alive on the ruins of Kamino kept him alive in Rashala’s confused, conflicted grip as they breathed together.

Another crest caused him to sag in Rashala’s grasp. Crosshair leaned against the booth control panel lest he fall into her, her blaster sliding off the slick surface to hit the ground with a heavy thud. He hadn’t known he put his hands on the top of her hips until he flexed his fingers, panting in the contractive aftermath of the chip screaming through his brain. The sniper closed his eyes and let Rashala guide his forehead to rest against under her breastbone as she stood over his slumped form. She was cold, blissfully cool against his feverish sheen of sweat on his dark brows, and Crosshair held onto her like a lungful of precious air. The familiar coppery scent of the training range soothed him, blending with Rashala’s skin in her blacks and the katarn-class duraplast coating the armor plates at her thighs. Unbidden, he longed for the stark scent of the Marauder’s engines firing, wished for the relief of reassurance everyone was present and accounted for. Crosshair shuddered.

Rashala’s panic shifted to certainty she had to do something—anything—to stop the force trying to rip Crosshair apart from the inside out.

She stepped away deliberately, slowly.

He couldn’t even look up at her, chin sagging into his chest as Crosshair reluctantly let her go.

“You know it was me,” she said quietly, her Stassian accent gliding across the soft words. “I saved you.”

But could she do it again?

Everything Crosshair knew meant nothing in the moment Rashala offered her hand for his.

Glaring at the resignation to his cowardice, despising himself for running to the conscript under his command, he gave her his hand and let her help him stand. The sniper feared the chip in his head more than he did anything else in all the worlds but a sliver of worry wrapped itself around the remnants of his morals. Valor, chivalry, justice… Rashala hadn’t been shown a scrap of what even the most basic Republic prisoner had been given under the GAR’s command. Crosshair knew—and he knew—he had forced Rashala’s hand into helping him. He came to her knowing she’d see him for the pain he was in, knowing she’d let her empathy assess his invisible wounds. And he was right.

His manipulation of the girl was sickening, even to him. If he was truly a good soldier, he would never have considered asking another to halve the burden of his pain, especially a subordinate.

Crosshair couldn’t bring himself to take his hand away and, when she gave his fingers a dauntless squeeze before letting him go with the silent promise this was only a temporary physical separation, he immediately wanted to touch her again.

Conflict warred inside him as the Stassian led him without looking back. Her short blonde hair, a dozen hues of pale gold, fell around her ears and touched the top of the collar of her blacks. Fit hips and angular shoulders stretched the strength of her tall, lean body and her fingers curled into her palms as she walked; she knew she was being watched carefully, sighted through a narrow and precise scope, but refused to be any more self-conscious than she already was at leading her commander to her cell. The security cameras in the short distance between the training range and long-residency prisoner block within the labyrinthine Command Center only recorded two soldiers walking in silence, one almost staggering behind the other.

As though through slow waters, Crosshair watched Rashala hand move over the access code to the door. Her finger pushed each key on the digital pad with an intensity laden with meaning. She wasn’t a prisoner of her own cell any more, capable of coming and going as she willed, and Rashala had seared the combination into her memory after Crosshair gave her the key. All too loudly, the door opened, the cot inside beckoning with a guilty overtone, and neither the marksman or the prisoner made a move for a moment. Eyebrow twitching in an almost cavalier response to their hesitation, Crosshair waited for Rashala’s invitation.

Without a word, she stepped across the threshold and offered her hand again, gaze softening as the sniper’s conflict briefly overcame his better judgement. He was poised to run and Rashala waited for his decision, even as they both sensed the first sparks of another imminent wave of electrical fire in Crosshair’s skull.

Terrified he was asking her for more than just saving his life, Crosshair took Rashala’s fingertips with his own and let the door close behind him.

Immediately, a flow of energy between them moved from a trickle, to a stream, to a river, an entire ocean stretching over the horizon of consciousness as they lay down without breaking their touch. Doubt and self-judgement washed away under sheets of sheer relief. Relief from pain, from loneliness, relief from the isolation of being nothing more than a meaningless means to an end for an entity that would sooner see them die than tolerate a scrap of humanity… They fell together in quiet desperation.

Druglike, the cool of the room drifted over them like shade, relieving the burning remains of embarrassment and shame. Their bodies’ mingled warmth was a flame held jointly as they closed the space between them. Whereas their reunion in the training range was fraught with tension and fear, their conjoined presence in Rashala’s cell—away from the cameras and microphones and watching eyes of the Empire—only confirmed their selfishness was mutually sated by the other.

Even the roar of another wave rushed in on Crosshair’s ocean of cruel pain, he felt Rashala’s gratitude press through their connection. He wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be alone. Her guilt of having a reason to break her touch-starved silence, of seeing Crosshair as more than a patient in her experimental application of a power she didn’t understand, let the sniper temporarily shelve his own awareness of how desperation so easily led to them both to her cell.

The sniper momentarily stiffened when Rashala slid her hand from his, his anchoring line to temporary peace threatening to snap away and reduce him to begging for a return to calm, but Crosshair stifled a groan of relief when she simply moved her light touch up his arm and over his shoulder. With unfailing gentleness, Rashala rested her hand over the molten patch of ruined tissue over Crosshair’s ear, cradling the side of his head. His silver hair was thin around the border of the scar, unable to encroach on the battlefield that was control over Crosshair’s own mind, but she momentarily sifted her fingertips through the short strands as a lover would, sinking into the comfort of touching another and being touched in return. Crosshair’s arm wrapped over her ribs and across her back, hand resting protectively over the back of her neck. She was so vulnerable, so unguarded when he wasn’t touching her…

The chip pulled at his skull, his brain, his blood and nerves and he gasped before clenching his eyes tight once more.

“Cross-“

A counterforce soothed the jagged wave of near-fatal electricity into little more than a lapping tingle as the crackling power echoed in his head. Not pleasant whatsoever, still intensely painful, but not tugging away his life-force with each intense ripple.

Desperately, he pulled her closer, her breath warm against his chin as he tried to fix the moment as a star in a desolate sky. If he just held onto her, clutched at this brief second free from pain and judgement with a tight enough grip, he might find his way in the dark night.

Their knees entwined, thighs laced, the soldier and the Stassian breathed against one another as each smoothed the waters of their own turbulent trials.

Without guidance, Rashala didn’t know how to control their flow of energy, only understanding that to touch Crosshair’s skin was to mesh some part of her presence with his own. Her attention to the world around them shifted as she followed her instincts in the increasingly familiar transition from the myopic surface of the universe into a depth of understanding she didn’t understand at all. She could live her whole life and not comprehend the vastness of power, never see the entirety of potential for life and death and war and peace within her grasp.

If the Force could be wielded with the desire to do good just as much as it could obey the influence of evil, Rashala didn’t know how to balance herself in the space between.

How did the Jedi ignore the opportunity to do whatever they could with the opportunities within their reach? How could the Sith hold the Force as a weapon and not as a guide for peace? Their very natures seemed far too extreme to Rashala. To seek only individual strength felt self-serving but to pursue serenity at the expense of meaningful connection felt equally short-sighted. Life was a multitude of complexities, passions, victories, failures, and pursuits that—Rashala hoped—culminated in a meaningful life well-lived.

Was there no space between the two extremes?

She didn’t know if she was doing bad or good, following or breaking rules by moving through the Force as she did without mentorship, but Rashala would justify her actions as those of someone who couldn’t live their life ignoring preventable suffering of those around them.

In this moment, in her cold cell on a foreign planet, she would do anything to not be alone.

Experimentally, tentatively, the Stassian closed her eyes tightly and listened to the beat of her heart. Steadily, the thumping rhythm beat against the cage of her ribs with the helplessness of a trapped lumifly, glowing just as brightly in the hollows between her gently cupped hands. She didn’t tighten her fingers through the commander’s hair, didn’t increase the pressure on his scar, but focused beyond the space her heartbeats held, finding Crosshair’s heartbeat as easily as picking out a familiar tune. His pulse calmed her and she rested there as long as she dared, relaxing a little more in his embrace every time their heartbeats aligned.

The static of existence was a background hum at a frequency Rashala felt in the liminal spaces of her life since she was a baby: the twitch of falling asleep too fast; anticipation for a birdcall right before the song lilted through the air; knowing to turn around to see the elusive icevoles silently dip in and out of snowbanks; the tingle at the sides of her tongue before sipping a fresh, cool drink straight from the mountain stream; unspoken hope for a particular circlesong at the tavern before the entire village turned out for an impromptu evening of music and drinking and dancing; locking eyes with Malivde from across the room and bursting into giggles without knowing why; reaching out blindly for her brothers to catch her as she fell and feeling their strong, familiar grip keeping her from a hard landing; smiling up at her mother to find her mother already smiling back.

In this static hum of life and death was the soaring overtone of Being.

The bittersweet beauty caught in her lungs and prickled at her eyes. So immense, so fleeting…

She didn’t know how long they laid there, each soothed in the company of the other.

Crosshair’s thumb moved against her neck and Rashala wove her attention in and out of her physical presence even as she searched for the core of the sniper’s pain. Crosshair was warm despite his cool hands, their chests rising and falling together as they faced one another, and even the weight of his legs was comforting. Cracking her eyelid by the barest sliver, she took in his worn visage, tracing the line of his heavy brows and long nose, circling the tattoo over his closed eye, following the trails of war through the valleys under his cheeks. She might have mistaken him for sleeping if she wasn’t woven into his awake consciousness; with a reassuring pull at the corner of her mouth, she closed her eyes again as Crosshair did the same, his consent nearly a plea as she resumed her traverse through the unexplainable expanse narrowing between them.

She held the waves back through sheer force of will but the chip wouldn’t stay dormant for long.

Strains of electricity, brittle and sparking, answered her call for direction and the chip seemed to jump against Crosshair’s skull at her exploration. The sniper winced, inadvertently tightening his grip around Rashala, and she soothed him without words, holding him in the embrace her soul gathered around his. The pain was temporary, a bleed-through in spite of progression, but Crosshair almost shook in nervous anticipation of the all-consuming wave to wash over him and pull him from Rashala. She pressed her forehead against his with the slightest shift of her head, their touch amplifying her ability to find her way through to the source.

Electricity, powering a faulty chip… in a soldier’s skull.

She had doubted. She really had. There was so much she had been wrong about since her first day in the Imperial Army, so much she had been afraid of, so much she was ashamed to not inherently know as she tried to survive. Since the first time she ever felt the pain ebbing from Crosshair’s head, she wondered…

Frowning, Rashala wondered how she could possibly be right about what seemed so inherently wrong as to be impossible without unspeakable cruelty.

“Crosshair?”

“It’s there.”

His rasping tenor was a hush of breath against her lips as their noses brushed, the sniper unable to pull away even if he wanted to. She was there—right there—and sharing his presence with someone who could take away the pain was a lure too strong for anyone to fight.

“It isn’t organic… A- a chip? How-“

“Every clone has one. Implanted at decanting—“

As though displeased Crosshair even dared to speak of it, the chip sparked and both the sniper and the Stassian flinched as the warning shot scattered through their nerves. The heat of the electric aftermath caused Rashala to inadvertently gasp, Crosshair’s hand at the back of her neck a pressing weight to keep her from moving from him even if she had wanted to. In the wake of the intense flare, Rashala softly pushed aside layers between them as she explored the space with all the care of a healer with an unfamiliar patient.

Burnt. Harsh. Pungent and raw. The matter around the malfunctioning chip was dying, cell by cell. Even the bone within his skull was scarred. Scratches marring the outside of the bone, hidden under the lavaflow scar rippled over his head, broke her. He had made those wounds himself, an attempt to cut the chip out borne of delusion and desperation.

When he felt her sorrow sweep through her and mingle in their connection, Crosshair shushed her. She wouldn’t cry for him, not her, not now. He might lose his mind if she did.

“One of the last rotations before they found me,” Crosshair whispered, his slinking tenor catching on a deeply repressed memory of hallucinations and saltwater thirst, breaking his words.

Rashala wanted to shy away from the mangled mass that was the electronic chip settled against Crosshair’s brain but refused to hesitate, even as she wanted to draw away in horror if only because she couldn’t imagine holding such knowledge in her head without being irrevocably changed.

“It’s meant to control us, the clones. We didn’t know- until it was too late.”

If she fled this disaster and abandoned the sniper in his desperate plea to save him from the constant pain threatening to snuff out his life at the lightest whim, he’d never trust her again. She’d never get this far even if he reluctantly let her try to untangle the ruins of Imperial control in his thoughts. Rashala couldn’t pretend she wasn’t frightened. But she couldn’t leave him, not like this. Beyond his trust in her, beyond their unsought but magnetizing connection through the Force, even surpassing her necessary trust in him into something beyond expectation, Rashala couldn’t let another person suffer. Even her reluctance to stand up for the Coruscanti student when she trained under the abusive reign controlling the conscripts gnawed at her. She wasn’t going to abandon someone in need.

Even if that someone was a military sniper with horrors haunting his cynical gaze.

“This- it’s broken.”

“It’s breaking,” Crosshair whispered, cringing when Rashala grazed over the damage inside his head. “It’s killing me.”

She couldn’t argue against his terrifying statement. The chip had already corroded essential pieces of him, infiltrated his thoughts and controlled his actions, forcing him into compliance and yet failing to consistently direct his every move. It used to work, that much was clear to the Stassian as she examined the chip within the confines of the Force. Her ephemeral workspace was a dark span rimmed with a shimmering glow, cornerless and yet tight around her, and she moved without moving, spoke without speaking as she handled the damaged piece of Crosshair’s existence without moving a muscle.

“Fix it,” the commander ordered through clenched teeth as the chip gave another spark, an acute awareness this surge would be the last he’d suffer for how strongly it gnashed at his brain. His heart stuttered. A sense of dread he never felt before but knew as a precursor to a terrible and irreversible impact within his body overcame Rashala’s blanketing calm. It was like the chip knew Rashala almost had it figured out and wasn’t going to let Crosshair go without a final fight. “Fix it or let me die.”

A powerful surge lit from the tiny metal piece embedded in his skull, an agonizing wave cresting and crashing and lashing at them with the threat to pull them both under to never resurface from the pain, and they huddled together to keep from washing away. Rashala felt cold, her lifeforce pulling against a horrifying gust as something treacherous billowed around her, and she held onto Crosshair as though her existence depended on it.

You can’t have him, she thought as the storm pressured her to let go. Yeilding against the sweeping, ripping, tearing wind dragging them towards the edge of an abyss, Rashala momentarily gave herself to the breath-stealing pain.

Standing in the middle of the hurricane that was the sniper’s very core of existence, Rashala held onto Crosshair and took in a shaky breath before gathering every iota of bravery and plunging back into the chaos.

Through a raging cacophony of sheer torture, Rashala pushed herself into the splintering shards and held Crosshair together against the storm sweeping them away. With everything she had, she pulled them both back. A sweep gasp of relief gave them both just enough strength to sustain another wave.

Again, then again, then again, Rashala moved the broken pieces into place with Crosshair’s help, his force of will a familiar insistence for his body and mind to keep up with his spirit. His body and mind were flagging, though, beat down and weary. Rashala pushed her energy into him, around him, through the ragged holes to mend as much as she could without losing something irrevocably necessary for her own existence.

Slowly, as though understanding the fight was lost, the chip settled into deceiving quiet, not even an ember flitting off the coals burning intensely in the bonfire of Crosshair’s brain. It wasn’t dead, just sleeping, and would inevitably wake with a vengeance.

Not knowing when the next fight for his life against the chip in his head would begin again, Crosshair began to tremble. Rashala couldn’t hold onto the fogging connection with the chip, losing her grip on the scorched edges and fumbling through rapidly depleting dregs of energy.

The miniscule piece of metal was ungraspable, refusing to budge, and Rashala didn’t know how she’d possibly physically remove it. She’d have to ruin it to permanent failure but didn’t know the first thing about how to shut down. Could she overload the chip and spark it out? Would doing so hurt Crosshair beyond healing? She had nothing left to push into it, even if she knew. The chip, after Rashala’s immense effort to keep it from killing its host, was only temporarily dormant.

Rashala unwove herself from Crosshair using the cadence of their heartbeats as her guide.

Every layer of existence she swept through on her ascent back to the surface of singular existence within her own body, mind, and soul was unraveling behind her, blocking the trail to return exactly the way she came. Rashala momentarily slumped into Crosshair’s shaking embrace when she finally surfaced with the knowledge she’d have to eventually find her way back to the chip with as much exhausting intention as the first stumbling journey had insisted from her. She hadn’t gone deep enough when she had Router’s prompting to keep Crosshair from slipping into a coma while waiting for the bacta tank, hadn’t done more than scratched the surface of potential when she felt for the broken pieces and pushed them back together on the way back from Metalorn. The depth of potential was overwhelming and Rashala was momentarily overwhelmed.

Finally, only her own pulse echoed Crosshair’s call. Rashala firmly distanced herself from the tether to Force and found herself surprisingly, confusingly, unbelievably alone. She felt as though she were falling, a collective slipping from her. Rashala was conflicted, both separate from and entirely part of the reassuring presence of innumerable spirits living and dying and living again in a perplexing but essential cycle of which she was just an infinitesimal speck.

In the residual space between them, Crosshair’s fear was almost startling.

“How—”

He couldn’t continue, pressing his forehead tighter against hers as he tried to hold onto the vastness she had inadvertently shown him when she guided them through the passageways of the Force.

“Like stargazing,” she breathed, keeping her hand over Crosshair’s scars, finding strength in each breath in and relief in each exhale. “We’re so small… but so beautiful. Out of everything we could have been, everything we could become…”

Rashala stopped whispering before her throat tightened too much to speak, unable to find the words to describe the spiritual experience of staring up at the night sky and understanding the paradise of knowing her own insignificance was the strength that gave her life infinite meaning.

Through the slip of connection Rashala maintained between them, the thread keeping Crosshair from shaking apart in vulnerable desperation for protection from the one thing he couldn’t fight and defeat, she found courage to ask the question she felt him beg her to speak out loud.

“Do you still want me to try to disable it?” Rashala asked, dreading his answer.

“Yes.”

His voice was a hush against her skin and she brushed her thumb over his temple, the sniper trembling against her as he understood the chip would have killed him had Rashala not stopped the tides from sweeping him away. Recollecting how the pain seared through her as much as it did him filled him with bitter guilt but he felt as though he’d dissolve if he let her go.

“I don’t know how,” Rashala warned, pulling away enough to look at Crosshair, the sniper staring back with an intensity to burn away the uncertainty in Rashala’s own gaze.

“You’ll find a way,” he hushed, pulling any threat or implication of a command from the words as he stared into her eyes. Blue like ice, nothing at all like the oceans spanning Kamino, but full of warmth and life... How many times had he seen her eyes dim during training? Fill with wild, desperate tears as she begged to be returned home during testing sessions? How had it taken him so long to seek out that blue and see the woman within the deep cerulean depths?

Rashala held her breath as Crosshair’s expression shifted, his grim stare softening as he studied her first like a puzzle and then like a stranger, seeking something and not quite finding what he was looking for until he stared into her eyes. With a perceptible shift, he saw her for who she was.

Rashala.

Not a number, not a prisoner, but a plethora of fears, dreams, hopes, depths unfathomable caught in the vessel of her body and the cradle of her mind. He held her gaze, brushing his fingers against the back of her neck and running his thumb along the rim of her ear. A star fallen from a dark sky, the Stassian into his arms…

He burned to hold her even as he clutched her tighter.

“Crosshair?”

She whispered his name, searching his conflicted expression as everything he knew and everything he was battled against what he wanted to be. The dark stubble peppering his jaw rasped against her palm as she slid her hand gently along his cheek, filling the hollow shadows with her soft touch. His face was perpetually harsh: long nose, thin lips, narrow chin, scars laced with wear-lines. When he closed his eyes, his expression seemed paper-thin, skin stretching and pulling when his heavy eyebrows lifted instead of falling into their usual frown.

If Crosshair so much dared himself to look at her again, he’d lose direction.

He should leave.

“Crosshair?”

In the second between her bright blue stare and the cell light cutting out to signal the end of the rotation, the sniper relinquished his control.

He knew nothing about who he was anymore. He was lost. Brotherless, defenseless, helpless.

Something that had strained within him since the Marauder disappeared beyond Kamino’s deceptively blue sky snapped, leaving him shivering with loss. Even the pain in his skull, that horrible pain he’d dig out with Hunter’s knife if he could only get his hands on the familiar blade, was temporarily gone; a unique, unexpected sense of loss he didn’t grieve but left him empty nonetheless.

What was inside of him worth saving?

In the new, unexpected darkness, Rashala’s warmth curled around him.

If she asked him to stay, he wouldn’t refuse her, a shred of him wishing she’d say his name once more so he could abandon himself into nothing but the sound of her voice.

Crosshair wanted to hate himself even more than he already did but betrayal was the ultimate captor, his own deeds his prison, and a scrap of decency pulled from ridiculous Mandalorian notions of chivalry reminded him he didn’t have to keep her trapped in the dark with a monster like himself.

Wrapping around him, Rashala pulled him to her without words. She wouldn’t demean herself to beg.

Loneliness threatened to devour her if she didn’t ask Crosshair to stay with her, just this one night, just until she found strength to sit in the darkness by herself again.

Chapter Text

Crosshair tightened his arm around the body tucked beside his before realizing exactly what he had done.

His arm was a pillow for Rashala’s heavy head, her nose against his collarbone and her breath warm against his chest. Crosshair tilted his chin down into Rashala’s short blonde hair and smelled the fresh hollow musk of her skin; she was a perplexing mix, distinctly feminine, struck through with the clean scent of new blacks. Her arms folded against him, tight into the center of his embrace.

How had sleep come so easily? Before her, every night in the Command Center had been riddled with insomnia and exhausted collapse. The darkness of the cell surrounding the narrow cot was heavy, foreboding, and Crosshair closed his eyes. He stayed curled as Rashala’s shield, the breaker between the raging oceans of the Empire and a drowning woman in temporary repose.

They had saved each other’s lives, over and over again, and here they were once more: hidden together, away from the prying, demanding, gluttonous violence that had become their world under the Empire. The sniper knew he should push her away but Rashala was a flame, a fire burning beside him. In one of the most frightening things he’d done outside of a mission, Crosshair tentatively wrapped his arm between her shoulder blades and pulled her closer. Rashala breathed slow and steady, sighing deeply when she pressed her face closer to his neck, and the sniper forced his heartbeat to remain steady.

He wasn’t unfamiliar with the shape of a woman against him, knew the press of his own wiry body into yielding bedmates. On shoreleave, clones in the Grand Army of the Republic could do as they pleased within the same legal limits as any citizen of the Republic. No matter the planet, there were types eager for a credit and curious about a clone different than all the others they might have harbored for a few hours reprieve. The sniper unashamedly admitted his weaknesses, including those of the flesh, but never lamented departure from momentary lovers as others did. Lust was as transactional as thirst or hunger: take, fill, at the right time and with the right amount.

Others in the Grand Army of the Republic fawned over sweethearts but Crosshair couldn’t name a single partner he even held a conversation with. There were ways to keep from talking, to press lips to skin and transform words to moans. Sex was an experience concluded with swift departure to pursue other plans. He never left a lover wanting but he left them nonetheless.

Never before had Crosshair held a woman in his arms and fallen asleep.

Conflicted, the sniper momentarily wondered at all that could go terribly wrong… or terribly right, in their own wrong way. Would Rashala sigh against him as contentedly as she had just now in her slumber within his protective embrace or would she plead against him in the silent dark, mind changed? Would he know if she agreed to his mouth and his hands because she wanted him, too, or because he was her only safety in a literal cage? For all their close contact, for all the liability the Empire made of her in his command, for all the guilt he felt when he thought of her as anything but a fellow soldier… he didn’t know any other path but hesitation.

Crosshair rubbed a thumb experimentally across the jutting vertebrae of Rashala’s spine, slowly buried his nose in the warm comfort of her soft hair. Her presence, an unwilling soldier of the Imperial Army he was bound to serve, was a shield against the sweeping loneliness he only admitted to himself in the longest hours of the night.

The sniper wasn’t used to—might not ever be used to—being alone.

In holding her, Crosshair realized how much he didn’t want to let her go.

---

His body was lean, muscular and sharp-jointed, and not an inch wasted against her as Rashala woke up in Crosshair’s arms.

Pressed into the sniper, she immediately recognized him on scent alone, the gunmetal and mineral of his skin warm against hers. The Stassian didn’t take a moment to question why she felt so comfortable waking up next to him, didn’t hesitate to take in a deep breath and let out as near as a contented sigh as possible when the reality of her situation was anything less than within her own complete control. Rest came easy at Crosshair’s side, proving she was protected and seen as who she was rather than just a number. He held her in the way she had always wondered if a lover would hold her. Next to him, she was safe, beyond the crushing grasp of the Empire or the fathomless stretches of loneliness.

For a heartbeat, Rashala imagined waking up beside him every rotation. The horrors of bloodshed and death wouldn’t be able to reach her through Crosshair’s arms as easily as they did when she was alone.

“Sleep well?”

The sniper’s rasping tenor could have been misconstrued as cynical but Rashala knew Crosshair’s whispered tone disguised his anxieties. He didn’t mock her in her unexpected relaxation: if anything, there was a sliver of softness rounding the edges of his words, an almost nervous awareness that the last time he spoke to her, Rashala was actively keeping him from dying. In his acknowledgement she was no longer sleeping, he awakened fleeting thoughts of what that voice would sound like with lips pressed against her skin.

Her second sigh accompanied a subtle stretch, a shift of muscles against his as Rashala leaned her head under his chin. Under the blanket of darkness in her cell, no one could see them. This slice of time cut from the rotation fully determined by the Empire’s whims was hers—theirs—alone. It didn’t matter if this proximity was wrong, right, accidental, or predestined: for a moment, they could have been anywhere, anyone. Rashala didn’t speak, letting her body talk for her. As gently as she knew how, she leaned into his embrace and let temporary reprieve from sensibility sink between them.

Carefully, doubting himself to show what he felt in any capacity that could come close to the subtle gentleness Rashala gave him, Crosshair swept his hand over the back of her neck. His long fingers brushed through the short waves and ran across her scalp with a touch-vocabulary fluent in foreplay but not necessarily companionship; he restrained the action before he inadvertently traced the rim of her ear and dipped a delicate touch to the thin skin behind her jaw. Rashala’s fingers brushed his chest, soft touch drifting over his pectoral, and Crosshair knew he had never been touched with such care.

The lack of roving feminine hands fumbling at stripping his blacks from his waist almost confused him. He was used to being a physical novelty to a bedmate, following a course of action in the transaction—an objective series of steps as plain as a mission briefing—to bring pleasure to both parties before parting ways. Holding Rashala, he realized he had nothing in his grand arsenal of calculations to know what to do. He could barely anticipate, hardly react to the hint of nervous trepidation that shot a thin, deep trail through his body.

Rashala’s lips touched his neck, barely grazing above the collar of his blacks. An invitation, a request to continue, anything but building the tension he inadvertently placed between them in his hesitation.

I’m here, she seemed to tell him through the looming silence of the world outside the narrow cot, pushing aside the oppressive darkness hiding countless terrors. An astronomical pull drew him into her, something inside of him unable to resist despite the awareness this was a bad decision. He should push her away, apologize immediately, find a scrap of chivalry and refuse everything telling him not to hold back. The sniper imagined what his brothers would say if they knew he was putting a conscript in a tenuous situation by asking her to save him and then drawing her into his arms afterwards. Tech would list every rule guarding against fraternization with Republic contractors while Echo would probably remind him of how time consuming a court marshalling would be. Hunter, at times as much of a knight as the Jedi generals themselves in terms of moral righteousness, would certainly disapprove.

But space between galaxies pulled him in a winding, tumbling, dizzying answer to Rashala’s request. She caught his fall and he didn’t know how to let her go.

As Crosshair guided her arm over his chest and pulled her hand up to rest on his shoulder, he momentarily caged it there; his fingers wrapped around her own for a second, testing, searching before moving on. He never removed his fingertips from her form, charting a map across her body.

Silently, with more care than she expected, Crosshair slid his hand over her hip and Rashala took a deep, steadying breath as the sniper hooked his expert fingers behind her thigh. He brought her leg to rest over his own toned frame and Rashala only exhaled when Crosshair stretched his fingers wide over her hipbone. He repressed a shudder at the bloom of heat across his neck as a deep-seated craving hooked low and pulled sharp, lust flaring as the sniper dared contemplate how long they’d have together on this cot in the precarious arrangement he himself controlled. There were hours until the next rotation began, an eternity in the immediate presence of a woman who not only welcomed but asked for his embrace.

Slowly, so achingly slow, he moved his arm through the space between her neck and shoulder, tucking her into the hollows she could fill. Gathering Rashala flush against him, Crosshair hesitated only a moment before leaning in, his nose brushing hers as he hovered at her lips. She’d cross the distance if this was what she desired, would make the decision if his invitation was unwanted, and he felt her breath stutter behind the ribs pressed against his.

Proximity was trouble. Intimacy was wrong.

They’d be making a terrible decision to do anything but put distance between themselves immediately.

There was no proper path.

Rashala tilted her chin, blindly touching Crosshair’s lips with her own.

Terrified, he kissed her, then again, then once more.

He was numb, tingling, flushed, freezing, heart blocking his throat and yet able to breathe his first truly deep breath in ages. Like rain extinguishing a wildfire, Rashala’s presence swept over him and doused the destruction in healing waters. He was burning down to embers, down to sparks, and gave himself to Rashala’s touch. Nothing else existed but her contradictions pouring into him.

Panic tempered by a flash of passion, a long-forgotten sliver of desire threatening to respond to Crosshair’s hands, startled Rashala as much as she welcomed the satisfying ache. She felt something of her own again, something that came from her without anyone expecting an anticipated response to testing or a measurable degree of improvement, a flare that would never come when clinically called. Unexpected pleasure slipped into each press, reminding them their bodies weren’t just created for war or stolen as a tool.

More than just company, beyond tethers to one another to keep from drifting apart in the night, Crosshair and Rashala lingered on every touch.

Eyes closed against the dark of the cell, she let Crosshair’s strength envelop her, imagining the hints of warmth in his dark brown eyes flickering to match the lust in the way his hands tightened their grip. His muscles, hard and lean, inadvertently tightened when she opened her mouth to him. Both remembered how to kiss with fervor, Rashala’s shoulders curling in when Crosshair ran his tongue along her bottom lip.

His skin prickled, hairs on his arms and legs responding when Rashala’s breath flushed his mouth with sweet heat, and Crosshair inhaled sharply when she nipped him. Gently but still overwhelmingly intentional, she did it again and the commander made a sound that caused her to flush. Crosshair felt the heat rise in her cheeks and pressed his face to hers to unabashedly enjoy the sensation of Rashala blushing.

The sniper rolled Rashala under him, her gasp spurring his lust, and he held her face cupped between his hands to place a searing kiss on her lips before she could make another sound. For half a second of shared heartbeat, there wasn’t a space in the galaxy that could keep them captive.

Rashala’s nails scratched circles across his scalp, fingertips moving through his hair in delicious patterns, and he hesitated at her neck to enjoy the sensation of her perfect touch. She was careful around the scar over his ear but stroked across the change in texture without hesitation, accepting his wound as much as she did the rest of him. No matter what had happened, this, too, was part of the man she pressed her body against in complete abandonment.

He cradled her jaw in his long fingers, large hands adjusting her head so he could suck carefully along her jaw and down her throat. Briefly, a reminder Rashala was under his command threatened to derail his passion even as the thought heightened his lust unexpectedly. The death of peace of mind was sultry, deceptively enticing as Crosshair deliberated.

“Cr-“

He smothered the start of Rashala’s question with his tongue, diving into her mouth even as he wanted to hear his name on her kiss-swollen lips, and she answered hungrily. With a subtle but terribly effective shift of her hips, his thighs rested between hers, and no one had ever made him feel as desired—as powerful, as wanted, as capable—as Rashala did when she pulled him to her.

Fingers curling behind her neck, thumb tracing the long line from her chin to the collar of her blacks, his grip was all at once controlling and freeing, her pulse racing at the press of his hand. She raised her knees, finally feeling Crosshair lean exactly where she wanted him. Through the connection thrumming between them, a hazy, gilded touch as comforting as a soft whisper in each other’s ear as Rashala couldn’t quite control her abilities through the rolling surges of emotion, Crosshair hesitated.

Have you never slept with another person before? His inadvertent asking of a question he hadn’t meant to imply was a reminder of how little he knew about Rashala, how much more he might know than she did.

Quietly, moving with deliberate slides of his hands along Rashala’s torso, Crosshair kneeled between her legs and pressed his lips to the inside of her knee with almost a reverent touch. Through the blacks, he pretended he could feel her skin, envisioned moving his mouth along the inside of her thigh, imagining exactly how long he’d linger at the junction at her hip before licking his way to her core. Rashala shook with want, seeing exactly what Crosshair intended her to see through touch alone, and the sniper pressed his twisted smirk to her leg with one final kiss.

Rashala’s disappointment echoed between them and, with unabashed desire, the commander slid his hot palm along the band of her blacks, thumbs dipping briefly in a slide over her hipbones before curling under the shirt hem. Efficiently, with sensual slowness, Crosshair undid the narrow zip along the side of the top, putting his lips to the narrow slice of skin exposed at her stomach. Softly, insistently, everything all at once telling him this was Rashala’s body underneath his and the complications of such a position holding no meaning besides the fact he wanted her to feel exactly how he did whenever he touched her, Crosshair breathed a trail along her skin as he rolled her blacks up over the bottom of her ribs.

Rashala couldn’t see him in the dark but her blindness only heightened every other sensation. His calloused hands and long fingers touched the sensitive span of her stomach, his stubble a welcome scrape against the soft skin he breathed over her as though savoring the scent. Crosshair’s now-familiar blend of metal and crushed pumice laced the air with a trace of his own arousal, a musk that made Rashala embarrassed for how badly she wanted to press her nose into his neck and breathe him in until she couldn’t smell anything else. His long sigh against the dip in her belly made her hands clench in his hair.

She thought about asking but pushed him suggestively, a request to travel down instead of up, and Crosshair chuckled lightly before seizing her hips. Hands firmly around her waist, he jerked her down against his thighs, relishing her momentary startle even as he taught her a lesson about herself. Rashala’s heart raced, a tinge of fear of the unknown tangling with her undeniable desire, and she could have cursed him for knowing exactly what he needed to do to cause her to freeze.

In a lustful compromise, he crawled slowly to lean back over her prone form, pressing himself tight between her legs. He rocked once through their blacks, then again, catching Rashala’s gasp with a biting kiss. He slid his leg over hers, the sniper guiding them both to their sides before pulling Rashala in close once more, and she curled in against his chest as he rolled her blacks down to sit comfortably where they should.

As much as they wanted more, neither could fully ignore the fact that their temporary suspension of reality was just that: temporary. If they went too far, everything would change, and they couldn’t afford the cost.

“Crosshair?”

The sniper shushed her with a low sigh, holding her as though he could keep rare contentedness intact if they didn’t acknowledge the tentative balance between now and soon. The Stassian acquiesced easily, aware she didn’t have the words planned out for exactly how she’d ask him to come with her. Crosshair’s complicated ties to the Empire were frayed but not completely snapped, that much was obvious when she was in his mind while trying to stop the chip malfunction. She couldn’t tell him about the data she exchanged with the Partisan in exchange for a transport, couldn’t warn him of her half-formulated ideas about how to break out of the Command Center.

She couldn’t make a single mistake, not with her life on the line.

With a hint of regret for agreeing with the desperation in his request to let the moment ebb away, Rashala kissed the hollow of Crosshair’s neck, her fingers on his hipbone to splay over his side. He wrapped her other hand in his to rest between them. Slowing their breathing and calming their heartrate, Crosshair was momentarily relieved of the horrors of battle, temporarily unharmed by the same harm he had caused since the chip activated and his life was taken from him by the very entity that created him. Beside him, Rashala sighed into his skin with a relinquished stupor, sleep beckoning to carry her tired body away from residual sensations of passion and into a deep, dreamless slumber.

Wrapped within the cool veil of intimate darkness, they didn’t know what to do next.

---

How Crosshair startled without waking Rashala was beyond him but, as the sniper held himself perfectly still in the bleak moments before the start of another rotation, he felt Rashala’s steady breathing and let the deep rhythm soothe him.

He had dreamed of Bracca again, for the first time in a long time, and his sore head reminded him he had barely managed to escape the chip with his life. Like a delayed hangover subdued by faded lust and surging in the space made by helpless dreams, Crosshair frowned against the pulse-beat headache, pushing away the nightmares.

The junk planet was a disastrous wasteland in the ripped canvas of Crosshair’s memories, spiny ridges jutting to scratch against the low clouds slinking across a teal-tainted sky. The destroyed cruiser, a Venator that was once a flagship in its early days of service to the Republic, was succumbed to gravity and rust, half drowned and salting at the edges. That Tech had managed to bring the engines online wasn’t surprising but, rather, that the plan to flush out Clone Force 99 had backfired so terribly on Crosshair’s special forces squad as to cause the casualties it did… Crosshair almost wished the vapor-flame had disintegrated him when Rampart addressed the failed mission personally.

The hurt… the hurt for weeks afterward, deep under his skin where even the medbay scans hadn’t been able to pierce… Something inside was ruined, damaged beyond repair, and somewhere in the rotations swinging between sparse night and bleak day the sniper had managed to convince himself the pain of that blue-hot flame was no better than he deserved.

Bracca was inhospitable, destined only for the splintered remains of a faded age, engineers turned to scrappers—clever minds turned corrupt—and the violent violet haze that smoldered on its horizon line stalked Crosshair across the line from dream into nightmare.

He knew exactly why his brothers and that girl had gone to that cruiser, knew exactly what they did there. Crosshair’s surviving squad had completed the mission report in immense detail, including Crosshair’s failure to balance his duties as a commander with his partiality to emotionally-driven response: the medbay surgical machine had been successfully activated, the same procedure running four times. The sniper wondered for months afterwards why four and not five procedures—Rex had been with them, as had the girl—but guessed the answer when spinning through the ill-fated mission while exercising the firepuncher at the training range: Rex’s Jedi had already removed the chip, showing him what Rex needed to guide others to freedom from the Empire.

Rex’s Jedi had been well-known throughout the GAR, a young Togruta girl with impeccable imitation of her master’s antics, and the captain’s well-known admiration for his commander was loyalty bordering on foolishness. Crosshair had heard more than enough rumors from the 501st to last him a lifetime of unnecessary theatrics from the regs but Rex’s noble respect for the padawan was undeniable universal fact. By how the sniper knew it, the apprentice held the same consideration for her captain. Of course she would save him, of course…

And, when Crosshair’s chip had sparked to a threshold that, if crossed, he could never survive… He had gone to Rashala, trusting her to save him, too.

Untangling himself from her loose embrace, the sniper let guilt fill every bit of space between them until the cell was a smothering weight of broken responsibilities and failed duty. Crosshair had never deluded himself as an honorable man but he didn’t know this part of himself, only knew he was making choices that would only prove all the more difficult when the end finally came. And the end would come.

The only thing Crosshair could give her was suffering. Whether perpetuating her own as her commander in a military she resisted or burdening her with his desperate pain, he could only watch as the Empire finally managed to kill her under their testing of her Force abilities—the sniper knew his short reach to protect her if Rampart determined the Stassian no longer fulfilled expectations—or she would watch him fall. Or, most likely and likely the best for them both, Rashala would recognize how her commanding officer had very nearly taken advantage of her mind, body, and abilities. She should hate him and would be perfectly in her rights to do so.

But Crosshair knew he was a coward to slink away before she woke, even as he wondered if she could truly hate with the heart she showed him.

---

Seven rotations until she had to be at the diner in Coruscant’s undercity. Seven rotations until she could leave the planet and make her way back to Stassa II. 

Seven rotations left to find a way to escape the Command Center.

Suddenly, seven rotations didn’t feel that long at all.

Rashala skimmed the data pad, flicking between files and folders, looking for a way out.

The same security protocols stared back accusingly, mocking her for thinking she’d uncover some secret to pull everything down around her ears and climb out of the rubble. The Empire wouldn’t run in circles, crying and clutching at their hair as she strolled out of a mess she made of their systems: they’d quickly, efficiently, and thoroughly reinstate their protocols before catching her. If she was fortunate–and Rashala felt as though her luck would surely run out at exactly the wrong time–they’d kill her fast.

Back against the wall, knees pulled up, Rashala caught herself slipping into a familiarity reserved only for when she studied NATSIC M notes, habits borne of the arduous hours training for her licensing exams. She didn’t pass the first time she took the Technical Guild’s intensive assessments but, unlike failing to meet the nearly impossible Guild standards and getting to try again the next season, the Empire wouldn’t give her another chance to succeed.

Rashala tortured herself as she tried to fight the intrusive reminders she would never see Stassa II again if she didn’t think of something to save herself.

Technology didn’t care about clever solutions. Equipment didn’t appreciate the hours spent in deep contemplation, didn’t respond to witty implementations. Trash was trash, success was success. Simple. There was little leeway in the binary realm. Multiplexing wasn’t particularly complex once the codes and frequencies fell into line. Rashala used to take great pleasure in securing uplinks and rescuing downlinks across the mid-rim communications systems Stassa II stewarded for the Techno Union; she could code in a half-dozen languages and knew communications systems protocol like no one else on her team. She knew what she did and knew it well.

Nothing she’d ever done prepared her for what she had to do now.

Closing her eyes, she let the memory of Crosshair’s presence in her cot the night before distract her from the sickening feeling in her gut that she should be even more afraid of what was to come than she actually was. Maybe she was numbing herself to the disaster that was her situation or even growing used to life in the Imperial Army to the point of complacency but the lack of paralyzing terror was a welcome relief compared to her first weeks as a conscript.

But the commander had become a confused tangle she didn’t think she had time to unravel.

She had been inside Crosshair’s head, had seen the shadows of nightmares pressing against the fading hopes of reunion with his brothers, knew the jealousy and rage and deep, deep distrust from what the Empire had done to him. Rashala knew now how deep his scars ran. Far from being the terrifyingly cold and callous commander she initially met, Crosshair was now a person she knew so intimately as to be able to find him a galaxy away. She would have given her body his just hours ago had he not pulled them from a precipice she wanted to leap from if only to blot out the inevitability of returning to the Empire’s expectations of them both. Rashala wasn’t surprised she awoke to find him gone, slipped away in the narrow span between artificial night and day. She was almost grateful, not knowing if she would have been able to find the right way to part without making a fool of them both.

Admittedly, Rashala hadn’t slept as well as she had since the last time Crosshair held her. She was embarrassed to think she had invited any part of her authentic self into the prison that was the Command Center.

No, if Rashala ever wanted to get out—and she wanted to get back to Stassa II more than anything—she had to focus on what mattered. If Rashala hadn’t been inside Crosshair’s mind, hadn’t done her failed best to ignore anything that didn’t lead her to stall the chip in his head, she might have wondered if he, too, was a test set by the Empire.

But she knew him for the person he was, for the person he tried to hide, the person he was beneath the battle wounds and cynicism. And that was a person she’d want to know in any other time and any other place.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrap

The MSE opened the door to her cell without more than its trilling warning, barely giving Rashala enough time to hide the data pad behind her hip. She bit back a choice curse for meddlesome little beasts, frowning at the droid as it rudely braa-brapped at her.

“Regular rotation schedule today,” Rashala reminded the MSE as it rocked back and forth on its treads. The Stassian double-checked her comm bracer to be sure, briefly worried she missed yet another deployment order or mission briefing, but only the confirmed meet-request from Router to log the mandatory exercise requirements together lit up on the small screen.

Bap! the droid ordered, spinning tight circles in the doorway before taking off down the hallway, leaving her cell door wide open. Rashala sighed in annoyance.

“I’ll rewrite your code if I catch you,” she muttered in a weak threat, getting up to touch the door controls for a continuation of privacy. She stopped as she put her hand on the panel.

An idea—not her best but perhaps the most promising with the time she had—began to spin in the back of her mind.

Slowly, the escape plan found an axis, rotating with the grand and glacial effort of a planet but picking up speed with every second Rashala realized her necessary resources were at her fingertips.

With the stoic dignity of a Stassian, she kept her expression impassive as she closed the door and sat with dignity upon the cot, pulling the data pad into her hands as though preparing to lead the daily crew debrief in the NATSIC M. Despite the excited hope bounding and bouncing and clamoring inside her heart, Rashala kept her mind clear as she found the facilities protocol she was looking for in her cache of stolen Empirical data and began to modify the code.

She eventually lost herself in her task, humming as she abandoned her nervousness in favor of sheer exaltation. Singing a Stassian celebration song reserved for life-day parties and new births, Rashala smiled to hear the lyrics from her own mouth as she found reason to exalt.

Seven rotations would be more than enough to complete the work.

--–

“Sure you don’t wanna spar?” Router joked, jogging alongside her at an easy pace. “Easier on the knees.”

“Not allowed back in the training room,” Rashala huffed, envious of how the clone moved as though he was born running and never stopped except for his kindness in letting others catch up. “That’s the third time you’ve complained about your knees, Route.”

The enormous gymnasium that doubled as a torture device in her first weeks of captivity was full, clammoring with clones and mercenaries alike as soldiers lifted weights and exercised in bursts of energy in the wide center of the track. Crisscrossing support beams laddered throughout the tall ceiling, stretching like cobwebs up into the wide skylights, and ductwork tried and failed to push cool air into the muggy space. Rashala was one of the few running laps, doing her best to pace herself without help of a comm brace. For the hours she spent coding, rewriting, and tweaking the modifications to an essential piece of the facility operations protocol, Rashala had barely shifted from her spot on the cot besides to absentmindedly gnaw at a grainy rations bar pulled from her kit supply. She was almost thankful for the break to meet Router for their exercise: she could move her muscles and let her brain spin in the background as she forced herself to sweat.

The whole time, she wondered if she could broach her plan with one of the only clones who had become a trusted friend.

“Getting old is a kriffin’ pain,” Router complained good-naturedly, rounding the lane with a lazy lope. “Ten is the new seven, though.”

Rashala frowned, trying and failing to keep her fingers out of her hair as she pushed back the length tickling her forehead. If she didn’t keep the blonde waves slicked down, someone would undoubtedly notice and shave her head again. The action reminded her of Crosshair’s hand running through the strands in the darkness and she stared straight ahead to keep the memory from creeping further on her thoughts.

“Ten,” Router said as though she were a simple child. “Age?”

“That’s not important-”

“Not your age, mine.”

“You’re ten?”

“And I don’t move like it, do I?” Router teased, Rashala’s shock lost on his naturally jovial nature.

“Wait, what?”

“Clones, we don’t age the same.”

“But… ten?”

“You thought we just popped out of the ground like this? Fell from the sky all kitted up and ready to go?”

“Router…”

“Your Stassian girlfriends would like that, wouldn’t they?”

Rashala fought back a small grin, thinking of the times Malivde had given her the signal across the tavern that she hooked her choice companion for the rest of the evening. Router gave a guffaw loud enough for half a squad to turn and stare at them from their loose gathering around a row of weight racks. Rashala tried to hide alongside Router’s big frame. They continued their run and the Stassian shook her head, briefly wondering if Crosshair would have defiantly proved to the regs that Rashala certainly didn’t have a Stassian girlfriend or if the sniper would simply have walked over and decked the clone who threw the smarmiest glance at Rashala.

“So, which of my brothers do I need to go knock into line?”

Rashala flushed at Router’s joke, the clone not understanding how much accidental truth he put between them, and she knew her face was as red as a setting sun.

“Definitely not spoken for,” Rashala muttered, putting extra effort into keeping her feet moving without tripping herself.

“So, why the-?” Router teased Rashala for blushing, circling his face with a sweaty finger.

“My friend, Malivde,” she huffed instead, pushing herself to pick up the pace lest her legs shake with nervousness instead of exhaustion. “She has a type.”

“And I’m it?”

“You’re it.”

“And you didn’t tell me? Bet she’s blonde.”

“She’s beautiful. And kind, and funny-”

Rashala stretched her leg over the sudden foot sticking out into her lane, avoiding a mercenary trying to trip her, and didn’t look back to see if the failed attempt to make a fool of her earned a chuckle or a glare. She kept going, forcing Router to keep up rather than feel obligated to fight his discomfort confronting the mercenaries.

“She’s like a sister to me,” Rashala said in a clipped breath, rounding the track with Router at her side. “My only blood siblings are brothers.”

“Pains in the shebs?”

“Always. But I love them.”

Her voice cracked against her careful control and her pace slowed as she dared think about her family. Did they worry about her? Did they think she was dead? Had they put the memorial stone outside of her family tomb or did they hold out hope she’d return to them? Was her message received by the NATSIC M or were the bytes lost to the canyons of hyperspace? She couldn’t afford to dwell, not when she had to come up with a plan to escape into the Coruscanti underground, and forced herself to speed up. A disturbing memory of Nish—so much like family himself—falling under the guard’s blasterfire threatened to derail Rashala’s perpetually strained emotional state.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Router said, noting her stony expression trying and failing to hide everything she felt under the sheen of sweat. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I can’t- talk- about- home,” Rashala panted, her blacks wicking away the trickles of salt at her collar. “Let’s- just run.”

They ran another lap in silence, the clone obvious in his guilt and Rashala unable to pull her boiling frustrations from overpouring into full-blown panic.

She had just spent more than half a rotation pouring energy into an escape plan that might not work. The Empire would catch her before she activated the plan and shoot her like they did Nish. The modified facilities protocol wouldn’t work and they’d have Crosshair himself shoot her in front of the rest of SF Squad as a punishment to them both. She might not ever see Malivde or her brothers again. Stassa II might be a memory transformed into a haunting until her last breath, which might come at any rotation at any time. Her best effort to escape might–would likely–fail and she’d be dead by her own hand for all the good fleeing the Empire did. How did she ever think she could do this? Why not just comply until she was inevitably shot on a battlefield or tested by Crennit until the Imperial Army broke her mind?

Rashala’s heart raced too fast and her blood ran too thin, lightheadedness shifting to static dizziness, and she stopped before she passed out. Hands on her knees, the Stassian heaved for air, barely stumbling off to the side of the track. Router followed, dark eyebrows flattening.

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

His concern was unwelcome, barely heard over the rushing in her ears, and everything went hot as Rashala swallowed back bile.

Near the doorway, huge duracrete blocks keeping the hustle of the Command Center on the other side of the gymnasium, a commotion ramped with startling quickness.

Three non-clone Imperial officers ordered their fellow officer to put his hands behind his back, barking directions at the clone like he was a criminal despite the fact he wore the same uniform they did. The clone, dark skin washing out as his frustration turned to worry under the bold facade of confidence, argued he didn’t want a confrontation. Two mercenaries stood behind the group ordering the clone to his knees and the soldier shouted as a third mercenary lunged, muscles bulging. He seized the clone officer and forced him down, roughly pulling the uniformed sleeves together behind the clone’s back, but the clone couldn’t fight without striking a fellow officer, everyone converging on him at once.

The entire gymnasium froze in their exercises, all eyes on the struggle. Tension whipped through the vast room as confused clones glared at the assault of one of their own. Some stepped forward before thinking better of it, watching their brother try to explain he hadn’t done what he was being accused of.

Without mercy, the bulky mercenaries accompanying the non-clone officers dragged the man out of the room. His shouts down the hallway denying he stole information made Rashala dry-heave as she realized the Empire knew someone had been in their system. Router patted her on the shoulder awkwardly and she shrugged him off, continuing to try to control her stomach. If she stared at her feet and focused on the pebbled texture of the grippy track, she didn’t have to face her shame.

“Let this be a lesson to you all,” a self-aggrandizing voice warned from the doorways. Rashala couldn’t help but look up, peering through the swaying lines of clones shifting uneasily at the appearance of a high-ranking officer. Broad-nosed and long-faced, his brown hair short on the sides and not quite the same shade as his eyes, the man didn’t seem particularly physically powerful or even fully present as he scanned the room. The rank designation wasn’t clear to Rashala at a distance but he was a vice admiral at the least.

“Anyone out of line has no place in the new era,” the man said, deceptively soft-spoken. He scanned the room with a sense of distaste, as though he didn’t like what he saw despite holding everyone’s attention. He seemed ready to say more but thought better of his time than to address a crowd, turning on his heel with a practiced mien of superiority.

Exercise slowly resumed but most clones disbursed, leaving in groups and muttering among themselves. Distrust and anger scattered like water on wax. Rashala took deep breaths, the harshly filtered air drying her teeth and leaving scum on her tongue, and Router waited uncertainly at her side as she eased herself back to standing.

“Who- who was that?” she asked, trying to make sense of everything she just saw while also distracting Router—and herself—from the unexpected and overwhelming wave of sudden panic that had stopped her in her tracks.

“Vice Admiral Rampart.”

Router was unimpressed but too well-trained to openly disrespect a superior officer, especially one as high-ranking as the vice admiral. He folded his arms, shoulders back, and stared at the emptying gymnasium doorways with reserved worry. The clone’s tone was everything Rashala needed to know how he really felt about the vice admiral.  

“He doesn’t seem very terrifying,” Rashala offered, trying to piece together everything Router left unspoken and finding the puzzle too much. Unwanted reminders of her own harsh inner voice chanting at her that she’d lose her life because she was too stupid to know how to escape the Command Center even with petabytes of data distracted her from Router’s flickering frown.

“You know by now it isn’t the way you look that makes you what you are,” Router said slyly, and Rashala’s hands turned icy as she wondered if Router knew something he wasn’t going to directly admit. “Not all the time, anyway. Tarkin gave Rampart control of the Grand Army of the Republic. Hasn’t been long at all and he’s already disbanded most military support services. Rumors are going around about demotions, disappearances… And after what happened with Tipoca City–”

Router looked at Rashala carefully, kindly but with the intensity that made her feel as though she’d done something wrong for the entire galaxy to see.

“Well, there’s only one clone who knows what really happened, isn’t there?”

The setting sun pushed crimson shadows across the gymnasium’s vast duracrete walls. Ventilation ducts laced through the long, webbed ceiling supports glinted orange as the world outside the Command Center only hinted beyond the unreachable skylights. Clones and conscripts alike, mercenaries trailing the soldiers like guards themselves, disbanded. Rashala caught herself looking for Tick and Kie, even Miter, before realizing she was looking for dead men in the eyes of their identical brothers. She glanced at the only clone left she might have trusted out of all the regs in Crosshair’s squad.

The look on Router’s face was too terrible for Rashala to stare at for long.

“Is there anything we can do about this?” she asked, folding her arms around her ribs as she tried for pragmatism instead of panic.

The clone didn’t look away from the doors as he thought, discouragement and something not unlike disgust at his own fear flickering behind his eyes. Rashala saw the same look in Crosshair’s gaze when he thought no one was looking.

“Not unless we all do something together,” Router said quietly but no less firmly than a command.

The spark of her plan, almost dimmed by her self-doubt and suddenly fear-riddled lack of confidence, blazed into a sun in Rashala’s mind.

--–

The very thought of her first step out into Coruscant filled her with a fantastic fear, an excitement as trepidatious and exhilarating as falling out of the dropship onto Metalorn’s swaying skyscrapers.

Rashala’s muscles pinched between her ribs and squeezed out her air in sharp little bursts as she held the thought through the dry ion wash in the communal showers. Spiked molecules sanded at her skin and ruffled her hair, the growing length bound to draw attention if she didn’t run her fingers through it to keep the waves brushed behind her ears. With acute practice, she ignored the rude stares from mercenaries and the noted aversion of clone soldiers as she dressed in a fresh set of blacks, clipping her comm bracer into place without so much as looking at the armor when she kitted up. That she could dress herself fluently in the dark plastoid unnerved Rashala almost as much as the thought anyone could look at her face and see exactly what she was thinking despite her consistently passive, calm appearance.

Clearing the report-request to the Armory from the comm, navigating the hallways through the labyrinthine Command Center, tapping her designation into the door access panel… Rashala did it all in routine.

The ease was terrifying.

She had to get out sooner than later. Even seven rotations seemed too long.

--–

“You’re insane.”

“I’m desperate.”

“Same thing.”

Dex continued to shape the plastoid bracer over the closed-flame forge as though Rashala hadn’t urgently whispered the scraps of a ridiculously risky plan to the armormaster while worked. What initially was filed as a report-request to pick up her new helmet and bracer since the fateful Metalorn mission quickly became obvious that Dex was using the opportunity to check in on her. Whereas she had guiltily kept the dregs of her plan from Router, there was something trusting and encouraging in Dex’s warm gruffness that Rashala hadn’t expected but should have anticipated. As he had her try on the new helmet, she took a risk, just as Dex had risked giving her the data pad.  

He initially acted like he hadn’t heard her at all, his stony, scarred face an impassive mask borne of years of military service. The smooth horn and blunt corners of the anvil Dex labored over shone with a dull cast-iron bleakness, radiating a dry, metallic heat not entirely unpleasant. Rashala briefly remembered superheated riverstones lining the bottom of the tavern’s central fire, hot mineral crispness rounding the edges of the brutal winter cold. Petroliferous, the entire armory stank and the custom moulding of her new bracer crackled with each precise scoop across the heavy metal surface.

“You said so yourself,” Rashala argued against Dex’s silence, watching the clone sweep the tongs over the plastoid with no more drama than frying an egg. “Every conscript that comes through here is terrified, little more than a child. We’re not soldiers of war. We’re stolen.”

“Hush up.”

“You were a child when they did this to you–”

“You know nothing but what you’re parroting back like a broken protocol droid,” Dex cut over her urgent whisper, a flat-browed glare glancing like a knife off her armor. Even with the attempted dissuasion from the man who might be the closest thing to a trusted elder from her own village as she’d ever find off Stassa II, Rashal wasn’t to be dissuaded.

“Don’t you want to be done with this?” she asked, and her meaning accidentally went beyond the Imperial Army. Warfare, bloodshed, obeying orders with little to no regard to the men who would fight and lose even if they claimed the battlefield.

Dex’s lumpy knuckles and chunky, misshapen hunks of flesh poorly healed under scarred skin reminded her so much of Olten’s mining accident that Rashala had to close her eyes lest she look up at Dex’s face and see her older brother in his stead. Olten’s thin blonde hair and rosy cheeks always made him look windswept by a mid-winter breeze, a hint of a holiday perpetually teasing in his bright smile. He couldn’t have been more different than Dex besides the shocking familiarity in their damaged hands.

The chance to get back to her beloved Stassa II, to see the villagers of Lepshenston again, to hug Olten and her brothers… Rashala swallowed tightly, throat constricting and stomach buckling as she forced herself to continue in the wake of Dex’s silence filling the answer to her question.

“You’re just as much of a victim of the Empire as I am–”

Dex plunged the bracer into the bucket of wrianthide-laced water, a burnt husk temporarily forming over the katarn-laced plastoid before flaking away in the maroon mixture to leave a subtle gleam on the dark grey bracer. The action held a cutting finality, a warning Rashala went too far, and the Stassian pulled her shoulders back to face the armormaster when he slowly turned to stare down at her flushed voracity.

“Listen up, I’ll only say this once,” the hulking clone said, his wrinkles deepening as he frowned at Rashala. Even with her height, she barely came up to his collarbone.

“I am not a victim.”

Dex reinforced each word with a finality that left Rashala ashamed for her impertinence, guilty for her ambitions to pull the experience-aged armormaster into her weak, paperthin plotting.

“I have freedom. I’m a free man, serving the Empire just as I served the Republic,” he continued, voice firm and powerful. “I know who I am. I don’t need to look elsewhere for purpose. I know my place in the galaxy.”

Under any other circumstance–in my old life, Rashala thought unbidden–her response would be an immediate apology, unable to prevent from tearing up by the simple nature of a raised voice directed at her. She wasn’t taught to shout, didn’t live around those who did, and didn’t allow the NATSIC M to ever become an environment that tolerated verbal abuse. Dex’s intensity would have startled her into backpedaling had the armory been on her arctic moon and Rashala had never been conscripted.

The person Rashala had to become since watching Nishtian fall under the casual shot from an Imperial blaster… that person could never run from confrontation again.

“I’m not, Dex.”

She stared up at him, shaking her head not to shame him but to keep her own shame from welling in a clenched jaw or petrifying the light in her eyes. Rashala breathed deep, making sure she had the right words before she said them.

“I’m not a free woman. You only know me only because I am a prisoner.”

The armormaster glanced away, suddenly so much like Router and the other clones she knew that Rashala felt like she could be speaking to any one of them, and she didn’t expect the squeeze in her gut when she thought of Miter, Tick, and Kie dead on planets far, far away.

“I envy the clones,” she said quietly, tilting just enough to recapture Dex’s full attention. “You have each other. You have brothers, everywhere you look. Sometimes too many brothers!”

Dex only chuckled because Rashala did, the Stassian putting a hand gently on his arm. His jumpsuit sleeve was slippery and soft, warm from laboring over the forge, and Rashala pulled away when she thought unbiddingly of Crosshair’s body heat lest she inadvertently push her thoughts through an unintended connection. Dex continued staring at her, a worried frown replacing his indignant glare as she spoke.

“The Empire did this to me,” Rashala continued, gesturing at her blacks. “I didn’t choose to fight. But I had to change to survive. From what I saw today in the gymnasium, the clones need to do the same.”

“Then get outta here,” Dex said, recognizing Rashala’s attempt to pull back from influencing him with the Force. She didn’t know what she was doing yet, that much was obvious, but Dex had been around Jedi since the First Battle of Geonosis. The Stassian would learn soon enough.

“I don’t want to leave you behind,” Rashala whispered, a cold shiver passing through her as she realized she couldn’t take the words back even if she wanted to. “Or Router. Or Cross- Crosshair.”

She stumbled gracelessly over the commander’s name, tripping on her own concern and showing herself for the fool she was. Through her own embarrassment, she sought Dex’s eyes, trying to divert his stare from the floor as he listened.

“I know about the chips,” she said in a low hush, feeling as though to speak of the technology was to hold up a mirror to the old clone’s face and demand he look to see the terrible secret she found out about. “I know this wasn’t your fault.”

Rashala didn’t expect Dex’s expression to fall to pieces. For a brief moment, his face crumpled, the mottled skin of an old scar tightening on his cheek before he ran his broken hands over his eyes. The Stassian wanted to look away but couldn’t, more concerned for Dex than for her own embarrassment at having made him cry, and realized their friendship for what it was even if it was borne of necessity. Dex was a friend and she’d miss him greatly, whether or not she was successful at convincing him to join her.

He tried for words, mouth gaping like a fish as he didn’t quite know what to say, and quickly pulled himself together. Almost standing at attention, he straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat, nodding with a sharp bob of his chin.

“Right, then. We’ll need a few things if this is gonna work.”

Rashala’s smile flushed under her eyes and spread across her cheeks, giddiness curling up under the glass barrier of nervous apprehension to stare off adversarially. She could be excited but she couldn’t be reckless, especially not with so much more than her own freedom on the line.

“I have a plan. The facility codes-“

“How did you get facility codes?”

“Never mind that,” she said, welling with hope now that she had Dex’s support. Rashala had never done well with the burden of a secret on her shoulders, had always hated to lie even by omission, and she felt lighter than she had since well before the Empire ever landed on Stassa II.

“I’m modifying them, now that I know how they work,” Rashala continued, “or, well, how I think they’re set up to work. I’m confident I can take everything offline if-“

“Don’t tell me,” he said gruffly, turning away from her with some semblance of the brusque old armormaster Rashala knew him to be. “I’ll know too much. I’ll send you a message when your bracer is ready.”

The old clone hesitated only briefly, refusing to look at Rashala when he asked.

“How long?”

“Seven rotations. If not sooner.”

He nodded once, as though to approve the expediency himself, before turning from her entirely.

Dex rustled among the racks of plastoid pieces ready for their soldiers to pick up, pulling a large grey breastplate out of a padded box. His expertise in repairing the crushed plastoid of Crosshair’s armor was unparalleled, hardly a divot or scratch proving half of an entire factory had crushed the sniper on Metalorn.

“He came for the rest yesterday but I needed an extra rotation for the big piece,” Dex explained, running his thumbs along the edges of the plate, inspecting his work. “Not an easy job, putting this back together.”

He looked at her with piercing, wise brown eyes. Rashala was disgusted her own Stassian complexion forced an obvious flush up her neck. She felt as though Dex could see exactly what she had done to–done with–Crosshair and perpetual embarrassment mingled with a touch of quiet indignity. Even though Rashala had told Dex her most powerful secret—the one she hid from Router and Crosshair with uncomfortable wariness—she still protected something private and volatile.

Dex handed Rashala the breastplate and she took it too quickly, suddenly terribly afraid she placed her trust in the wrong person. An unfamiliar sense of aggravation, both at Dex and herself, made her uneasy. A candle-wisp of anger, a smoky pillar entwining around her thoughts as an unwelcome smog, plumed at the base of her throat and she suddenly regretted telling him anything of her thoughts for escape. He’d betray her, he’d go right to Crennit or Rampart or the first commanding officer he could find to turn her in without remorse, he’d try to stop her–

Rashala’s swift gasp for air rattled her lips and hissed through her teeth as she came back to herself, her fear obvious in the way she tightly gripped the breastplate as a shield between her and the old armormaster. Dex peered down at her, his narrowing eyes equal parts threatening and brimming with concern.

“Girl, I already promised I’d help you,” he reassured, a taste of hurt flavoring his words. “I need a rotation or two to prepare.”

“But you don’t even know what it is I’m planning,” Rashala snapped, hearing how alien her own tone was to her even as she said the words.

He pinched his lips together, turning from her with a dismissive gesture.

“Dex, I’m sorry-”

“You’re asking me to undermine everything I know,” the old clone said, shaking his head softly, chin pulled into his broad chest. “Everything I am… The Republic, now the Empire…”

His sigh was the last breath of a man who knew what he stood for and he rubbed his hand against the side of his head, staring at the floor.

“And I’m still going to help you,” he finished, almost wistfully. “This is gonna be the most frightening thing I’ve ever done, leaving it all behind. But it isn’t the same anymore, either.”

The armormaster looked conflicted, confused, and Rashala suddenly wished she hadn’t put any of her expectations of escape on Dex’s bent shoulders.

“The commander’ll be needing that,” Dex said, glancing at the armor in Rashala’s hands. “He’s due for deployment at thirteen-forty-five.”

Immediately, Rashala reached out to hand the breastplate to him and realized Dex didn’t expect her to return it to his care by the way he started to laugh. Dex’s chuckle turned into a belly-bouncing guffaw, becoming a red-faced, tear-streaked, knee-slapping affair that confused Rashala as much as shook her out of the remnants of the angry darkness that lept at the thought of Dex even considering betraying her. Shamefully, she held onto the armor and let her frustrations wash aside.

“Thought you’d be wanting to give that to ‘im yourself,” Dex said, still laughing in the way village elders did when children got tangled up in their skip-ropes. “Or did I misread-“

Rashala, fully aware of Dex staring at her with pleased bemusement, pushed the armor at him without staring him in the eye. The armormaster took it, placing the breastplate back in the holding trunk and dusting off an invisible speck.

“Probably best to wait, anyway,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the Stassian as she recomposed herself.

“So you’ll be ready when I am?” Rashala asked, nervous hope barely masked. Dex nodded, clapping her on the shoulder. Rashala’s comm brace beeped and she glanced at it, expecting to see her deployment orders with the commander’s Special Forces squad. Her weak frown betrayed her sinking gut.

She almost have would rather gone out with Crosshair and Router to some distant, terrible planet and fight an unfair battle in the Empire’s name than return to that horrid, sterile room…

“You’re shipping out, too?” Dex asked, watching Rashala’s so recently flushed face drain to leave her concerningly pale.

“No,” she said quietly, acknowledging the order before carefully composing herself. “No, I’m staying here.”

–--

The testing room.

Rashala walked into the stale room with false confidence, covering her hesitant steps with a raised chin and firm shoulders; she might be a prisoner but she was no longer a scared girl ready to beg and plead and cry for a way home. Two battles didn’t make her a seasoned veteran but she had learned how to pretend to hold herself like a soldier.

The long mirrored wall stretched like a smooth lake at dawn, dark and glossy grey against the low black ceiling and white floor tiles. No tables or chairs bolted to the floor, no flat blocks or dull synthesized fruits in sight, just the scaffolding of a room set as a nightmare in the backdrop of Rashala’s subconscious.

“What now?” she dared ask the flat expanse, surprised at her own defiance. Boiling frustration began to rapidly melt her composure. Her fingers trembled even as she kept her voice from shaking. “More tasks? More political trivia?”

No sound but her boots on the shiny tiles, no response but her rapidly increasing heart rate. The silence was worse than anything she could have imagined, everything and nothing all at once, and the empty stretch of the cold, barren room pressed in on all sides as Rashala’s imagination surpassed the potential horror the Empire could unleash on her. When the door opened behind her, she startled before catching herself, sliding away as a single stormtrooper—what the mercenaries were calling themselves in their modified plastoid armor—entered the room.

Behind him, barely a spectre of his former self, the Coruscanti student followed.

“I thought you were dead,” Rashala almost exclaimed, her voice far too loud as she couldn’t hide her shock.

The boy looked half dead as it was, deep shadows bruising grey skin. He wasn’t wearing blacks, still dressed in what looked like the rags of the papery, boxy uniforms all the conscripts were forced to wear during processing; he was barely decent, the pants ruined around his thighs and hem of his neckline nothing more than a torn gash down the middle of his chest. A dozen deep scars crisscrossed each cheek as though a serrated blade had all too recently left the skin in tatters. His bald head was mottled with scrapes. He was missing an ear. Rashala barely recognized him as the Coruscanti boy; no longer a student yanked from his exams, he was little more than a husk fueled on a steady stream of hatred.

And she could feel the hatred roll off of him, as ozonic as a thunderstorm, as bitter-iron as stale blood.

He stared at her as though reanimated from a shallow grave, something critical shaved from the core of him and the offal left to founder.

“What’s- What your name?”

He didn’t answer, the only sign he heard her a slight curling of his fingers at his sides as he stared through Rashala and bored his gaze into the plate glass behind her. His long nose wrinkled in an animalistic snarl, Rashala’s eyes widening when he took a startlingly swift step forward. He simply moved out of the way of the door and it whisked closed behind him. Even the stormtrooper gave him wide leeway, settling into a firm attention in a corner, a standard-issue blaster tight in his grip.

“I’m- I’m Rashala,” the Stassian said softly, reminded of the starving orphans on Metalorn as she tried and failed to keep from pitying the boy. He wasn’t much younger than she was when she first saw him, when she first cringed away from watching Crosshair berate the young man for nothing more than existing in the Empire’s demanded presence, but something in the boy’s now-cold eyes was completely lost from definitions of age or gender. He could have been anyone, a No One from Anywhere, and Rashala would have felt no more a stranger had she never known he existed as a fellow conscript. A thin line of dark spittle dripped from the boy’s limp-lipped grin.

“What’s your name?”

He ignored her prompt, taking one more shuffling step forward as though his bare feet were too numb to feel the floor. He grimaced, staring through her, and Rashala was momentarily worried he’d spring on her like a rabid vulptex if she turned her back to him. All she knew about sick animals flashed through her head in a poor attempt to find instruction for what to do next.

Curiosity won over, though, and Rashala turned her head over her shoulder just far enough for her peripheral glance to catch a shutter roll in a snapping wave over the long mirrored wall.

Rear Admiral Crennit and Vice Admiral Rampart stood as mannequins, the shorter woman clutching a data pad with eagerly tense fingers. Rampart stared down his nose at Rashala as the prisoner and warden stared at each other with nothing but wary hints of animosity. Stormtroopers flanked them at steady attention, as though Rashala and the boy would punch through the glass at any time and throttle the officers without the imposed threat of the impenetrable guard.

“SF-0012,” Rampart said, directly addressing Rashala with the same aloofness he had taken in the gymnasium earlier in the rotation. “SF-0009. Thank you for joining me today.”

As though she had a choice.

Keeping an eye on the boy, Rashala moved so she could watch both the plate glass and the drooling remnants of a once-trembling conscript, stepping one foot over the other as though walking barefoot on hot rocks.

Crennit’s severe bob didn’t so much as shift when she curtly nodded in response to Rampart’s unheard mutter, his lips barely moving as the audio cut momentarily from their narrow booth. Rashala’s upper back began to tense painfully in nervous anticipation, every part of her spine wiring in a tightening spiral from her tailbone to the base of her neck. She readied to spring away at any moment; a hair trigger tap of the boy’s finger at his side almost sent her into a crouch. The boy didn’t follow Rashala’s nervous path out of his gaze, continuing to stare directly through the glass as though to seize Rampart’s heart from his chest with a single command. A metallic gleam at the boy’s wrist, glinting from the tatters of his uniform sleeve, made Rashala acutely aware she didn’t have a weapon at all with which to defend herself.

“You may understand why you’ve been brought into the Empire’s fold,” the vice admiral said slowly. “Undoubtedly, you have yet to fathom the depths of your importance to the Emperor’s cause.”

Rampart spoke as though an audience of senators and congressmen held each syllable with eager attention, utterly sincere in his self-importance. His facial muscles barely moved, only his eyebrows animating as he spoke. He split his dark brown stare between Rashala and the shattered boy.

“When the Jedi, in their shortsightedness, failed to gather you into their fold when you were children, they not only failed you but failed the Republic, as well.”

Rampart’s voice entwined with the hidden speakers, his practiced tone taut with purpose.

“The Emperor, in His wisdom, understands that, to build an army worthy of His vision for galactic unity, He requires the soldiers with the strongest potential to execute His plan for peace.”

The boy continued to drool as he made a gurgling effort that could have been a terrible, dark laugh if he wasn’t working with a broken shell of a body.

The vice admiral’s self-aggrandized tone was the imitation of an elder, the false authority of a fool assuming a mantle of expertise. Rashala watched him, bewildered, and planted her feet lest she sway forward with the intensity of his stare. Rampart was a young man but his sneer was a practiced, purposeful thing adopted from his venerable superiors. Whatever politicking he had done to get himself where he was in the Imperial Army, the vice admiral obviously considered himself no one’s pawn.

“Our experimentation is at an impasse,” Rampart continued, shaking his head in mild theatrics. “One student, kept contained, allowed to fail and flourish at her will. Another student, sent to study with the start of a new legion, trained by those warriors who understand there is no true limit to the test of power. But what is stronger: nurtured patience or vigorous training? Who is worthy of His new era?”

Dread iced Rashala’s muscles and chilled her nerves, threatening to numb her entirely if she didn’t move from her tense hunch. Aware of the feral body taut at the end of his invisible leash, Rashala uncurled her shoulders and stood straight with the aching slowness of trying not to startle the beast in the boy’s heart.

“You may begin when ready.”

Crennit’s voice was curt, crusty, uncouth compared to Rampart’s slimy arrogance.

“Begin what?” Rashala called out to the officers behind the dark glass. “Begin what?”

The long wall shuttered once more, leaving the impression the Stassian and the boy were on their own in the testing room; even the stormtrooper, black visor stark in his white helmet, blended into his corner. Rashala felt Crennit and Rampart stare at her as she slowly turned to the boy, their invisible presence an oppressive awareness in the back of her mind even as Rashala tried to speak to the Coruscanti student.

“What’s your name?”

The boy didn’t answer and slowly turned his brutalized head toward her on his long, bruised neck. Whatever the dark sludge was in his mouth flooded between his sharpened teeth as he grinned.

A dangerous hum filled the air when the boy launched at her in a startling lunge.

Rashala thought the floor might be activated and jumped up as high as she could, trying to avoid touching the tiles for even a spare moment before the inevitable deadly touch of her boot to the ground, but the jump saved her ankles from the sweeping slash of a red staff. Crackling with energy, the rod was almost as long as the boy himself. An electric sword with a painfully bright core leaking a pale yellow electricity along the metal hilt, the boy held the weapon with a practiced but far from perfected grip. Rashala squinted at the painful brightness. The floor hadn’t been electrified at all: the sound was coming from the saber.

The boy’s eyes mirrored Rashala’s fear as she stepped backward.

“The Inquisitorius did not name me. I have not yet earned a name.”

His words cracked in his ruined throat.

“I serve at the Emperor’s pleasure.”

Rashala barely tumbled out of the way when the boy ran at her. She momentarily screamed in fear, a short remainder of her old life flying from her open mouth before she stopped herself. The boy swept at her ankles again and the heat of the blade scorched her feet through her thick-soled boots. Whatever this weapon was, she couldn’t survive its touch.

The boy gripped the hilt in both hands, long fingers that once knew a stylus now clutching an electric sword in advance upon the enemy. Rashala shook her head as she tried to think of a way to escape. The stormtrooper moved to stand in front of the door immediately, Rashala giving herself away in the panicked glance, but the boy followed Rashala’s line of sight, too. With the certainty she’d die if she held back, the Stassian used the momentary distraction to dart away from the sabre’s reach. Without so much as a displeased growl, the boy followed.

There was nothing in the room to defend herself with and Rashala made an awkward hop off the side of the glass wall when the boy swung at her. Again and again, he brandished the weapon and Rashala barely managed to duck or jump each time. She pushed herself backwards in a sprawling roll, her armor clanking against the hard floor, and kicked off to skid away not a moment too soon. The sabre’s electric blade sank into the tiles, crackling.

“Don’t do this!”

Rashala rolled again, trying to kick out at the boy’s exposed leg, but barely tapped him before having to get out of the way of yet another swing. The blade hummed as it arched over her head and Rashala got to her feet with a wild noise before the weapon swung down where her head was just a moment ago.

He wasn’t aiming to wound.

He was aiming to kill.

And she was going to die if she didn’t think of something soon.

“We can work together!” Rashala shouted over the sweeping whine of the blade pushing her back towards the glass wall. “I can help you!”

The boy’s vicious grin widened when he stuck the tip of the saber through Rashala’s upper arm.

Rashala screamed in agony, a lurching topple ripping the rest of her muscle from the weapon’s electric bite. She knew she had been stabbed–her brain told her as much even as her body reacted without waiting for thought–but the wound was unlike anything she could have imagined. Immobilizing pain forced the ruined muscle to freeze even as it tried to spasm, the narrow bicep punctured and cauterized in one fluid motion. Rashala clutched her right hand to the wound, her left side finally starting to twitch as she fell onto her back; she expected to find blood, copious streams of life-blood–because surely the wound itself would kill her–but the discomforting sensation of gripping her own crisp flesh surprised her even as she continued to scream.

The boy stuck her arm again, narrowly missing Rashala’s fingers. He leaned into the stab as he ripped her deltoid, burning away the corner of her shoulder where the blade nicked through her kartan armor. She rolled away and gasped for air as the pain seared through every inch of her.

“I do not need your help,” the Coruscanti student said in his eerie, preternatural lisp through the slime beneath his tongue. “I will continue my training once you are dead.”

“Why! Why do this?”

Rashala couldn’t recognize her own desperate wheeze for answers. She raggedly began to think through the panic. The wounds in her arm were survivable. She could live if she didn’t give up. The pain, though… she wanted to curl up and cry until a medical droid came to take her away. She’d even take a probe droid, anyone, anything to stop this madman from stabbing her again–

“The Sith teach us we are weak,” the boy slurred, advancing on her as she kicked backwards across the slick floor. “We are weak when we start our training.”

He dragged the blade along the floor as he followed her, tiles cracking under the long black scorch of heat. Ceramic pinged into tiny shards. Rashala couldn’t stifle her sobbing gasp as she imagined that blade pushing through her gut.

“But we become strong. Through trial, we surpass our enemies, we claim our power.”

The boy’s delusions oozed from him in a murky dribble. Rashala’s arm deadened in her grip and she squeezed at the wound to push life into it, never so aware of the vital veins just centimeters from the brutal hole in her ruined bicep. She kept pushing backwards until she could lurch up, sitting roughly against the glass wall; her armor squeaked against the smooth surface. Behind her, Crennit and Rampart undoubtedly watched her impending death with indifferent, vague interest.

She’d die here. This room was her tomb.

Clarity momentarily soaked away the agony, unfurled Rashala’s panic, set her choices as stepping stones before her.

The stark white training room became an unending, undulating waterway, an entire ocean–horizonless–stretching beyond reach. Glittering waves crested and folded in on themselves in opalescent swaths, tumbling diamonds glistening in an invisible sun. No warmth, only brightness, eliminating shadows and casting everything the light touched into brilliant glass. Fresh and clean, the waters swirled around her, lapping at her hips and knees and neck. Rashala didn’t think to take a final breath as the tide submerged her in crystal weight.

She could stay here, free from pain, free from the burden of trying to survive. She could let go and wash away as the tide pulled from the shore of existence. She didn’t have to go back…

The inevitable emptiness of eternity beckoned.

I’m not done.

Rashala ripped herself out of the hollow embrace of a current without the pulse of life, rolling sharply as the red blade slashed at her. The sabre sliced the glass, melting thin ribbons to snap like icicles when they hit the tile, and the shutters on the long wall flared open like a startled pupil. Rashala was barely aware of her audience as she forced herself to her feet and danced back from the boy. His smile became a fiery snarl.

“I will be apprenticed,” he snapped, black spittle flying. “You will die. You’re weak!”

He swung at her, putting every ounce of force into the motion, and Rashala rushed under the blade to shoulder him in the center of his chest. Still clutching her arm, she huffed as she knocked the wind from them both. He stumbled back and Rashala darted around him, the boy taking to swinging the saber over his shoulders to get her out of his blind spot. She had to get the weapon out of his hands if she was going to make him pause long enough to listen to her.

“You don’t have to do this!” Rashala shouted. “You don’t have to do what they say!”

“This is the only way!”

The zealot let out a guttural roar and forged at Rashala. The Stassian dove under the boy’s arm. The blade hissed by her ear and the smell of her own singed hair was startlingly strong over the stench of burnt flesh. She dropped to her knees and spun, clipping the back of the boy’s ankles, and he stumbled. Quickly recovering, the boy kicked Rashala’s ruined shoulder and she screamed again, anger surpassing her fear as her body struggled. His bare foot slid off her armor and Rashala seized his leg in one hand, pushing him off balance. The saber swung close to her neck but missed her breastplate by less than an inch, and the boy thrashed out wildly. The humming ribbon of his blade almost cut off his toes when he swept the saber against the floor to send tile slivers at Rashala’s face.

“Stop!”

Rashala barely heard her own voice as her rage at having to harm another to survive became an enveloping fury at the indignity of it all. Because this boy was under orders to kill her, he’d try to do so until Rashala was nothing more than a destroyed corpse at his feet. Because the Empire demanded fealty, he’d obey. Because he had no other choice, he’d kill or be killed. The mindlessness enraged her.

The boy stumbled backwards but recovered with a desperate twist, a wordless warrior’s cry pulling all the air from the room and replacing the breathless space with intense pressure. Rashala thought her eardrums would burst if she didn’t stop the source. The fleshy slap of his feet, cut from the broken tiles and leaving bright red smears in his heavy stride to cross the room, fought Rashala’s heartbeat for space in her own chest. Everything was impossibly tight, smothering, choking her with the turbulence of knowing the boy’s next swing with that blade would sever her in two.

Rashala pulled with an invisible grasp, intense effort fueled by desperation and fear and rage, and the stormtrooper’s blaster slapped into her open palm. She pulled the trigger.

The shot shattered the tethers wrapping around her to hold her in place for the boy’s final blow.

His wide, sunken eyes stared at her in shock. The lightsaber, raised high over them both in the preliminary swing to split Rashala’s head, toppled backwards out of his hands. The blade retracted with a hollow snap, leaving the hilt to roll in a feeble limp across the damaged floor.

Rashala tried to catch the boy as he sagged but her damaged arm wouldn’t obey. He slipped from her grasp, hitting the ground with a terrible finality. The light was gone from his eyes by the time Rashala managed to roll him over. The rags of his papery uniform fell apart in her hands and the edges of his flesh began to crumble, pieces of him drying to dust in her hands. Black sludge solidified on his lips.

The blaster wound through his forehead was an accusatory aperture of how far Rashala would go to save her life.

Rashala stared at the horrible hole she placed in another human and shuddered.

“I’m sorry,” Rashala whispered.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, hushed and hesitant as she put her hand against the boy’s ruined cheek.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

The Stassian lost control of her words, a rambling stream of the same apology running rivers of fierce, blinding tears down her face as she realized she did exactly as she intended to do.

Unfairly, her arm flushed in a sudden surge of breath-stealing pain but Rashala continued to apologize, bending over the boy’s body and pulling into herself in a broken crumple. She shuddered, aware of but entirely ambivalent to the audience to her grief.

The Empire had made her a murderer.

And she’d have to live with her choice to obey.

The weapon she had pulled from the stormtrooper’s hands, scratched up with a dented trigger guard, was undeniably the blaster she left at the training range the prior rotation. The Stassian threw it from her, the blaster skidding across the ruined tiles to tap dully against the lightsaber’s dark hilt.

Rashala sobbed over the boy, gasping and shaking. She couldn’t control herself, couldn’t feel anything but the dread of what her actions would bring to the rest of her life. The boy’s startled stare in the liminal space between life and death was a perpetual shudder to stutter her heart.

She apologized, knowing her flimsy words wouldn’t bring him back but unable to stop herself. Rashala tried to straighten the torn collar of his conscript uniform but the thin fabric continued to fall away between her trembling fingers.

She killed him and couldn’t even ready his body for burial. Not that the Empire would bless her efforts at Stassian rites but he should have something, anything, besides the indignity of a cold tile floor. The boy’s uniform—the uniform she once wore before she was given blacks and armor—flaked to leave a sooty dirt on her trembling fingers.

Something visceral, beyond comprehension and yet unerringly present in the boy’s mistreated body, broke apart in the absence of a pulse. As though his moving blood was a weak antidote to whatever dark magicks tried to claim him before his death, the black slop in his mouth spread under his skin and leaked from the crumbling corners of flaking flesh. He was an abomination, an experiment gone horribly wrong, and yet Rashala couldn’t pull her hands from him as she tried to regain control of herself. Every time she tried to force herself to shift back from the rapidly drying body, an overwhelming desperation pulled her back.

Before long, there wasn’t a body to prepare anymore.

Only when the chalky jaw tipped from the dead embers of the boy’s skin did Rashala look up to see the open door. Haltingly, her body struggling to obey her own command, she turned to look over her shoulder. The damaged glass wall proved everyone was gone. No Crennit, no Rampart, not even a stormtrooper left to watch her misery of holding apologetic vigil over the dust of a boy she didn’t even know.

The last of him crumbled into a silty dust. Eddying in the currents shifting from the sterile hallway, he could have been iron-rich sand on Desix, crusty bicarbonate from Metalorn. He was gone.

Rashala forced herself to stand, holding her injuries tight to her body. She was suddenly cold, shivering down to her marrow, and clutched at her arm as though it might fall off if she let go.

Standing was the hardest thing she’d ever done- no, taking a step forward was the hardest thing- no, stepping over the shifting mound-

The Stassian shuffled into the hallway, down the hallway, staring at her stumbling feet before slumping into a wall, unsure where she was supposed to go.

She had just killed someone.

War had finally made ruin of her most sacred virtues.

--–

The MSE found the Stassian collapsed at the juncture of Observation 3 and Main Hall 12.

It whirred noisily, demanding she stand, but she didn’t listen. SF-0012 stared at the ground as though she couldn’t hear the droid. Her hair, barely beyond regulation length but out of compliance nonetheless, would need to be reported. The state of her armor was another demerit, the knees and shin plates dusty; even the bottoms of her boots flaked dirt. Based on the approximate damage to her extremities, though, the human would need medical assistance before any punishment was to begin.

Impatience overriding protocol, the MSE zapped SF-0012 with a tentative arm before wheeling backward out of her reach. She didn’t move.

MSE-12 pinged for SF-0012’s commanding officer, CT-9904. Deployed to Barton IV.

MSE-12 pinged for secondary Special Forces squad leader CT-8381. Deployed to Cansta.

MSE-12 pinged three times for Armormaster CT-0117.

The response sobered the droid from any further deviation of its programming. It followed CT-0117's orders, alerting the medbay AZ attendant before staying perfectly still at the conscript's side without more than a single beep.

The MSE stood guard over SF-0012 until the Armormaster arrived.

Chapter Text

Weak sunrise came without color, shining hard on craggy mountains frozen solid under pale ice. Snow in the wind, miniscule flecks abrasive on the brutally cold landscape, flaked against numb skin. Drifts upon drifts crusted the perimeter of a forgotten outpost, a landing platform deiced only through immense chemical effort shining a dull grey as soldiers loaded cargo into transport vessels; the spaceship’s engines whined in the dry arctic air.

An ice vulture circled overhead.

–--

Rashala awoke with a startle. 

Temporarily displaced from her small cell in the Command Center on Coruscant and lost in the tundra of an unfamiliar ice planet, she realized how tightly she was wrapped around herself in the same moment she realized she had been dreaming. 

The remains of the sedative the AZ gave her, the droid clucking a programmed reassurance as it dosed her, hadn’t fully left her system. She struggled to keep her eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time, even rotations after the Empire’s final test.

She saw the Coruscanti student in every narrow corner, felt him hiding under her cot, knew he waited outside her cell door, and felt the electrical sizzle of his sabre at her neck whenever she closed her eyes. Her wounds were blank spaces in the canvas of her body, her damaged arm a void. Rashala could move the remains of the muscles but regretted the action immediately, the black static of nothingness flaring into a supernova of pain when she flexed the ruined the bicep. She didn’t have to look at the injuries to know what she’d find. The AZ had done quick work and Dex had guided her to her cell afterwards, leaving her alone only at her insistent, dry-throated request for solitude. Even the MSE whirred concerningly when it came to check on her and found she hadn’t moved. But she ignored everything as she grappled with what she had done to the Coruscanti boy.

After hundreds of rotations, her fears were finally overcome by hopelessness. Rashala couldn’t find the will to sing, couldn’t grasp a single note of her homeland to help root her as she found her way out. There was no way out: it was over.

Her life was worth nothing.

Rashala shivered with chills. Whether from another assault of the air system counteracting the incinerators or from her dream, she couldn’t tell. She didn’t think of infection or shock, just the unfamiliar brutality of the tundra clipping at her nerves and shutting down her thoughts. Of all her dreams of home, all the thoughts of Stassa II perpetually circling in her mind, wherever she’d dreamed of was unlike anywhere she’d ever been.

That wasn’t her moon.

Even after emerging from what was more of a hallucination than a nightmare, brittle chill burned her nostrils and pulled warmth from her skin. Something more than cold sapped her will to live, warned her she had passed a point she couldn’t return from. She had given up the last of herself on the altar of decisions made of a forced hand.

If she had opened her eyes, she would have seen the frost rimming her blacks.

--–

Sedation wore off in oil-slick dregs, leaving Crosshair wrung out on the shores of consciousness. He tried to touch the deep stretch of scars on the side of his head but his arm barely moved with each attempt. He hurt everywhere. 

For a moment, he thought he was back on Barton IV.

Lieutenant Nolan’s smeary face stared down at him when the sniper tried to open his eyes. Too much light above his cell cot—he was in a cell?—pushed the features of the officer standing over him into stark shadow. Rampart’s cool, indifferent timbre slunk through the cold room. As Crosshair blinked, trying to clear the itch from his wind-stripped eyes, the shape shifted. Hunter stood over him, his brother’s tattoos a beacon in the darkness, but the form was all wrong. No, this figure was a woman, blonde with bright eyes, and Crosshair grimaced to know Omega--the sister he didn’t want, the little girl who once convinced him for just a moment that someone could sift the pieces of the Empire from the broken shards that were authentically him–-was attending his bedside. But the figure grew taller and the voice repeating his designation took on a familiar accent, a Stassian tilt winding around him.

He knew the voice wasn’t Rashala’s because she’d never use his Republic-assigned name. She’d never speak at him with such impartial abruptness. No, Rashala was direct but soft-spoken. She’d find reason to transform a word into an action, a touch on his shoulder, a squint in the corner of her eye–whenever she could. She asked questions when she did speak, made fewer statements than most would make. This figure looming over him… it wasn’t her.

Even though the presence kept speaking to him, he couldn’t process the words for the jarring sensation of hands wrapping around his forearms and wrenching him from the cot. He was being moved, handled roughly, and Crosshair was vaguely aware of his own helplessness as he tried and failed to get his feet under him. His toes dragged the floor. 

The sniper’s head lolled as he was transported from one horror to another. Brutal memories of his worst missions–-Serreno, Raxus, Onderon, Desix-–blended with the edges of hidden moments Crosshair had always fought to protect as secrets in his soul: Wrecker’s booming laugh when Tech’s inability to read a room almost caused a diplomatic scandal on Tahniri; Hunter joining him on the nose of the Marauder without breaking the silence, the brothers watching a sunrise after a long, bloody night of battle on Geonosis; the elation as a child when he made his first successful modification to a standard issue rifle. 

Gems of life, reasons for living when war-weariness crept numbing tethers around the perimeters of emotion… These weren’t for anyone but him to know and yet key pieces of what made Crosshair himself tumbled out of him as he was dragged. Wherever he was, wherever they were taking him, was the end. He’d be a shell before long.

Searching for anything–anything–to hold onto as pieces of himself fell away, Crosshair reached into the dark. He stretched with sore unfamiliarity into a memory he didn’t remember.

Pink quartz glistened in a soft peach sunrise, violet blankets of night lifting to let the warmth of a wide sun blush against a majestic mountain range. Stars yawned in sleepy glimmers along the crisp snowline. breath flumed fleeting clouds of condensation on the thin alpine air. A bird called to its mate and the silence before a trilling confirmation sweetened the moment of realization both had survived the night. Glassine ice on a long, wide lake left just enough open water at the rim for sleek silver vulptices to lap before the pack bounded through sweeping frosted grassland on soft paws. Their icicle fur tinkled like distant bells. Mist rolled through the valley. The world was still but for the motion of life in perpetual cycle. 

Crosshair knew he had never lived this moment. He had never seen a vulptex in person, for one. He spent enough time as point, as the lookout, as the watchman… the sniper knew what planets he had strangely enjoyed and which he’d rather see blown to pieces rather than return to. This landscape in his mind: he had never been there. 

As he was thrown to the ground, the sniper fell unconscious once more. He didn’t feel the impact of his body on the cold tiles.

–--

Today was the day. It had to be. 

Rashala knew she couldn’t hold on any longer.

She was three rotations too early, give or take a night after losing track in her sedative-induced haze. Could she evade capture on a planet she knew nothing about? Could she survive the undercity? No credits, nothing but her armor, just a location: Sniv’s Canteen.

Rashala had planned on bridging a short gap of time between escaping the Command Center and when she arrived at the canteen to explain her arrangement with Ola, a minimal amount of time where she would have to hide in gutters and scavenge for food. By implementing the codes early, she’d be casting herself out into Coruscant on a long, thin line.

Just as Metalorn’s brutality scared her away from taking the risk on her own lack of survival skills and copious desperation, the idea of being lost on a city-planet would have terrified her had she not come to know exactly what terror was. 

Today was the day. It had to be.

Rashala still couldn’t bring herself to move from her cot.

The little cell was warm again, or at least not freezing, and the Stassian’s muscles begged for a stretch. She’d normally be well into her rotational duties-–exercise, training, a meal-–in the span between missions but her bracer comm was quiet in her kit trunk.

She hadn’t heard the regular cascade of harsh beeps and blunt alarms requiring response since her first struggle to stay conscious after being brought back to her cell. The trunk was cracked open, a flashing comm panel would be obvious, but no one and nothing had reached out to her since the encounter in the testing room.

Rashala didn’t know how long she had been staring at the ceiling since waking from a painful, chilly, more-than-a-dream state of existence but the light had been on for hours. Not even the dysfunctional little MSE had come for her in at least a rotation; the droid never missed an opportunity to invade her space and gain attention.

Wearily, daring brave the undeniable ruin of the world around her even though she wished only to disappear into thin air and never be seen again, Rashala sat up.

It was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

–--

“There’s another one.”

Crosshair’s hearing was never as strong as Hunter’s–-whose was?--but the sniper tried to listen through the clearing haze of sedatives. A chemical taste soured the back of his tongue and his teeth hurt, gums sore and pulsing. He ignored the hurts beating on his body, sat up despite the intense pain in his gut, and steadied himself on weak arms. The metal slab in the brig was intensely cold but Crosshair’s shivering went beyond his environment: something connecting his mind to his body felt irrevocably broken and, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop shaking. 

He was the best sniper in the most powerful military force in the galaxy and he couldn’t control himself.

Fear wasn’t an adequate definition of what sat in his heart.

“Third so far since first meal,” one of the guards muttered. “What’s gotten into everyone?”

“Titchy clones,” the other guard answered, the tall mercenary resting his arms over the top of the short guard’s chair. “That’s why the Republic lost, you know? Somethin’ wrong with ‘em.”

Crosshair trembled, willing his stomach to stay put as he took sluggish inventory. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was missing a limb but all arms, legs, and fingers were accounted for, even his fingertips. Something was wrong with one of his feet but he didn’t have the strength to take off his boot to check. His head hurt. Lungs pulled and pulled but he didn’t feel like he had enough air. His left bicep felt like it had been ripped in half but a brief flex proved everything worked as it should. They left him in his armor. Crosshair’s only relief: they hadn’t taken his armor.

“Naw,” one of the guards said, “I think its Rampart bein’ gone. He gets arrested and everything becomes bantha poodoo. Not a way to run an operation.”

The sniper swept the room with a practiced eye. He was alone in the brig besides the non-clone guards and every single open-barred cell was empty. The room was overly bright, vivid reminders of Kamino’s small prison in Tipoca City doing nothing to help repress the ever-present awareness of rain on his skin. He looked for his brothers before correcting his traitorous brain that none of the Batch would ever come for him again. 

In the last minute they were all together… What would have happened if he hadn’t obeyed orders to follow the regs to the medbay? What if he had stayed in the brig with the rest of Force 99? Everything about that rotation was a disturbing blur but, even if he had perfect clarity of mind, would he have been able to make a different choice?

Crosshair put his head in his hands, pressing against his brow with probing fingers. His chip hadn’t hurt since Rashala modified it, kept it from destroying him, but the scorched part of his brain felt like a bubble ready to burst. The cold of the mountains on Barton IV had been so brutal, the sniper felt like his skull had shrunk. Thinking of that horrible planet, of Mayday, of his own desperate act of defiance… Crosshair barely kept his empty stomach under control.

“But these clones, though,” the guard continued. “Actin’ like the animals.”

“Just proves they’re replaceable,” the tall guard shrugged, staring at the monitors. 

A security system filled the short wall, a visual array skimming the thousands of cameras throughout the facility and pushing feeds to the guard’s monitors. Snippets of audio scrambled the din and video flickered in monocolor pulses across the reflective surfaces in the brig. The guards split their attention between a camera positioned opportunistically behind a row of exercise equipment and a separate feed from the cafeteria, temporarily ignoring the female conscript’s workout to watch a brawl between two clones and three non-clone soldiers. The conscript was new, her Naboo features overwhelmingly stark in conjunction with her freshly shorn head, and the boxy paper uniform was little more than a sack on her petite frame as she tried to keep up with the other recent additions to the Imperial Army. 

Something possessive, something with fangs, threatened to strike out from Crosshair when he thought of the guards ever watching Rashala in such a lecherous way. Emptiness, vast and unending, drained the anger as quickly as it surged. 

Food trays went flying as two more clones joined in on keeping their fellow soldiers from being dragged away by the stormtroopers. The guards whooped when one of the clones went down hard. Crosshair, despite his sharp vision, couldn’t see exactly what was going on because the guards kept shifting their position to see the screen better. The sniper would usually see their distraction for the benefit to his own attempt at escape, a chance to search the cell for a leverage point or scan the room to exploit a lapse in protocol, but Crosshair sat without moving.

What was the point? He knew what was going to happen to him.

He knew what was happening to the clones on the security feeds. It would keep happening until they were all gone, every single one of the men who fought for the Republic dismissed from the Empire’s regime.

The sniper saw Mayday in each of the clones going about their lives in the security feeds.  

Crosshair sat and accepted his inevitability. He couldn't muster the strength for anything else.

–--

WHOOOOO-eeep

The whine of tiny motors accompanied the tympanic slamming against the bottom of her cell door, an insistent little droid performing the equivalent of knocking before activating the door to open with a whoosh. Rashala’s nervousness lost its barbs when she straightened from securing her last plate of armor.

De-whoooo-EEEEP

Rubber treads rolled the small droid back and forth, its dark, boxy shape a miniscule monolith against the shiny floor. It insisted on her attention and, as Rashala frowned at its lack of manners, the MSE ran repeatedly into her foot.

“What is it?”

WHOOOO-EEEP

The unit spun and whirred out of the room, hitting a hard reverse and scraping its gears as it backed up to wait impatiently. Through the open door, a commotion in the conjoining hallway at the end of the cell block caught Rashala’s ear. A clone, shouting. Not Crosshair or Router but still similar enough in tone and timbre to make her instinctually worried.

BRRRRRrrrrr, the droid fussed at her before wheeling off, guttering on the repeat fading down the hallway.

Rashala didn’t look back as she left the cell.

–--

Crosshair didn’t know if the guards let him keep his armor because they were apologetic or just too stupid to follow procedure. Likely the latter. But, judging by Router’s fight to keep an impassive expression when escorting Crosshair to the medbay, the sniper was vaguely thankful for the adherence to clone customs: a soldier should die in their armor and be buried in their full kit.

To take this from him, even though the battlefields across the galaxy were emptying and the very war he was made for was over, would be the highest form of disrespect.

“Gonna do it yourself?” Crosshair asked, his hushed hiss betraying the scraps of his pride. He glanced at Router’s blaster as the clone guided the sniper down familiar hallways. The other two soldiers didn’t say anything, staring straight ahead as they accompanied the clones to the medbay. The stormtroopers clacked as they walked, no sense of urgency or control in their footsteps, and they held their blasters in a lazy grip. If he wanted, Crosshair could snap his fist to the side and easily have the weapon out of the trooper’s grip before either guard could respond but even the idea of trying to go down with a fight left him undeniably hollow.

He knew his life was forfeit the moment he had pulled the trigger.

“You deserve better,” Router said, his tension making his words snap unnecessarily harsh. “We all do.”

Crosshair didn’t have to ask what was going on, didn’t have to question Router what had happened in the narrow window between deploying to Barton IV and his unceremonious return to Coruscant. He saw it in the loading hangers, saw it in the shuttle, murdered a man for it at an outpost where he expected to die for his actions. The Empire was dismissing clones, removing the ranks of soldiers they couldn’t formally hoist responsibility from without incurring protests from clones and citizens alike. Any clone officer was forcibly removed from the premises, every outspoken commander or leader among their ranks disappearing without a trace. With a sick, slow realization as he limped Mayday's unconscious body out of the mountain foothills, Crosshair knew he had been fortunate to have escaped involuntary removal from the Empire well before he forced their hand on Barton IV. Responsibility for Rashala, for the other Force-sensitive conscripts, had been their only reason to keep him. Not for who he was but what he was: a failed Kaminoan experiment in creating Mandalorian Jedi, a supersoldier without the right pieces to manipulate the Force.

"Why are you just going along with thi-"

“Just shoot me now,” Crosshair hissed, glaring at Router’s hand holding the blaster steady at his side. “Be done with it.”

“They want you in the medbay. They want to see-”

Router stopped speaking before his voice cracked and Crosshair tightened his jaw at the sentiment.

“See what the chip has done,” Crosshair finished for the clone, glaring.

They hadn’t shot him and put him in a morgue for the procedure of cracking open his skull and looking into his brains, meaning he wasn’t about to get the easy death he gave Lieutenant Nolan. The snap of blasterfire into the back of his neck wouldn’t be the merciful, cowardly way out. The Empire was going to make him suffer one last time, perform horrors in the name of data. Rampart would probably watch. Torture wasn’t the same without the longnecks but the sniper doubted the Emipre would hold back.

His long stride faltered for just a moment when Crosshair realized who he was leaving behind.

They’d do to her exactly what they had done to him. How long until they put a chip in her head? How long until they created the Force-wielding soldier they tried and failed to achieve with Clone Force 99 in the incubators? How long until everything that made Rashala her own person disappeared and they brought in the scalpels to dig into what was left?

Scuffling ahead of his escort down the corridor made Crosshair look up before he could stop himself.

A clone struggled against the hands forcing his arms behind his back, two stormtroopers keeping the soldier marching forcefully as the clone backpedaled as best he could without success. His reg face was open with fear and anger, confusion overwhelming the dark brown eyes and black brows, nostrils flaring as he argued with his captors. Crosshair spared him a glance as the stormtroopers passed his guard in the hallway, their journeys intersecting briefly before passing like comets in a distant system. There was a reason the morgue was next to the brig…

Crosshair pulled a pick from his belt and pulled his chin high despite the weariness, the pure exhaustion, the emptiness.

He’d greet the end with whatever dignity he had left.

–--

The MSE darted out of sight, whirring with speed as it dashed between legs and skidded around corners, running circles at intersections in a hurried gesture for Rashala to keep up. But the Stassian knew where they were going well before the droid led her to the wide door of the armory. She heard Dex’s shouts before the MSE overrode the security lock and had to duck when the first blaster shot whipped over her head.

“Dex!”

The hulking clone was doing an admirable job pushing back the half dozen stormtroopers as they advanced on him but the armormaster barely kept up with the assault. His jumpsuit was torn at the shoulder and he bled from a scratch on his forearm, sharp plastoid cutting his tan skin. Dex grabbed random pieces of armor from the racks of invisible soldiers, deflecting stunners with a seized thigh plate before dropping the slim piece for a bracer, each shot misshaping the flimsy armor into uselessness. A stormtrooper lay still on the dias where Dex fitted new soldiers with their custom kits. The armormaster didn’t spare Rashala a glance, continuing his defensive evasion.

“Get out of here!” Dex ordered, grunting when he backed up into the edge of his forge. “I told you to get her out of here, not bring her here!”

He missed a dodge and took a blaster shot to the leg, the blow slapping into his thick thigh. Dex grunted and Rashala cried out before taking action. Two parts-–who she used to be and what the Empire made her–-continued to struggle under duress. The MSE spun rapidly and took off around the edge of the doorway, avoiding blasterfire with a rolling squeak of alarm, and Rashala had to move to keep from tripping over the droid.

Dex took a shot to the hand, the blasterbolt keeping from shooting the fingers off only because of his armory gloves, and his roaring cry of surprise and pain pulled Rashala into action without the Stassian giving a second thought to whether or not she could protect her friend.

A shot to her own bracer glanced off the specialized armor easily as Rashala ran towards the nearest stormtrooper. The trooper backpedaled before standing his ground, giving Rashala the perfect opportunity to leap into him and spin him on his feet; she grabbed his wrist and tugged with all her might, flinging him to the ground. He shot her again but the blast barely singed the edge of her helmet. Rashala kicked his rifle out of his hand and ducked when another trooper turned his fire from Dex to her. The shots wouldn’t kill her as long as her armor held but each one was a forceful, painful punch that would undoubtedly leave deep bruises.

“Get out of here!” Dex shouted again, his enormous voice filling the room. He threw a standard issue helmet at the nearest trooper and stooped to grab an empty kit trunk. The chests were heavy even when empty and the subsequent slam as the flying crate took out two assailants at once sounded like a small explosion.

Grabbing the standard issue rifle, Rashala set it to stun just in time to wheel on the approaching trooper, taking a knee and spinning her body to fire a shot directly at the trooper’s breastplate. He crumpled, knocked out cold. She breathed through her subsequent shots, taking out the troopers advancing on Dex, and got the last one just as he was about to shoot Dex again. The armormaster stood over the fallen trooper, heaving, blood trickling down his sleeveless arm.

The MSE whirred a congratulatory sequence of beeps from the doorway, emerging from its hiding spot around the corner.

“Can’t follow a kriffin’ order,” Dex muttered, catching his breath. “I told you to run.”

Rashala took a moment to look around her, to see what she had done, and didn’t know what to say.

“Never was a good soldier,” the Stassian eventually muttered, scanning each trooper to ensure their chests rose and fell under their plastoid breastplates. Her stolen blaster felt like an impossible weight in her hand. Somewhere in the breath between seizing the weapon and firing, she had set it stun, not kill, without even thinking. The reassurance something inside her didn’t dismiss the value of a life even in the heat of a firefight kept her moving.

Rashala darted between the swinging rows of incomplete armor, pieces of melted plastoid and half-ruined kits scattered through the armory. Blasterfire scorched the wall over the enclosed forge. She tried to take a quick look at Dex’s hand, pulling the rifle under her arm as she reached for him, but the armormaster shook his head.

“You’re a damn fine soldier,” he said, clapping Rashala on her shoulder hard enough for her teeth to rattle. “Don’t you forget it.”

“Dex, what–”

“What happened? You're going to ask what happened? What do you mean, what happened? This happened!”

He waved a spadelike hand at the blasterfire residue on the floor and the ruined armor jangling from incomplete hooks. The air was full of acrid smoke from the plastoid melting on the horn of the wide anvil and overheated metal tools made everything smell brassy. With a grump, Dex stomped over to the forge and began to pick up his tools, the action obviously calming him as Dex tried to figure out exactly what happened for himself.

“They ambushed me,” the armormaster said, shaking his head. “No warning, no nothin,’ just came in blasting. Couldn’t do nothin’ but hold ‘em back.”

"Why?"

"Been brewin' for a few rotations now, the tension... Felt like a storm for a long time now, the mercenaries against the clones. The Empire itself- well, something had to give. They're taking too many clones away, too many have gone missing. They're starting to fight back."

Rashala stared at Dex with a concerning frown, waiting for the armormaster to continue, and the clone busied himself as he tried to find the right words.

"The Senate, you see," he said, trying and failing to hide his concern under an extra layer of gruffness. "We're traitors. That's what they're calling us now, the clones. All of us, traitors."

"But you're not," Rashala said before hesitating. "Right?"

"The Empire's done with us, either way."

The MSE buzzed between Rashala’s feet in its haste to get to Dex, running a fond circle around the armormaster. To Rashala’s surprise, Dex patted the droid with a gently calloused tap on top of its casing and it brrrrred. She took off her helmet to see the exchange for her own eyes.

“Well, what do you look so surprised about?” Dex admonished, continuing to pick up his fallen tools.

“It’s never been that nice to anyone.”

Dex guffawed, a moment of his laugh beating back the oppressive atmosphere. He put each tool where it should be, the act of treating his craft with the respect it deserved calming him. The droid nudged a long-tipped forceps towards the closed-flame forge, stumbling on its treads and letting out a sharp beep when Dex didn’t immediately pick up the forceps. The MSE whirred around the armory, taking inventory of the mess.

“But it’s done its job,” Dex said, waving a large awl at Rashala as he gestured for the Stassian to put her helmet back on. They both glanced at the door but saw nothing but an empty hallway despite the growing noise outside the room. “Who do you think has been watching out for you?”

“Watching ou-”

“Kept a sensor out for you, keeping you close to the commander, disabling the security in the cell whenever the Empire acti-”

“I disabled the security,” Rashala argued, balancing the rifle and helmet on the edge of the forgepit to help Dex pick up. “I- I don’t understand.”

“Naw, you disabled the camera and mic the first time–-and did a good job of it, apparently-–but Meese turned everything back off whenever the system reset.”

“The system resets? Hold on… Meese? You named the droid?”

“Don’t you name your droids on that moon of yours?”

Rashala shook her head, overwhelmed.

“But, how-”

“Who do you think keeps you where you need to be?” Dex asked, pulling cabinets open as he sought something. “You owe that little droid your life.”

The MSE whirred affirmatively from where it shoved bits of plastoid into a pile with its shovel-front nose.

“But,” Rashala stammered, frowning. “I’m never where I need to be.”

Dex laughed so hard and for so long Rashala glanced back at the door, worried someone would barge in and start shooting at them based on Dex’s noise alone.

“Meese knows,” the armormaster chuckled. “Kept an eye out for the commander, too.”

“You had Crosshair watched?”

“Girl, you’re a karkin’ fool if you think the Empire wasn’t watching the both of you. All this was for them, after all. Neither of you got anything out of it. Lost everything, more like it.”

“But, the droid-”

“Is going with you.”

The MSE whined and scooted away when Dex reached down for it, the armormaster frowning at the retreating treadmarks as the droid whirred to the back of the armory to sulk.

“Dex, I’m-”

“You are getting out of here.”

The armormaster pulled a hardcase pack from the bottom of a metal cabinet and brought it to the forgepit. He opened it, showing Rashala the ammunition inside.

“Crosshair’s backup,” Dex explained, pulling half the cartridges out and making space at the bottom that would just barely fit an MSE unit. “Get the evacuation started, then get out.”

The armormaster tapped each item in the pack with a brief explanation, Rashala barely following as her mind raced.

“How do you know about the evacuation codes?”

"Meese reports back. Or did you assume that little droid wasn't connected to my data pad? When you came in here, trying to convince me of a rebellion, all panicked and excited under that moon-mood emotional repression, well, did you think I wasn't going to check up on what you were working on?"

Rashala flushed before paling entirely, realizing Dex had access to the data pad through the MSE. The idea of the droid spinning around the Command Center with the proof Rashala had been the culprit behind the medbay security breach made her feel absolutely sick with unnecessary dread; her captivity might be coming to a close but the sheer liability drained her blood to pool down in her toes.

“Was hoping you'd come up with something sooner than later," Dex chided, packing a second hardcase with tools from his own bench. He pulled a customized kit trunk from underneath the worksurface and kicked it open with a blaster-scorched boot; Rashala glimpsed Dex's armor waiting inside. "I've never had much of a head for strategy. Took you long enough-"

"Dex-"

"I didn’t take you for the speech making type but if you wanted to go rally the soldiers with some inspiring call-to-arms, I won’t judge ya.”

Dex’s wink startled her.

“I’d think you were more pragmatic than that, though,” he laughed, and Rashala realized this was a goodbye.

“Dex,” she said, starting to choke as the reality of the situation settled on her as heavy as a wet woolen blanket. “Dex, you saved my life-”

“Naw, I–”

Rashala leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him in a hug that said more than words ever could. She hugged him as she’d hug Scopsen, as she’d hug her father, as she’d hug Nish and her brothers, and wanted to hold him forever in an embrace that simply said thank you for my life, over and over again. Dex sighed in false exasperation, his chuckle shaking them both as he obliged her in a big wrap of his own arms around her shoulders, engulfing the tall Stassian entirely. 

“You’re meant for more, kiddo. You’re meant for more.”

Letting him go was one of the hardest things Rashala knew she’d have to do between this moment and the first moment of freedom outside the Command Center. Because freedom was inevitable now. The clones were fighting their removal from the Imperial Army and the night was about to become a whole lot noisier once Rashala did what she knew she needed to do.

“So, you’re gonna take this,” Dex said gruffly, blinking quickly as he turned from Rashala to the open pack. “Meece is gonna get you to a control panel and you’re gonna shut this whole place down. It’ll get messy after that.”

“Oh, after that,” Rashala tried to laugh, choking instead. “Then I just have to run for it.”

“You’ve got it. Get as far away from here as you can.”

“But, what’ll happen to you?”

“I’ll make it out,” Dex said, expression falling ever so slightly as he clipped the pack shut and fixed the case to Rashala’s armor. The weight wasn’t insignificant but Rashala knew she could handle it. “Don’t you worry. There’s a lotta brothers out there that need help, starting now.”

His words were poignant and not only did Rashala know better than to ask him to leave his fellow clones to help her get out of the Command Center but she knew exactly what he was suggesting.

“The commander could use some help himself," the armormaster suggested, raising a thick eyebrow at her as he pulled his own barrel-chested breastplate from the larger than average kit trunk.

“He’s on a mission–”

Dex began to put on his armor, waiting to speak until the noise outside the hallway dimmed enough for Rashala to hear him clearly.

“He’s back. Meece found the reentry manifest for Barton IV and Crosshair was on it.”

Rashala’s heart shot into her throat, even as her mind warned she’d need to figure out what that response meant later.

“He’s not in the system, though.”

“What- what does that mean?”

The MSE beeped nearby, almost a sad whine as it crawled back on reluctant treads. Dex put on his plates quickly, so naturally he looked like he could have been born in armor.

“Clones have been going missing for awhile now,” Dex explained quickly, the noise outside in the hallway growing again and growing closer. “The only pattern Meece can find is that their designation disappears from the rank list and their files disappear before they’re gone. Now, I warned Cody when Meece saw his designation didn’t show up in the ranks even though the manifest from Desix proved he was on board. He got out in time. The rest of his squad, though - that’s how Crosshair only ended up with half of Cody’s men.”

Rashala didn’t know what to say, the implications too horrible to think on long but so entirely believable she didn’t doubt Dex for a second.

“If you can find him, convince him to get out with you.”

“Convince him?”

“Don’t keep yourself here for anything,” Dex warned, practically glaring at her for even considering holding herself up on her escape plan. “If he won’t come, don’t stay. Get out.”

He patted her shoulders one last time, staring hard into her blue eyes with all the concern of a father who might have watched a little girl grow up into a strong young woman. 

“You’re a good one, kiddo. Now get out of here.”

His gentle shove held nothing but fondness, pushing her to pick up her helmet and rifle. Dex groaned as he bent down to address the little droid fussing around his heavy booted feet, knees audibly popping as the clone’s age betrayed his stamina.

“You be good, too,” he told the MSE, the unit chittering quietly. “I’ll see ya again. You listen, okay?”

Meese whooped once before slamming into Dex’s ankle, the armormaster groaning as the droid took off across the armory and scampered into the hallway just in time to trip three stormtroopers running by. The troopers didn’t even glance into the armory, getting up and chasing the droid as Meese whirred away. Dex stood with a groan.

“Better catch up,” he told Rashala with a wink. 

She gave an experimental jog to the door, feeling how the pack shifted her center of gravity, and activated the helmet display with a short nod of her chin. Rashala turned back in time to see Dex put on his own hardpack and pick up two massive blasters, tucking an enormous forge hammer under his arm. She smiled into her helmet filters.

“Dex!”

The armormaster glanced her way, obviously dismissing her with an overly teasing roll of his eyes as he put everything back down again to grab his battle-scarred helmet.

“You- you have a place on Stassa II,” she said, keeping from choking up as she imagined the man eating stew at the village tavern, surrounded by warmth and drinking with Scopsen. “Always.”

--–

“Welcome, CT-9904,” the AZ unit chirped, wide amber diodes flaring in its big eyes as it recognized the clone without having to scan the soldier’s wrist. “You’re behind schedule. Please, remove your armor and we will begin.”

Crosshair stared at the droid through narrowed eyes. AZs… all programmed the same.

They weren’t going to let him die with his armor on, after all. 

“Vode,” Router began, but Crosshair huffed through his nose, biting down on the wooden pick hard enough to make it splinter.

Without a word, he began to stack his armor on a cot–-the same cot where he cleaned Rashala’s wounds after her incident in the training gym, where he amusedly watched her dodge the FX droid on her first rotation as a conscript–-and the sniper paused.

There was one last thing he had failed to do by the end of his life... One more person he would have tried to die for had the Empire not finally gutted his will to fight... He couldn't make a difference, not anymore, but the Crosshair couldn't stop himself even as he distantly wondered why saying anything at all even mattered. How could anything he did possibly matter?

Crosshair turned to Router, ignoring the clone’s distress at watching a fellow soldier put aside his armor and being helpless to do anything but watch the order unfold. 

“Get her out of here,” he told Router, taking his time with every word. 

Slowly, Router nodded, taking a deep breath. He waited for Crosshair’s last words, paused for whatever the sniper wanted him to tell the Stassian when Router found her, but the marksman turned away.

Crosshair didn’t glance at the stormtroopers as his demeanor proved he wouldn’t put up a fight. He spit out the splintered pick as he walked across the medbay, AZ unit bobbing behind him, and didn’t look back even when he heard the probe droid follow Router out of the room.

–--

Rashala lost Meece twice in the growing commotion before finding the droid spinning circles outside of the communications bay. The MSE was trying to escape the kicks of a mercenary out of uniform, a snarling human with a bald head and missing teeth trying and failing to launch the droid down the hallway. Rashala didn’t hesitate to stun him. Meece honked in surprise, scooting out from under the lanky weight of the mercenary hitting the ground, and tapped at the communications doorway unnecessarily hard. 

“Yes, yes,” Rashala reassured the droid, clutching her rifle with more excitement than nerves. The MSE had led her to the communications bay she passed by on her first venture into the Command Center on her own, before Rear Admiral Crennit found her and brought her back to an infuriated Crosshair. Despite her eagerness to get started on something she actually knew how to do, despite her constant wariness she’d fail to dodge in time and catch a blaster shot in the few weak points between her plates of armor, Rashala’s fear for Crosshair buzzed through her nerves. If what Dex told her was accurate-–and she had no reason not to believe the armormaster, or his little droid-–Crosshair was in imminent danger.

Every time she tried to slip into the open expanse of the universe, stretch her awareness beyond her own body and feel for a response to her invisible call, Rashala didn’t get much further than the end of her own proverbial fingertips. Running through the hallways, dodging officers hurrying through corridors, even stunning the lone stormtrooper forcing a clone against his will toward the brig… Rashala couldn’t focus on her nebulous grasp of the potential of the Force to tell her where Crosshair was. She tried to feel for the rhythm of his heartbeat, for the silky hiss of his voice in the space between them, but couldn’t hear for the rapid thundering of her own pulse. She hoped she wouldn’t be too late to find him, wherever he was, whatever too late meant.   

Brrrrrrrrrrrap!

Meece whirred into the communications bay and Rashala only spun around the corner of the doorframe when she heard two officers shout in alarm at the MSE’s sudden appearance. She stunned them both and hurried into the room.

“Shut the door, Meece,” she ordered, but the droid balked. “Shut the door!”

Biiiiiirap, brip!

Rashala was fairly sure the MSE swore at her but couldn’t take the time to argue with the droid’s reasoning to keep the door open, leaning her rifle up against the control panels and guiding the unconscious communications officers to the floor so she’d have more room to work. She didn’t have much time and, just like in the medbay, would have to learn an entirely new system fluently enough to achieve her goal in an extraordinarily narrow window of opportunity.

The communications bay was modular, a front deck set with recessed punch-panels and swapout units, each machine blinking in operational readiness. Audio mixers and video switchers pulsed a hot tempo under their clear caps, crosspoints waiting for routes, and the room was noisy with air control fans. Despite the cooling, the room was rich with warm dust and ozone and rubber insulation, and Rashala was reminded so vividly of the NATSIC M she couldn’t ignore the tear burning at the corner of her eye. She tried to wipe it away and clashed her bracer com against her helmet, forgetting she was wearing the thing. Aware she was leaving herself up to the mercy of the MSE keeping watch, she took off the bucket and set it in the chair. 

Awkwardly, Rashala pushed her armor away from the beltline of her blacks and dug into the deep pocket for the tiny chip she stole from the AZ unit. Holding it up against the dim light of the room, letting her eyes focus on each miniscule ridge of the secret she had kept, Rashala quickly dismissed sentiment for action. Only a moment after loading the chip into a data bank, an upload began to a temporary hold folder flashing on one of the many sleek, flat displays.

Rashala moved on instinct.

First, she had to load the evacuation protocol, and clumsily accessed the main computers with a few short taps on the long master keyboard settled into the back deck. The procedure was simple but required either a master control command–-which Rashala was extraordinarily aware she didn’t have-–or a dual override on the manual faders. Set into the front and back deck at distances impossible for one person to reach on their own, the faders needed to be switched simultaneously. Rashala doubted Meece could reach the deck even with its longest retractable antenna, much less move the fader bar.

As she mentally whipped through options, trying to recall if she saw a control command in any of the files she explored on the data chip, Rashala prepared an uplink. The transmissions deck was obvious, all slim monitors and minimal controls proving there was little to do but relay signal to and from the Command Center. At a touch, terrestrial options sprung up across the screens. Rashala swept herself away from the lure of exploring just how much technical firepower the Empire had across Coruscant communications systems and scanned the long-range frequency options: this transmission would have a long way to go. She quickly found a satellite with the proper capacity and ordered the computer to calculate the polarity and find a route.

The data computers dinged with a pleasant chime to alert her the upload was complete and Rashala condensed the immense amount of information into a tight bundle, encrypting the data so securely that the NATSIC M, even with Rashala’s access codes, would take awhile to extract everything. Hopefully she’d be home by the time they were done-

“Twelves!”

The MSE beeped as Rashala swept her rifle into her shoulder before she could stop to think. She sighted Router in her scope before recognizing him, letting go of her breath in a short sigh as the clone put his hands up in surrender. Rashala gave the droid a dismissive glance on its late warning and Meece whirred as it stood its ground between Rashala and the soldier.

“Twelves, we need to go-”

“That’s what we’re doing,” Rashala said, turning back to the panels to hide her overwhelming relief. Router solved a lot of problems with the next step, even as her confidence bolstered from having a friend along for the ordeal this plan was about to create.

“No, now,” he ordered, tapping his bracer com. “We can slip out through Dock #17. They’re using the rest of the docks for the debriefs.”

“Debriefs?” Rashala asked as she worked, staring at the cross-converter monitoring as the equipment rushed into action. “Is that where they’re taking the clones?”

“Twelves, it’s starting.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of Router’s voice, the clone taking off his helmet and tucking his DC-17 back into his holster.

"How could we have trusted the Empire?" Router asked quietly, staring at the blinking crosspoints under the plastic keys set within the transmission bay. "Why did we wait?"

“I’ve got a plan,” she said quickly, turning back to the screens. “See, we’re going to implement an evacuation order and that’ll lock out all the–”

“The Empire is purging the clones from the Imperial Army–”

“I know, Route, and we’re going to–”

Rashala spun around as Router came up behind her, practically slamming his helmet down next to hers as he forced her to look at him.

“My brothers are dying!”

The flashing lights of communications panels blinked reflections in the gloss of his brown eyes and Rashala realized she had never seen Router so unhinged. 

“Router-”

“They’re fighting back,” he said, blinking away the proof of his distress pooling at the bottom of his eyes, “help ‘em, they’re fighting back. But they’ll fire on us if we resist. They’re holding us all hostage against each other, threatening entire squads. I just-”

Router’s voice thinned and Rashala turned completely to stare at her friend as he bowed his head in shame.

“I just brought Crosshair to the medbay,” he admitted quietly, defeated. “If I hadn’t, they would have shot us both.”

“He’s in the medbay?”

Rashala couldn’t keep the relief from her tone, sending up a word of Stassian thanks as she tried to uncover Router’s source of pain. 

“We can go get him–”

“I’m supposed to get you out.” 

“But-”

“It was the last thing he did,” Router said, clutching Rashala’s hand as she reached for him. “The last thing he said... He wants me to get you out of here so that is what we’re going to do.”

Rashala couldn’t breathe. She stood in the dark pulse of the communications bay and felt her body react separately from her mind. Her heart simultaneously raced and fell to its knees, something cruelly severing the thin tangle between hope and her future. She tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t get enough air. Her throat tightened and everything felt simultaneously too big and too small all at once. 

“Is he-” she started to ask, but stopped before she heard herself break. Intense fear spun urgency into her sudden lunge into the space between her and the rest of the universe, a stumbling cry in the dark, and the ghostly stars shuddered a faint response to her heart-wrenching question.

--–

The machine was loud, so loud Crosshair could only hear every other word the AZ unit said as it started a familiar procedure. 

Soon, the electricity would race through his temples and the sharp bite of the chip would start again, increasing and rising and racing to intensify before finally exploding as he always feared it would. Then, if he was lucky, they’d wait for the internal bleeding to kill him before cracking open his skull. The droid hadn’t administered a single sedative, no needles or sprays, and Crosshair lay on the sliding gurney under the half-dome of surgical machinery with the understanding he’d feel everything.

Closing his eyes, he tried to block out the ramping frequency building as an impossible whine through the room. He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to know when the first jolt would come to burn him until he had nothing left to burn, and slipped past the connective memories of Kamino webbing his thoughts despite his effort to repress his fear. He tried to ignore how much the machine noise sounded like rain pounding at durasteel plating, how much water and blood had in common as salt rushed through his veins.

If Crosshair was going to have one last moment of clarity before his brain was irrevocably melted in the name of science, he wasn’t going to let thoughts of Kamino buoy him along the last few beats of his heart.

--–

In the deep, dark distance, bioluminescent spirals of entire galaxies washed along shorelines between worlds. 

Rashala’s heartbeat was a drop in the waters of time, a single harp string pluck breaking surface tension into ripples, ripples undulating into waves, waves cresting and pushing like a pulse before settling back into a calm, glassy swath stretching without end. She let herself float, reminding herself not to struggle against the ripples as they became waves, knowing her serenity would be her safety. Cerulean haloes ebbed with every motion, lighting the dark into a luminant swell and fading down to darkness as the surface of Beyond settled and disturbed and settled in a perpetual flow.

In the waters, Rashala listened. She reached out and felt. Stars gathered and scattered, the cosmos surging in response to her request, understanding her heart. 

Another heartbeat pulsed through the waters, answering.  

---

“He’s still alive,” she said, gripping Router’s hand so hard his armor cut into her own gloved fingers. Rising from the turbulent tranquility into the harsh awareness of her own body moving through her harsh reality was a brutal slap on her senses. “He’s still alive.”

“How do you know?”

“I do,” Rashala gasped, turning back to the control panels with intense purpose. “I- I just do.”

“We need-”

“We need to give your brothers a chance,” she argued breathlessly, feeling Router’s frustration at her inability to comply with the last order their commander gave him. “If we run the evacuation protocol and then cut power, we’ll cause confusion.”

“And how is confusion gonna help us?”

“You’re a far better soldier than I am, Route,” Rashala said, hands flying over the console as she tied up the data packet in a tidy technical bow and sent an uplink command. Within moments, the stolen information from the Empire's systems–security codes, credit chains, known officers, locations, and plans–whisked away.

A single falsified document, an order decreeing thorilide production cease due to depletion on the Risedelian moon of Stassa II, accompanied the data packet.

Stassa II was now, as falsely approved and notarized by Vice Admiral Rampart, a protected, high-security storage site for retired military vessels and at complete capacity. A junkyard, full.

Stassa II might remain under Imperial control but anyone following orders would have no reason to dig past the issuance from one of the highest ranking officials in the Empire. If anything, the lie would buy the arctic moon time to decide what they would do for themselves and their future.

Rashala knew the importance of having a choice. Her people would have what she never did when it came to the force that was the Empire.

“They’d get a fighting chance,” Router said, catching on quickly and starting to formulate his own plans to optimize their escape. “Clones know the Command Center better than anyone. With the evacuation protocol-”

“All the lethal-force security features are dismissed,” Rashala finished, pointing to the front row fader bar jutting from a control panel. Router crossed the communications bay in three long strides, hand on the metal as he waited for Rashala’s cue.

The Stassian confirmed the transmission off-world was successful, releasing a shuddering sigh. Crosshair was still alive. Her data made it. Everything was going too well.

“Ready for this?”

Router took a moment before he nodded, holding the last part of his old life before putting his future in Rashala’s hands. The Stassian confirmed the protocol on the screen, following the prompts with a modification before finally following the bold red count flashing in Basic on every monitor in the room.

“Three, two… one.”

Rashala and Router pulled the faders. For a half a second, nothing happened. Then, with a lurching wail, alarms sounded as Command Center automation began to run emergency procedures throughout the massive complex. Rashala was afraid her modification to the emergency protocol negated the proper operational procedures but then the power cut entirely, plunging them into pitch black nothingness.

“Well, that’s that,” Router said, too loud for the sudden cessation of equipment fans spurring the air into stillness. The MSE beeped twice, a tiny green light at the back of the chassis the only light in the room besides the dim glow of bracer comm screens.

Rashala fumbled for her helmet and knocked into her rifle, Router activating the floodlight on his pauldron with a practiced snap. The Stassian tossed him his helmet and put her own on, the specialized armor blending in with the darkness, and bent to grab her weapon.

Meece let out a digital shriek, scooting from the communications bay and disappearing into the dark. Rashala’s gasp was an audible whistle through her helmet filters as the line of Router’s light followed the length of the spindly, reflective metal arms of a probe droid.

--–

The surgical machine stuttered in the three seconds between power grid failure and the first generator kicking on, an unacceptably long delay in terms of operational readiness. Crosshair didn’t hear the difference, didn’t open his eyes to see the flickering lights as the medbay pulled the generator as the primary beneficiary of the ancient engines groaning under the Command Center.

He floated in starlit water, breathing cool air, and drifted to the pulse of a distant heartbeat with nebulas dripping from his skin.

--–

Rashala fumbled the rifle as the probe droid rushed at her.

The horrible memory of Timp’s bright blood at the snowblanketed edge of the Lepsha Mine entrance invaded her thoughts, blocking out any ability for her limbs to listen to her brain. She had watched a man die under the black orb’s assault, trembled whenever she heard the guttural Sisrai chatter in the Command Center, and could only imagine how terrible her death might be at the probe droid’s impartial controls. Not entirely irrational and yet overwhelmingly invasive, Rashala’s fear of the droid paralyzed her.

Like a horror from her deepest nightmares, a monster lunging from the darkness to steal her breath before seizing her heart, the probe droid lunged around the doorway and came directly for her. Its long manipulator arms curled with an insectile awareness and the glowing red eye spun on its oblong top-circuit, the unit’s engines propelling it rapidly across the room. Router’s pauldron light bobbed as the clone seized his blaster and fired two shots, both ricocheting off a generated shield. The reflected blasterfire made a firework of sparks and burnt metal as one of the back deck consoles exploded.

The probe’s clamps on its longest arm glinted in the sharp-edged beam from Router’s armor and Rashala thought her heart might explode from terror when the cold metal firmly seized her by the neck. She couldn’t even flail against the harsh squeeze, a whimper barely escaping her tightened throat as the droid secured her and began to drag her to the door. The hard tilt of her neck as her body practically cantilevered behind her was agony on her back and legs; Rashala couldn’t get her feet under her.

It had her.

It had her and it would drag her back to the Empire and she was as good as dead because it would kill her the moment an admiral gave the wave of their hand and oh Yrisadael she failed and let death be quick and merciful-

Router kept shooting it, every shot bouncing off the droid’s shield in a thin white flare before ruining some part of the communications bay, and the strobing flicker of each attempt to damage the probe droid was like lightning. The droid pulsed each time Router hit it and sent a spark into its hold on Rashala’s neck, practically torture as the Stassian couldn’t even raise her arms to grab onto the clamp. She could hear Router shouting behind her but didn’t understand what he was saying, could hear the whistling concern of the MSE unit as it lunged and retreated helplessly at the doorway.

A shot got through the shield and hit the droid in an antennae, a sensor popping off the stick-like jut from its sleek body. The lower annulus spun, flinging Rashala against the metal doorframe, and the Stassian slumped. She fought for control of her body as fear numbed her limbs; Rashala understood why people curled up in terror. She only wanted to tighten herself into a huddle for the droid to pass over her, to become so insignificant as to be unrecognizable.

Router’s cry of pain spurred her to look up from her tear-streaked haze.

The droid had him by the side of his face, the clamp digging into his cheek and scalp with a claw-like grip, and Router turned his scream into a rageful warrior’s rally as he continued to shoot up underneath the probe droid’s body. The shield held and each shot bounced with startling swiftness into the ground to burn holes through the floor. Router’s pauldron light illuminated the droid’s slick black carapace, digging hard shadows into the spaces between the manipulator arms and bulbous censors. The stark beam proved the droid was a torment given physical form, a utility for atrocity.

Rashala’s pure awe for the battle between life and death overflowed the dams of her capacity for controlled action. She flung her hand out to stop the droid from continuing to crush the clone’s face. Router’s shout strangled under the visceral squish of flesh under metal and Rashala sent everything inside of her out into the action. The probe droid gave a low, glottal cue before bursting from the inside out.

Pieces of shrapnel lodged themselves in the ceiling and floor to glitter dully like stalactites and stalagmites in a cave, drips of oil and hydrofluid streaming down the ruined consoles. Communications equipment splintered, plastic crosspoint guards cracking and a fader bar melting into an unrecognizable chunk of metal when a piece of the probe droid caught fire where it lay on the panel. Switchers and mixers buckled in their casings and every monitor in the room spiderwebbed into ruin. Router’s pauldron light palpated through the dark, heaving with his gasps, and the clone managed a groan where he lay on the floor in a messy sprawl.

The MSE whirred across the room, darting to Router’s side and spinning as much of a circle as it could around him, running over his legs with its long treads. Rashala could have laughed in delusional relief, half crazed and entirely lost as she waited for Router to catch his breath.

“Never- do that- again,” Router panted, pushing the MSE away with a limp arm.

“What? Save your life?”

Rashala’s voice was tinny in her own ears, a weak and panicked overtone lacing through her attempt to rationalize what she had just done.

“I- I just had to get it off of you-”

“Felt like- a bomb- going off.”

“It was trying to kill you!”

Router’s hand cast a brief shadow across the pauldron light shining up at the ruined ceiling, the clone feeling the wounds on his face with a tentative hand. His hiss of pain was that of an unflappable soldier realizing the severity of his injury and yet knowing they could be worse.

“Jaw’s not broken,” he dared chuckle, disbelief obvious. “I'll get cleaned up in the medbay...”

“Crosshair...”

Rashala’s whisper was all it took to find the connection through the chaos, a shimmering blue thread stitching stars together in a constellation. She reached out for him and felt him immediately, sensed his calm as he accepted an inevitability Rashala wanted nothing more than to help him escape from. Dex’s warning not to waste her opportunity for freedom on convincing a doomed clone to follow her on an unwanted path rang like a death knell in her mind.

“We don’t have much time,” Router groaned, getting up off the floor with a stagger. The MSE spun curlicues between the clone and the Stassian, burrrring and beeping. “Medbay generator might be working.”

“I cut the power. Everywhere.”

Router’s pauldron light bobbed dizzily and Rashala shut her eyes as the soldier gathered helmets and Rashala’s rifle. She was nauseous, scared, but felt biological chemicals surging through her blood with a survivor’s effort; adrenaline was a metallic tang down her hurting throat. The hardpack on her back was a stone strapped between her shoulders and she couldn’t imagine running on such shaky legs. The probe droid was a phantom image on the back of her eyelids and she saw it hovering, heard its chatter, even though she knew it was destroyed.

She had destroyed it, without a single weapon.

In her mind's eye, the Coruscanti student’s black eyes took the shape of a probe droid in an ouroboros spin.

“I have to get you out of here,” Router said, his tone becoming that of a trained soldier as he resumed his mantle of responsibility. “I made a promise. Good men keep their word.”

He pushed Rashala’s helmet into her hands and helped the Stassian stand as she rebalanced her weight. The helmet was suffocating, a bucket squeezing the sides of her face, but Rashala was thankful for the night-vision sensors immediately activating across her visor. The dark was transformed into obvious shapes and the pale green gradients gauged her depth for her. Her rifle was a soothing anchor to the reality of the situation, grounding her with the smooth metal under her gloved grip, and she wondered how much of Crosshair she really understood.

“I want- he needs to come with.”

“He won’t-”

“They’ll kill him.”

“They’ve probably done it already,” Router argued, herding her to leave. Doubling back, Rashala pried the tiny chip from the computer banks and tucked it into the collar of her blacks, unable to spare the time to safely secure the bargaining chip in her beltline pocket. All the information on it was already sent lightyears away but she’d need something to trade with in the undercity.

Something to trade with.

She believed.

She was getting out of the Command Center and out from under the Empire’s hand.

Rashala let out a shaky breath as she checked her bracer comm for the best route to the medbay.

Hope surged through her. Hope.

“I have to try, Router,” Rashala said, her voice quiet through her helmet’s vocoder. “Please-”

In the moment Router paused, how he assessed the situation, Rashala knew he was debating the risks versus the outcome. If he trusted her, he’d take her to Crosshair and help her get his brother out of there. If they were too late, the potential horror of what they’d find left of the sniper could be enough to haunt them both for the rest of their lives.

“Lead the way,” the clone ordered, his blaster open in his hand. “I’ve got your back.”

–--

The MSE ran point, squealing whenever it found a potential threat around the corridor corners, and Rashala stunned anything that moved as she made the short but perilous journey through the dark Command Center. Behind her, Router’s blaster pulsed sharp shots but she couldn’t turn around to look, trying to keep a steady pace without rushing headlong into a trap. Officers, their white uniforms stark in the night vision sensors, had the audacity to startle in the moment before Rashala stunned them. She avoided shooting the single clone running past Meece at a junction, the escapee vaulting over the MSE without a hitch in his stride. If this was their last stand–whether to take back the Command Center or run from the Empire once and for all–she wasn’t going to hurt them through sheer negligence with her trigger finger.

Finally, the medbay doors loomed ahead. Meece darted around the lone stormtrooper standing guard in the dark and the trooper jumped in surprise when the droid zapped him out of the way from the floor-level access port. The MSE skirted through the narrow gap after a manual override, a tiny scomp arm extending from under its chassis to whir into the small port, and the trooper was so distracted by the droid that he never turned to see Rashala stun him.

The door popped open just enough for Router and Rashala to fit their hands in the gap and pull; Router unhooked Rashala’s hardpack so she could slide through the narrow sliver, working to widen the access for himself and tossing the case in after her. The MSE beeped in indignity when the unit had to wheel quickly out of the way.

The cold, dim blue lights rimming the medbay were startlingly bright compared to the near-pitch black darkness in the Command Center hallways. Router was terrifyingly right: the medbay generator was off-grid from Rashala’s code to cut each and every power source from the Command Center when the evacuation protocol was executed. The machine at the end of the long room was whirring with small gears forcing energy into the surgical unit the AZ attended with full attention. It didn’t turn to greet the intruders, focusing entirely on communicating with the machine to oversee the surgical procedure. Crosshair’s armor was a disfigured stack on a cot and Rashala’s shoulders slumped when she feared she might be too late.

But the tie between them, the tether through the dark that dueted Crosshair’s heartbeat with her own, was strong. He was in the machine but he was alive.

“Shut it down!” Rashala shouted, rifle tucked into her shoulder as she scanned the room for anyone else but the droid and the sniper. “Shut it down, now!”

“But the procedure has just started,” the AZ said, its chirping bedside manner programmed for any situation regardless of circumstance. Rashala shot it with a dead-center stunner to the backplate but the droid didn’t move from its hover beside Crosshair. She couldn’t see anything but Crosshair’s long legs on the sliding gurney.

“Don’t hurt him!”

Rashala knew her cry sounded like a dramatic Shili holovid, a lovelorn heroine pining for her soulmate, but she couldn’t keep the shattered emotion from flying out of her. Just like she stopped the probe droid, she flung out her arm to move the droid aside but the AZ didn’t so much as shift. Confused, she did it again and nothing happened. Ridiculously, she checked her hand and flexed her fingers to make sure everything moved exactly as it did the first time. Panic for Crosshair and the immediacy of her situation overcame her befuddlement.

But it worked the first time, she thought, approaching the droid with a cautious step. The machine began to emit a clattery whistle and Rashala gasped to see Crosshair prone on the gurney, his head and shoulders completely encased under the whirring collar of the surgical unit. His leg twitched and the soft cerulean current holding him in a watery, starlit embrace ripped apart in a needlelike lash of burning cold rain. The construct failed and the sniper began to seize under the first current of electricity surging from temple to temple.

His agony was her own and Rashala screamed, even as Router tried and failed to shoot the AZ unit into submission. The MSE screeched piercingly as a stormtrooper clipped Router’s shoulder through the slim crack between the medbay doors and the clone whipped around to guard the room. Plastoid hit the ground and Router groaned, clutching his hurt shoulder and shifting his blaster to his other hand in preparation for the next trooper.

“Let him go!”

Rashala shouted at the AZ but the horrible composition of the shiny, bulbous-limbed surgical attendant peering down on the twitching sniper, their edges all haloed in dim blue light, seared itself into her heart. Panicked but certain, Rashala spun to the panel set flat into the wall, tapping at the screen. The utility power settings stripped the command screen down to bare minimum access features and Rashala hurried to find an override option on the surgical screen.

                          Patient: CT-9904

                               Procedure: Amplification, biological implant (BMC, 2.11, M-99 – 50tw)

                               Procedure: Amplification, biological implant (BMC, 2.11, M-99 – 100tw)

                               Procedure: Amplification, biological implant (BMC, 2.11, M-99 – 200tw)

                         Execution, electrical current (30,000 AMP, cranial)

                         Autopsy; attend. phys.: DROID, AZ-831

                         Approved, Rear Admiral Erikka-Jean Crennit per Vice Admiral Edmon Rampart; 20BBY, 03.22

Rashala couldn’t breathe as she navigated the cancellation orders on each procedure, cursing the inherent slowness in each action. She should be able to fly through the screen prompts instantaneously, not have to wait for her ligaments to flex and muscles to obey the agonizing slowness of her brain sending commands to her body. Everything moved too sluggishly. She pulled off her helmet and dropped it at her feet to roll against the butt of her rifle.

Wrenchingly, the machine’s whirr behind her began to exponentially slow, the crackle of power diminishing to a spark in the air before falling entirely silent at the emergency override. The AZ unit stared at her and Rashala stared back, leaning against the screen in a dizzy slump as she looked at the droid and tried to repress her rageful fear. She wanted to rip the droid from limb to limb, to scatter each and every scrap of it throughout the galaxy to sliver and burn under impossible pressure. She wanted to destroy the AZ for everything it did to Crosshair, for everything it did to her.

Rashala wanted to hate the droid and, unsettlingly, hate slipped into the space left in her heart.

The droid began to shake from an internal pressure it couldn’t control. Its big bronze eyes widened as the optical sensors fluttered and something rubbery snapped inside; one of its motors failed and it dipped by a meter, almost touching the tops of Crosshair’s legs. The sniper shifted slightly, his blacks sliding across the gurney in a quiet hiss, and Rashala let go of the grip she formed around the AZ. The droid’s machinery creaked back into place and the unit shot away from her to duck behind the surgical machine, hiding next to the broken FX-7.

Rashala promptly vomited, coughing as the power let go of the squeeze around her lungs and released itself from its temporary hold on her. Each and every atom of who she was shuddered as the Force argued within her, as she argued within herself. The Stassian understood in that moment what it meant for a Jedi and a Sith to walk completely separate but similar paths, each justifying their actions to extreme results. The power that was the Force… there was no limit to self-control that the energy would yield to, nothing that could stop the surge like a flood through her essence. Beyond body, beyond blood, beyond salt and carbon and corporeal form itself, the Force existed. She was a conduit and could direct the energy as she would but the sheer intensity was nothing but duress. Rashala was everything she feared, everything she thought she wouldn’t be, and she couldn’t even blame the Empire: this rage, this fear… it was part of her and had been since long before she was ever abducted.

“Take it out,” she croaked, barely able to put her hand around her sore throat for the bruised tissues struggling. “Get it out of him.”

The AZ blinked at her over the rounded edge of the surgical machine.

“The chip,” Rashala directed, as though the droid didn’t know Crosshair was on the gurney. “Get it out.”

“I am not programmed-”

“Then what- How do I- Help me find the procedure,” Rashala stammered, turning back to the panel. She tried to navigate through the screen, wiping her wet face on her armor and scratching her cheek on a loose strand of katarn peeling up from the dark plastoid.

“It is too late,” the droid said, growing bolder and dipping over the surgical unit to drift closer to Crosshair. “The first-”

“No,” Rashala insisted, gulping. “No, he’s alive and he’s not going to hurt anymore.”

“SF-0012, I must insist-”

“My name is Rashala!”

The Stassian snarled at the droid, sparing a glance over her shoulder as pure indignity spun into a tight arrow pointed directly at the AZ; a hairtrigger pressure on her emotions would set it off. She looked over at Router, the clone’s open mouth reminding Rashala how deranged she must look, how frightening her expression was. The last tether that held onto peace and serenity threatened to snap and Rashala felt like her very soul was balanced on the edge of a precipice.

“I’m taking him away from here,” she said firmly, straightening her shoulders and reminding herself who she was. “Now, what do I do?”

The AZ unit tilted its head before complying, as though trying to figure out what made the human woman act the impossible ways that she did.

“I will program a viable procedure,” the droid said, “but the powersource is draining rapidly. Our generator power is finite.”

“What do you mean?” Router asked from across the room, adjusting his helmet over his chin impatiently.

“We have one shot,” Rashala muttered, voice suddenly closing off as the reality of the situation wrapped tight around her throat with more force than the probe droid’s clamp.

“I will begin momentarily.”

The AZ moved to the screen and displaced Rashala from her spot against the wall, the Stassian having no choice but to move to Crosshair’s side.

She couldn’t see much more than a slip of his face beneath the yoke of the surgical machine but his unconscious grimace held so much more than pain. The sniper was waiting for the end, had anticipated his death since he was a child in training to become a lethal force at the command of the Republic. Rashala doubted–for just a moment–she was doing the right thing.

Putting her hand over his to strengthen the connection between them, Rashala resettled his cold fingers in the cage she made of her own, clasping his loose grip with both her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry this is still happening.”

“I am ready to proceed-”

“Do it,” Rashala ordered the AZ unit, and the droid pushed the command into the surgical unit to send the machinery spinning once more.

Crosshair’s hand twitched in her own and Rashala held on tighter, closing her eyes and feeling his skin against her own. Going deeper than touch, she pushed aside all other emotions but the ones that surfaced when she thought of Crosshair as she knew him in that moment.

Conflict, troubling and sawtoothed, wrapped a razorwire around the tentative strands of friendship. He was once no more than a captor in her eyes, a pawn of the Empire to control and demand of her as a commander did of a member of their squad. He became a guide, standing by in the training range as the keen-eyed sniper assessed her stance and mentoring her to precision; he taught her and she listened, eager for anything familiar to distract her from the weight of conscription. He saved her from herself in the sands of Desix, showed slivers of his humanity despite his fierce need to be seen as anything but humane.

The clone was a brother-in-arms to soldiers who treated him badly, and he treated them badly in return. His tendency towards aloof loneliness suited him and his callous tether on his own emotions was difficult to navigate; he could hold back only so long before he felt a call to action that often overblew the situation. He could take out a rabbit with a tank with justification.

Crosshair himself showed her what he had done, expecting her to run from him, and Rashala would be lying if she pretended she wasn’t horrified at the actions of his past.

She saw their companionship as one of the only lights in the suffocating dark of conscription. Knowing he’d protect her, Rashala was able to breathe a little easier when moving around unfamiliar squads, especially those with rough mercenaries and less than kind clone soldiers. She knew his jealousy of everyone around him, saw how his harsh expression was a wound in and of itself, knew the way they looked for each other when they walked into a room. They were lost, each of them cast down into misery by the Empire, and were found in the inescapable connection of the Force.

Rashala didn’t know how the Force flowed through her, was still scared of herself and her implications. She only wanted to run from repetition and recover a semblance of a normal life.

She didn’t know how Crosshair fit once they slipped the bonds of the Imperial Army.

But she wanted to find out.

Rashala pushed aside the swaths of rain filling oceans of pain in Crosshair’s body, blanketing him as the cold salt chill invaded his bones. The AZ worked, the droid’s manipulation of the surgical machine placing a careful cut into Crosshair’s skull, and Rashala fought to keep the clone unconscious.

“57% complete,” the unit chirped, and Rashala ignored the AZ as Crosshair groaned.

You’re almost safe, she pushed between them, weaving her fingers through his. You’re almost done.

Rashala felt the moment the chip pulled free from the scorched pocket of the sniper’s brain.

–--

Face wet with grief, Crosshair stood in the snow.

Powdery dusk drifted over the frozen river, plum-hued shadows rolling from patches of long grass bent double under the crust of glistening ice at the riverbank. Cold blue ripples layered tiny clawprints from otters scratching to dive down into the frigid waters, looking for the stonefish thick with fat lazily hiding with the slow sine wave wash of their tails.

He stood at the edge of a treeline, ancient oak and flaming red maple stretching their canopies against the curve of the sky. In the distance, through fresh winter’s ozone snap, an elk heralded the coming night with a high-pitched bugle that sent shivers down Crosshair’s spine.

Crosshair glanced at the mountains, fearing the craggy stretch of brutally sharp granite would prove he was back on Barton IV, but deep quartz glinted in the dimming light. These weren’t the mountains he almost died in without even a cairn to mark his grave; the foothills, sloped with snow and thick with evergreen, were uncommonly beautiful. The sniper’s breath was a soft fog feathering the chill air but he wasn’t cold, his blacks keeping him warm and his boots ensuring dry feet. He held his rifle warily, seeking a sign through the approaching dusk that he wasn’t alone.

A crunching footstep, then another, broke through the swaths of snowcrust and Crosshair wheeled with his Firepuncher tight in the crook of his shoulder, scope pressing up to the reticle of his eye.

I found you, the woman smiled. Or, looks like you found me.

Rashala's blonde hair fell over her shoulders, gentle gold spun in soft waves, and her blue eyes pierced him through the dimming canvas of winter valley. Bundled in the traditional jackets and fibers of her village, umber patterns in her scarf and mittens contrasted against the long white lines of birch. Her tall boots collected small clumps of snow as she walked towards him despite staring down the barrel of a gun. The moon breathed around them, a late birdsong rolling smoothly through the lovely, dark, deep woods. Aspen shielded sturdy stone buildings from little more than a glancing view; woodsmoke and the ozonic snap of power to the NATSIC M tower drifted through the open sky.

Rashala crossed the valley, silhouette haloed in the cresting marble of Risedel as planetrise cast silver streams of light to flow across Stassa II. The brief but brilliant celestial flare separating the moon from pure night was more than enough to see by with his enhanced sight. He slowly lowered the rifle, refocusing the lens of his understanding of beauty as the scope brushed his side.

Despite her height, Crosshair was taller and he looked down at the upturned face staring into his own with such eager calm. She greeted him like she knew him her entire life, saw him and came to him not just willingly but with the satisfied smile of greeting an old friend. Rashala scanned his face, tracing the short length of his silver hair with her gaze. Her handstitched scarf pulled from her neck just enough for Crosshair to see the edges of a blue-black rune tattooed on the thin skin across the top of her breastbone. The curved bow of her berry lips bent as her smile shifted.

Without a word, Rashala put a hand to his chest, balancing herself as she stood on her toes to press a kiss against his mouth. The moment seared him and, when she eventually pulled away, Crosshair found his gloved grip resting at the back of her head. He tangled the molten gold strands between his fingers, watching Rashala’s hair shimmer in the starlight.

This is a dream, he murmured, searching her face for a sign he was imagining everything.

It doesn’t have to be, she whispered back.

Crosshair tipped his chin to kiss her again and Rashala met him with a small sigh, curling into his embrace.

Night melted into inkblot darkness.

–--

The sniper heard his name, over and over again, and squinted against the increasing noise. Everything was so loud. The gurney slid forward and the drone from the surgical machine was quickly buried under a commotion outside the medbay, blasterfire catching his attention and setting him in fast motion despite his blurry grogginess. His hand was caught on something and he tried to pull away before realizing the warmth was welcome against the cold of the room.

“Don’t touch the wound for another full rotation,” an AZ unit warned in a chipper bedside manner. For a moment, Crosshair squinted, expecting to find Omega and his brothers nearby. In a brief but fleeting second, he thought he was with them on Kamino, reunited. He put his long fingers to the ruined skin patchworked over the side of his scalp and felt the length of soft linen bandage wrapped around his head.

“You are neglecting to follow orders,” the droid scolded, and Crosshair closed his eyes tight as a sudden wave of dizziness swept over him.

“When have we ever followed orders?” the sniper whispered, expecting Tech’s inevitable amendment to his statement of all the missions Clone Force 99 followed to the Republic’s exact standards and then some, waiting for Wrecker’s deep laugh before Hunter stopped him from an account of exactly all the ways the Bad Batch were just that and more. Crosshair listened through the noise of existence–he was on Coruscant, he had to be; no rain–and no one spoke. But he wasn’t alone.

Through narrowed eyes, trying to blink back the false sleep that couldn’t quite shake off fast enough for reassurance something wasn’t wrong with him, Crosshair followed the line of his long arm and saw his hand in Rashala’s own. He was holding onto her, fingers tight and knuckles white, and her drying teardrop on the back of his hand rimmed salt on his ashen skin. He followed her form at his bedside: a full kit, scraped up and spattered with droid oil and blood; her helmet in her lap; blaster at her hip; a dirty smear across her temple and into her hairline where she ran her gloves through her blonde mess; blue eyes rimmed with exhaustive effort.

He wanted to push back the stray wave drifting over the cusp of her ear, to tell her not to cry.

“Hate to break it up,” Router called from across the room, “but we’re about to get company!”

Letting go of Rashala’s hand was like jumping from the Marauder to soar through a clear sky, weightless and exhilarating but without control. Crosshair braced himself, waiting for the inevitable tuck and roll on rocky terrain at a painful pace, as he put his feet on the ground.

“Your injuries require attention,” the AZ addressed Router as the clone flattened himself against the half-jammed doorway. He wiped dripping blood from his chin under his helmet before returning blasterfire down the dark hallway; the sharp click of plastoid hitting glossy tile brought temporary quiet outside the medbay.

“I’ll take a bandage to-go,” Router snarked, waving the AZ away when the droid tried to remove his helmet. “You good over there or do we need to carry you out in pieces?”

Crosshair’s wordless snarl was quiet, tired. The sniper didn’t spare a moment of sentiment for the armor he thought he’d never put on again, kitting up as though he hadn’t just prepared to die. What did he even have to live for? His life had been saved but, for what?

Glancing at Rashala, he understood she had felt his reluctance to hold the gift she had returned to him: a life, free of pain from the chip in his head, free from being puppeteed against his will. A slip of guilt that he had recently begged her for release from the chip’s malfunctioning efforts to kill him became a self-loathing reminder of his cowardice.

He didn’t know what he’d do next, had no idea what his life might be, but–as he stared at Rashala–Crosshair was certain of only one worth he had that come anywhere close to repaying the life-debt he owed her: he’d see her freed from the Empire if it was the last thing he did.

With a decisive crook of his finger, the sniper called her to join him. The Stassian didn’t say anything as she put her helmet on, blaster in hand.

“How do we get out of here?”

Rashala’s modulated voice was low, concerned, and Crosshair activated his specialized helmet sensors to assist their way through the inevitable perils ahead.

“Carefully,” he answered, the word serving as a rasping warning to stick close.

“There’s something coming,” Router said, still waving off the AZ as it brushed a scanbeam over his head. Exasperated, he set his blaster to stun and knocked the AZ out in three successive shots, one after the other. The unit fell to the ground in a lurching arc, circuits temporarily fried. “Sounds- big?”

“The grid was overridden,” Crosshair muttered as he reviewed the Command System status scrolling in his visor.

“Emergency evacuation procedures, with a few extra code cues thrown in.”

The sniper turned his head to stare at her through the emotionless impasse of his dark visor.

“Where did you keep power?”

Rashala hesitated, suddenly worried about Crosshair’s shift in tone.

“Nowhere. I didn’t even know the medbay pulled power from a different line than the rest of the grid.”

Crosshair was too controlled to let out his exasperated sigh.

“Door controls,” Router said, catching onto Crosshair’s obvious frustration. “We’re able to get out but so is everything else.”

The implication of the depth Rashala had gone to in order to fully disable the Command Center was interrupted by Meece’s piercing beeping, his droid screech unnecessarily theatrical as the MSE spun a tight circle and shook on its suspension. Crosshair, Rashala, and Router all held their weapons ready for the inevitable attack growing in a loud clatter outside the door.

Many things, all with many legs, skittered down the corridor, heading straight for the medbay.

Chapter Text

Krykna, seven feet tall and infuriated, clacked in clamoring strides as their bulbous spider-like bodies bobbed through the dark hallway. In the sliver of broken doorway, Rashala watched their velvety grey backs scoop away shadows as they passed in a raucous herd. Router backed away from the door, only peeking his head out when the group passed without trying to access the medbay. He waved Crosshair and Rashala to him, taking point and slipping through the door with a scrape of his armor against the busted lock cogs.

Crosshair didn’t break stride as he grabbed the hardpack from the floor, attaching it securely to the back of his armor in a practiced swing. Rashala followed, fumbling the little light on the side of her helmet to join Router’s pauldron light flooding the dark hallway. Meece almost tripped her in an effort to avoid the fallen stormtrooper and Rashala cringed to see the puncture through the plastoid from a krykna’s razor-tipped stomp. Blood slicked the floor.

They navigated the hallways with all the intensity of a mission, moving quickly and efficiently. Rashala trusted Crosshair and Router to guide her as she kept close enough to the sniper as to narrowly avoid stepping on his heels. She glanced back whenever she could, keeping guard so the clones could forge their path through the deadened Command Center. Crosshair’s keen sight and extra height gave him an advantage over Router’s shoulder and Router knew the Command Center as well as any reg who had been given free reign over the soldier-oriented facilities. Router didn’t hesitate to stun any stormtrooper in their way.

The Command Center was chaos.

Some hallways were full of clones trying to evacuate, stormtroopers getting in their way and apprehending those they could; brother fought for brother as troopers were quickly overpowered by squads doing their best to get out. Word had spread that the Empire was dismissing clones and rounding up the remains of the Grand Army of the Republic to send the soldiers to unknown fates. Far from the conclusion of their service resulting in a quiet plot of land or a job to see them through the rest of their shortened lives, the clones were now aware the new regime planned to follow through on the Senate’s declaration the clones were to be punished for traitorous acts against the Empire.

Rashala plunging the Command Center into darkness only confirmed the collective theory that the Empire not only expected a coup but had been on the cusp of their own purge of the Republic’s remaining soldiers before Rashala activated the evacuation orders. An all-out war had broken out between the clones and the start of the new Imperial Army, the Command Center the battleground.

Some corridors were completely empty, footsteps echoing loudly off the sleek surfaces as Rashala and Crosshair followed Router through the winding maze. In the absence of the flow of power, a terrible facility silence droned through Rashala’s helmet. No airflow and no sensors, the potential for an explosion was high. The Stassian was acutely aware of the horrible implications of a high-intensity operation coming to a grinding halt. Her freedom on the line, Rashala could only hope she could get out before the Empire’s technicians brought everything back online.

The enormous incinerators under the expansive facility weren’t cut when the power went out and the temperature rose with each passing minute. Sweat dripped down Rashala’s back and Router panted through his helmet’s filters; it was obvious he held his breath in the moment before he scouted around a corner. Crosshair was pure and intense momentum, propelling the group through the dark corridors without time to pause and think about the disasters spinning around them.

Rashala sloshed through ankle deep water in one long corridor, a pressurized pipe spraying freezing water from the ceiling; her helmet visor stayed clear and her armor repelled water in fat, rolling drops but the sheer amount of water caused stormtrooper’s bodies to start to drift down the slick hallway. Some of the hallway blastdoors were partially closed, others completely shut, and Router directed them back more than once to find an open path.

“We’re not making progress,” Crosshair warned Router, the clones acutely aware they were practically blind even with the limited accessibility to dregs of data. The system hadn’t pushed new information to their suit receivers since Rashala disabled the facility and the facility maps were officially offline.

“Gotta find another way. This is no good,” Router said, waving them back from a hallway half-blocked by a dripping pool of something acidic draining from the ceiling; corrosive hissing proved the floor would collapse at any time.

“The ducts?” Rashala offered, pointing up at the air system that looked so promising on the stolen schematics, and Crosshair nodded for Router to remove the grate. The sniper held out a hand to give Router a step and the reg used Crosshair’s offer to jump up and grab the cable scaffolds under the duct system. With a long hand and a short swing, he reached up for the grate and an intense snarl met his reach. Router’s cry of surprise was muffled under his helmet and he dropped down to the floor with a hard stumble.

“There’s something in there!” he shouted unnecessarily, brushing himself off and pretending not to be shaken. He handled his blaster as though whatever had growled at him would swing out of the ductwork and seize him with claws, which–judging by the fearsome snarl that continued above–might be possible. Talons scuffled against metal and the creature sounded big enough to prove a threat even without the terrifying growl.

“The cages are open.”

“That would explain the krykna,” Rashala muttered, following Crosshair at a jog as the sniper led the way back down the corridor, Router catching up with a wary stare fixed on the ceiling.

“Why would they keep beasts like that in the Command Center?” Router asked without expecting an answer, clipping his words in frustration with his narrow brush against unexpected death.

Rashala, though her exhaustion and fear, slipped part of her attention to the air ducts above them, setting her feet to follow Crosshair without the effort of thought. A faint growl, a scared hiss, spun like a leaf on a rapid river as the energies in the ruined facility roared around her. With a startled snap, she ran into Crosshair and lost the thread of connection with whatever roamed inside the walls.

“They’re Force-sensitive,” she said, stepping back from Crosshair. The sniper spared her barely a glance on his assessment at which hallway was best to try at the junction but she could tell he was listening. Router shook his head in disgust at discovering Crosshair truly meant cages. “The Empire isn’t just testing humans.”

“They’ve got to have a way out down where the cages-“

“No,” Rashala said quickly, trusting her intuition when she couldn’t trust her own way around the immense Command Center. “I have a bad feeling about going down.”

The MSE whirred, spinning around a corner and beeping excitedly. It didn’t take a technical genius to understand the droid wanted them to follow.

“The hangers,” Router translated unhelpfully. “How do we feel about that?”

“Any way out,” Crosshair and Rashala said together, neither of them sure if desperate coincidence or their thin but strong connection to the other prompted the simultaneous snap.

“It’ll be a kriffin’ nightmare if we’re losing…”

Router’s mutter was lost under the percussive beat of own heavy boots as he took the lead once more, guiding Crosshair and Rashala down a wide corridor lined with offices, Meece whirring beside the sniper’s long stride. Narrow sliding doors set in tidy rows, Rashala vaguely recognized the hallway from when Router led her to the hangar before the Metalorn mission but–especially in the dark–everything was so alike in the Command Center that she couldn’t be sure.

The power flickered once, briefly, and Rashala’s heart sank as the row of floodlights at the bottom of the corridor flared too bright before dying once more. Generators clicked in ratcheting groans, engines trying and failing to turn over as Rashala’s modified evacuation cue continued to overload the systems. Each near-success to push power through the Command Center resulted in a surge of noise around them, the shouting and blasterfire echoing like phantoms throughout the site pulsing with battle.

The MSE let out a warning beep, a curt reminder it was running just as fast and as long as they were but without the benefit of a metabolism. Meece needed a charge.

“Thought these things could generate their own power,” Router said, Rashala shaking her head.

“Only for short bursts,” she explained briefly, “and then they have to rest. We use something similar–”

“Keep moving.”

Crosshair’s ramping tension was a reminder to them both that to waste breath on talking was a waste of what could be their only opportunity to get out of the Command Center, away from the Empire’s immediate grasp.

Rashala dared hope Router’s reluctance to try to escape through the docks was overblown. If they could get to a hangar, they might be able to secure their own transportation off-world and not have to rely on a Partisan’s shaky promise, but Router’s warning about clones being rounded up for processing by the mercenaries-turned-official-stormtroopers was an enormous risk. They had yet to exchange blasterfire with more than a handful of stormtroopers in their escape attempt and Rashala didn’t like the odds of encountering an entire squad of non-clone soldiers.

Ahead, the hangar doors were busted, hanging off their counterweights. Crosshair threw up a hand to stop Rashala from passing him as he slowed to a complete halt. Router continued, blaster ready for any surprises as he shifted his pauldron light at the hangar’s entrance, but the clone quickly fell back with quiet disbelief. Rashala remembered Router’s clear statement that soldiers were being rounded up by stormtroopers, mercenaries overpowering clones and taking them to the hangars…

Router’s silence spoke for what he saw, for the atrocity inside.

“A ship? Anything useful?” Crosshair asked in a pushing hiss, moving past the knowledge of the dead clones within the hangar if it meant finding a way for Rashala’s freedom. Router shook his head.

“They planned it all along,” Rashala breathed, jumping when a cruel voice laughed in a short, unamused bark behind her.

“Of course we planned this, stupid girl.”

Crosshair had Rashala behind him before Rear Admiral Crennit finished speaking, the firepuncher firmly trained on the Imperial officer.

Crennit looked no worse for wear despite the messy conditions in the powerless facility. Her helmeted bob of dark hair was barely out of place, her rank pin only slightly crooked on her chest. Her dark boots were bloodspattered, a light spray of deep brown specks crawling past the leather to dry into the white uniform pants; Rashala’s eyes widened behind her helmet visor as just enough power was restored to the facility to support dim emergency strip-lights set into the ceiling. The narrow bands of light pulsed red, swelling shadows in unsettling currents across them all.

Crennit’s standard issue blaster was nowhere near the caliber of Crosshair’s weapon but it would only take one shot from either of them to end everything.

“By dawn, not a single clone will remain in the Empire’s service,” Crennit stated coldly, no more emotional than when she directed Rashala’s extensive testing. “You have unfortunate timing, SF-0012, but you always did make things harder.”

“My name is Rashala,” the Stassian corrected the officer before she could stop herself. Her arm caught in an awkward swing between aiming her weapon and holstering it. She didn’t want to fight Crennit, didn’t want to hurt her or even stun the rear admiral. The Stassian wanted Crennit to see her escape, to be powerless to keep Rashala obedient through fear and cut off from the rest of the galaxy in that small, cold cell. The hate that surged through Rashala in the medbay sloshed in her gut, cascading waves around her ribs, pushing at her lungs until she felt like she might cough out saltwater if she so much as moved a single muscle. If she even twitched, she’d lose herself to the growing rage threatening to usurp everything she thought she was.

“You made me kill that boy,” Rashala accused softly, her helmet’s vocoder hardly catching the sibilance. The corner of Crennit’s lip twitched, the rear admiral’s eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“You only followed orders.”

A blastershot ricocheted off the sleek metallic walls, red lights strobing as massive generators tried and failed to spin power up into the Command Center. Rashala ducked, shying away while trying to figure out who the shot came from. Fearing the worst, she looked at Crosshair and watched the electrical sparks crawl over his reinforced breastplate, feathering to etch patterns into the katarn. Crennit had shot the sniper directly in the chest. Rashala didn’t even take the time to wonder why Crosshair hadn’t shot first, as she knew the answer before she even pulled her blaster from her hip: it wasn’t his shot to take.

Over Crosshair’s shoulder, Router leveled his blaster at Crennit with his finger on the trigger, ready to shoot before Crennit could fire again, but Rashala dropped the rear admiral before either of the clone soldiers could react. Stunned, Crennit collapsed to the floor.

“Why’d you wait?” Router asked the Stassian accusatorily, gesturing at the officer with his hands as though Rashala had messed up a rep in the gymnasium.

Rashala shook her head, loathe to touch the woman but pulling the officer’s badge off her jacket and keycard off her hip in case they could be of any use.

“Hoping for answers,” Crosshair said, his harsh voice absolutely holding Rashala accountable for her actions. He knew why the Stassian delayed, knew Rashala’s heart was still tethered to her decision-making despite her circumstances. A good soldier used their brain, took the shot based on the odds… Rashala wanted closure, wanted one of the offending parties to offer something she’d never receive, and Crosshair risked his life to give her the opportunity to see for herself what it would take to make it through these final steps.

Rashala pocketed the pin and the badge, glancing at Crosshair in the flickering din. Her guilt ebbed between them and Crosshair didn’t spare her the weight of the lesson. Anything to keep her safe, even if it meant being the callous, cynical commander she never should have had to suffer to begin with.

“Maybe another hangar,” Router offered to cut the tension, eager to move on as the generators groaned noisily levels below their feet. Crosshair was about to speak when an enormous blast rattled the walls and cracked the ceilings, throwing them against the walls as the ground shuddered. One of the generators had exploded.

Crosshair grabbed Router’s arm and pulled him up, the clone soldiers temporarily bound by duty to brotherhood and the basic manners of the battlefield. For a moment, Mayday’s heavy body was a memory-weight in the sniper’s hand and the fallen soldier became Hunter, the flickering red light casting skull-like tattoos across Router’s helmet. Crosshair held onto his rifle with both hands, keeping his breathing under control, but Rashala felt the momentary anxiety in Crosshair’s pulse. He ignored her, stepping over the prone officer without glancing down.

“Wait!” Rashala called, scooping up the silent MSE. The little droid had run out of energy, battery depleted faster than it could self-charge, and the blast had tipped the sturdy case against the wall. Heat pushed through the droid’s filtered grill and the rubber treads were warm even through Rashala’s gloves. She jogged to Crosshair and gestured for him to turn, cradling the droid in the crook of her elbow; the unit wasn’t particularly heavy but the shape was clumsy against her armor.

“More sentiment?”

“A communications droid could be useful.”

Although he barely suppressed an exasperated sneer, well-aware of his own failure to keep his emotions separated from the narrowing window of opportunity to escape, Crosshair obliged Rashala and let her open the hardpack. She pushed Meese into the open spot Dex had made among the spare ammunition and slim ration packs tucked tightly into the case, immensely thankful for the armormaster’s foresight in so many ways.

The remaining generators continued to try to pull online, overloading without system guards to stop the subsequent failures, and another staggering boom resounded through the Command Center. A horrible clattering in the duct work proved the animals were still making their way to potential freedom through whatever means they could, avoiding humans while maiming and eating each other, filling shrunken bellies where they found prey on their way out; the Empire hadn’t starved Rashala but the Stassian had no doubt she was treated better than the Force-sensitive creatures.   

Router waved them forward, Rashala following with Crosshair taking guard. The sniper let Router and Rashala get ahead of him before turning back. He took a look at Crennit’s sprawled slump, the officer’s white uniform blood-red in the flickering light, and made a decision.

–--

Two more generators had exploded by the time Rashala, Router, and Crosshair found themselves at the cafeteria, the flutter of emergency lanterns painting a strong white streak on the wall across from the cracked doorway. The room was loud with clone soldiers tending to wounded men, others strategically packing food and breaking cafeteria trays into makeshift shivs for those without armor or weapons. Several soldiers kept watch at the door, leveling their blasters at the three newcomers before recognition lowered their arms.

“How many?” Router asked, gesturing at the commotion as all three stepped inside the cafeteria-turned-staging-ground.

“At least a hundred, if not more,” a clone answered. “Brakeburn, CT-8871, sir.”

The soldier was a shiny hiding his nerves, no different than most of the men hustling around him. Few spared glances at Crosshair and Rashala, their dark armor more shadow than shape, and there was no energy or effort to spare. Many of the wounded were dying–Rashala could feel them slip away–and the sound of blasterfire down the hallway proved the stormtroopers were aware the clones had holed away before a final stand.

“We’re retaking the Command Center,” Brakeburn told Router, his brown eyes bright. His hairline was a rare recession among the clones, thinning and nearly non-existent on the crown of his head, and he was shorter than the average soldier, still tall but the same height as Rashala and not a fellow clone. Router shook his head, removing his helmet.

“We have to get out of here,” he said, voice as grave as when Crosshair started to destabilize while waiting for a bacta tank. The reminder of how burdened Router seemed when confronted by a preventable death of a fellow clone stirred the first hint in Rashala’s heart that her friend—and, truly, he was her friend—was about to take a solution to the chaos into his own hands.

“But we’re ready-”

“The Empire doesn’t want us,” Router said firmly, gaining the attention of the clones around him. Several stopped what they were doing to listen, and Router took advantage of the opportunity.

“The Empire doesn’t want us,” he said louder, addressing the entire cafeteria, and the hustle died down as Router’s words reached to the far walls. “We just heard it from Crennit’s own mouth: we weren’t meant to make it to the morning. They’re purging us from the Imperial Army!”

“That’s what all this is about?” Brakeburn asked, gesturing at the dead facility struggling to resurrect under Rashala’s layered command-codes. Router shook his head.

“No, but it’s cover. It’s a way we can get out of here,” Router declared, standing up on a bench along a long cafeteria table. “We’re better soldiers than those mercs will ever be. We’ve trained for this, know how to navigate a battlefield in the worst conditions.”

“At least it isn’t raining!” a clone called out, earning a few chuckles to soften the horribly tense moment. As though on cue, the lights and fire suppression system kicked on for a long second, power continuing to surge through the facility in fitful stops and starts, and copper-tainted water sprayed from pipes in the high ceilings. The clones groaned and wiped their faces as the power failed again and the harsh emergency lanterns took over the burden of lighting the room.

“We’re no longer welcome,” Router continued, face speckled with wet. “We were always on borrowed time in the Empire.”

“You don’t know that,” Brakeburn argued, and Router’s expression was enough to make the younger clone pause in his willful ignorance.

“Kamino wasn’t an accident,” Router shouted out over the crowd. “An entire city doesn’t just fall into the sea!”

The clones muttered amongst themselves, Router’s credibility fading. Rashala had very little idea of what had shifted the crowd against him, the soldier so close to convincing his fellows that they needed to act to escape, not act to reclaim. Router suddenly seemed very alone, standing on the bench by himself. The hard shadows of lamplight on his kit shrank him even further.

“Rampart himself gave the command,” Crosshair said unexpectedly, his tenor slinking through his helmet and cutting the room down to stillness at his words. He defended Router with just a few hissing syllables. “I was there.”

Some of the clones, too well-trained and proud to shuffle nervously, stared at Crosshair with an ill-disguised disgust. The crazed light in the room set their features into masks, impermeable, while others refused to look at the sniper as they contemplated the potential truth of the declaration.

“He was,” Router said, quieter this time as he glanced over his shoulder where Rashala and Crosshair stood inside the doorway. “I pulled him off Kamino myself, 32 rotations after.”

Something desperate, horrifically resigned to the inevitability of death without meaning–-of death that did nothing to serve-–jumped through Crosshair unbidden and Rashala felt every horrible stutter of Crosshair’s heart. The sniper couldn’t hide the shameful fear from Rashala and their attunement to one another. She kept from touching him at all, letting him stand and face his brothers while he had strength to do so. Stassians were generally reserved, not prone to emotional demonstrations in public, and Rashala was no exception even as she wanted to offer Crosshair an iota of comfort. Crosshair’s decision to speak was not her moment to interfere.

In the space between them, a noisy ocean lapped at a dark landing pad as a quadrillion stars slowly disappeared behind thickening rainclouds.

“We can’t stay here,” Router declared, drawing the clones’ attention back to him as he announced the beginning of the end.

“There’s nowhere to go!” a soldier shouted, anger failing to hide the fearful awareness of the truth.

“Go down to Hangar 2 and see what’ll happen if we stay!” Router shot back, jabbing the air. His strong voice was the sort to call across battlefields and be heard as a clarion cry, a soldier meant for leadership, a man who knew how to lead with his heart as much as his head. Router didn’t try to hide the indignantly of the moment: he leaned into it, refusing to shy away from the horror of their reality. “We’re not even bodies to them. To the Empire, we’re not even men…”

Rashala stared back at the clones daring to glance at her as they wrestled with their awareness of how truly obvious it was for conscription to prove the Imperial Army stood for nothing a noble individual could ever support without compliance by duress. The impassivity of her helmet helped her maintain her composure as she recognized as much of an apology in their obvious guilt as she’d ever receive.

A commotion down the hallway caught everyone’s attention as the clones guarding the junctions shot back at the stormtroopers noisily attempting to get to the cafeteria. The blasterfire didn’t quite cover the sounds of something large and vicious trying to break through the ventilation ductwork. As the power surged and quit and surged again, the security prohibitions would eventually activate and most anything that tried to escape through the metal corridors would be electrocuted.

Selfishly, Rashala kept herself from reminding Crosshair and Router they had to move soon–and move fast–if they were to break out before the power fully restored. She saw the parting that was about to happen, knew the goodbye she’d have to make, and wanted to pretend one moment longer she had an ally over each shoulder.

“Those coming with me, kit up and get a vode next to you on their feet,” Router declared, jumping off the bench and pointing to Brakeburn. “You, round ‘em up. If they don’t have food or a weapon, get it done.”

The young clone nodded, barking a “yes, sir” with the shaky enthusiasm of a soldier fresh to war. He waved to two others and they dispersed amongst the stirring crowd. Router took a moment to find his smile before turning to Rashala, the Stassian watching him as he found a way to say goodbye.

“I’m not much for hugs,” Router said before closing the gap between them with a genial stride. He pulled Rashala in and she wrapped an arm around the man she now easily saw as a brother. Their armor made the embrace a clunky one–Rashala couldn’t even take off her helmet–but she felt Router’s hand pull the back of her head so they could tap foreheads. The clone smiled broadly as he took in Rashala one last time before the last leg of the escape for their lives.

“You always have a home on Stassa,” Rashala told him, refusing to let her throat tighten as she thought of how much she’d miss Router’s good heart. “You’ll always have a place in my village.”

“Hear it's pretty cold,” the soldier tried to chuckle, “but maybe you can introduce me to your friend.”

“She’d kick your shebs.”

“Good,” Router said, breaking away and tapping her deadened shoulder with a rough, brotherly pat. “Stassians are tough stuff. I like it.”

“Get Dex out, if you can,” Rashala asked, knowing she requested what could already be impossible. “If you can find him, get him out. He’s the only reason any of this-”

And then her voice broke and she was thankful for the mask of her helmet so Router couldn’t see the tears prickle in the corners of her eyes. Router nodded, putting on his own helmet, transforming himself fully into the soldier he needed to be to lead his fellows out of the Command Center through imminent battle.

Crosshair and Router stared at each other for a moment, the sniper holding onto his rifle as though the weapon was a shield against touch. A silent agreement passed between them, Router offering an unspoken promise and Crosshair, albeit reluctantly, responding in kind. Router had saved Crosshair more than once, was the only one still living who knew how close to death Crosshair truly was when the patrol noted the lone clone stranded on the miniscule landing pad in the middle of the ocean planet. Spite and fear undoubtedly kept the sniper alive when others would have cast themselves into the waters to make the suffering end, but only a man like Router could recognize the strength of Crosshair’s spirit to sustain him through the horror. The sniper nodded once, a thanks not just for his life but for Rashala’s, as well.

They parted without another word, Crosshair checking Rashala had her blaster in hand before waving her to follow, taking point to protect her as best he could as they made their way back into the darkness, back across the shores of all but certain death.

--–

“Do you have a better idea?” Crosshair snarled back as he shot around the corner, taking out three stormtroopers before having to pull back when the return fire became too heavy.

“We should have gone with Router!” Rashala shouted again, stunning the troopers coming up behind them before they could get off a proper shot. Her helmet assists warned her through thermal imaging and predictive analysis how many more were on their way and Rashala double-checked her blaster to ensure she had enough stun rounds left before she had to consider changing out the cartridge. Despite her excellent aim, the Stassian always knew she wasn’t as efficient as any clone soldier with her rounds but she was thoroughly aware of her military ineptitude when shooting alongside the best sniper any galactic army had ever seen.

“You know why we can’t do that,” the marksman said through his teeth, helmet modulating his voice into a dangerously tense directive.

Blasters scorched the air with a hot ozone stench, flickering lights proving the remaining generators were slowly responding to whatever technical teams were hard at work restoring the Command Center to something resembling operational. Rashala was momentarily disgusted by the weight of her blaster in her hand, remembering for a split moment what it was like to pull the weapon from the stormtrooper in the testing room and firing into the corrupted Coruscanti boy to save her own life, but swallowed the remembrance of terror and despair.

“Strength in numbers?”

“Ambushed,” Crosshair countered. “Rounded up. Shot by an execution squad.”

“They’ll get out!” she shouted, leveling her blaster in the dark span of the ruined hallway and stunning two stormtroopers directly in the chest.

“We won’t if we stay here.”

The sniper tilted around the corner once more, dodging a red-flare blast and firing back to clear the corridor. A skin-crawling scurrying came down the nearly blackened hallway and Rashala pressed herself tight against the wall as a herd of assorted beasts made their panicked way through the Command Center. She pulled Crosshair back and the sniper’s revulsion for the creatures trying to make an escape was obvious through her touch. Rashala closed her eyes to listen to them, aware she might not ever experience such a Force-sensitive clamor of strange animals again. An idea–desperate and imperfect but an idea nonetheless–passed between her and Crosshair at the same time.

The animals would know how to get out, would find the best way to scrape and scavenge their way to continued survival. Where technology failed the clone and the Stassian to find their way out of the maze that was the Command Center, nature could lead them to freedom. They’d need to trust the animals to get them where they needed to go in order to slip by the Imperial forces shooting down clone soldiers without hesitation. If Rashala thought about it too long, she doubted how she’d make the effort work.

It wouldn’t be a smooth ride.

Holstering her blaster, Rashala didn’t leave room to be afraid, readying herself for the reach that would result in the grab that would swing her up onto the krykna’s neck. The enormous spider lumbered down the hallway, bulbous pale back scraping the ceiling, and its multitude of black eyes glinted in the flickering light. Rashala crouched before seizing the topmost joint of the closest leg, the spider clacking its short mandibles in annoyance at the extra weight. She was dragged, struggling to get her feet under her as the spider moved unpredictably and surprisingly fast. Rashala almost lost her grip when the herd of spiders turned the corner and Rashala felt the heat of a blaster bolt narrowly miss the side of her helmet. The kartan armor deflected a blast off her thigh but the shot still hurt with a blazing blunt stab against her muscle.

The Stassian tried to keep from letting out the scared shout trapped in the back of her mouth while she tried to mount a creature that had never had nor ever wanted a passenger. A strangled and worried whooping strangling in her helmet as she pulled herself up to swing a leg over the krykna’s neck. Unholstering her blaster, she stunned the remaining stormtroopers and cleared the corridor, the spider stumbling over the slick plastoid. Punching through flesh, it barely kept from tripping over bodies while it kept up with the other fleeing beasts.

Rashala couldn’t see behind her, blocked by the krykna’s thick abdomen, but trusted Crosshair had secured his own ride. She had never taken the lead before on a mission but didn’t have a choice, the spider entirely out of her control. For a moment, once she knew she had her seat and wouldn’t slip over the spider’s oblong head, Rashala reached towards the broad expanse of undeniable energy flowing through the worlds around her, immediately overwhelmed by the fear and pain from not just the spider herd but the other fleeing animals, from the clones and the Imperial officers, from all those who were still in the Command Center and trying to make sense of the catastrophe around them. The calming layer of reassurance in the act of response floated in wispy strands through Rashala’s heart as she breathed deep, in and out, taking away some of the krykna’s blind panic.

The animals surged through the corridors and Rashala did her best to clear the way, dropping stormtroopers with stunners that few other sharpshooters could have managed. She didn’t know what the Force was, how to use it, or even what was appropriate and what wasn’t, but the Stassian leaned into instinct. Another generator exploded somewhere under the Command Center and a breath-sucking plume of white-hot fire flared out from a hallway junction, causing the spiders to rear up. Rashala was almost unseated but tightened her thighs around the krykna’s neck, leveling herself with a hand on the top of the spider’s head. It didn’t like her weight near its eyes whatsoever and swept at her with its long front legs, nearly knocking Rashala’s helmet off and causing the Stassian’s ears to ring. The herd skirted around the residual heat of the receding fireburst and clattered amongst each other as each and every captured creature ran for escape.

A violent orange dianoga intercepted the mass of spiders to cut in front of the flurry of long legs, a sucking noise rippling as it thrashed its tentacles; the eyestalk swiveled back to stare at Rashala and the Stassian was thoroughly unnerved. She stunned stormtroopers who dared get in the way of the fleeing animals but her stomach churned when the dianoga pulled a fallen trooper into a corridor intersection and began to slurp between plates of armor with its center maw. A small nexu, a baby with barely a strand of adolescent fur, launched onto another trooper, giving a satisfied, throaty roar with all the lungspace in its hungry body before feasting. In the strobing lighting, Rashala saw warm blood spatter the wall when another small nexu joined the first.

Rashala thought about jumping from the spider, doubting her decision for the growing chaos around her as the herd continued deeper into the Command Center before she realized where the animals were heading: the gymnasium. Ahead, the doors already busted in by larger animals than krykna, creatures surged in a wild, snarling menagerie. Rashala hunched into herself as best she could without slipping over the spider’s head as the pale, scared krykna forced itself through the doorway.

Fresh air filtered through Rashala’s helmet and the Stassian could have cried in relief when she saw the narrow hole in the far wall, a slip of street fumes and city smells cutting through the perpetually sweat-tinged air of the large exercise facility. Three acklays were breaking their sharp-tipped insectile arms down to stubs with each strike at the duracrete, making progress to widen the hole where smaller, rodent-like animals were already slipping through. Rashala only had to wonder for a second how she was going to help widen the path to freedom without getting in the way of the acklays, thinking of the dangers of hungry nexus and desperate dianogas, before the spider herd turned directly toward an unbroached wall.

The krykna was leathery, anarchic motions proving the Force-sensitive spiders were never intended for a human rider and Rashala struggled to stay seated over the spider’s short, thick neck joint as she almost dropped her blaster to suddenly cling to the spider’s upper foreleg in anticipation of what was to come. She couldn’t help the startled shout when the cave krykna reared up, its sticky footpads testing the gymnasium walls. Rough concrete proved adequate traction and the krykna began to climb.

Measurements and ratios flickered across Rashala’s visor as her suit warned her of the decreasing probability of non-injurious landing should she fall from the spider and she couldn’t even dismiss the odds blinking in rapid calculation for her almost blinding fear. The spider was nimble but slow, its crippled legs proving the Empire didn’t care at all for the survival of its stolen lives, much less the health and wholeness of its captives. The krykna jumped from the wall and scrabbled briefly against the long metal scaffolding leading to the glass ceiling. Rashala wrapped her legs tighter around the spider’s neck and dangled briefly until securing her grip on the forelegs; the brief moment where she swung upside down was not only a gut-swooping discombobulation of direction but gave Rashala the perfect view of the stormtroopers flooding the gymnasium doorways. Their white armor was scratched and more than a few limped.

A jackobeast, beautiful striped fur matted and patchy, bellowed behind one of the roughly formed lines of Imperial soldiers and swung the stumps of its once undoubtedly enormous tusks. Rashala couldn’t focus on the creature, too busy staying attached to the krykna as the bulbous spider scurried along the support beams, but the jackobeast’s diminishing roars were so terribly disheartening that the Stassian knew she’d hear the creature’s death cries in her nightmares. Not everything the Empire captured was going to survive the messy opportunity for escape–she knew this–but Rashala couldn’t cry for the hulking, cloven-hoofed animal. Not yet.

Through the long tunnel of distance between the gymnasium floor and the skylights set high at the pinnacle of the Command Center roof, shapes scuttled, scurried, leapt, and hurried toward the promise of access to the outside world. A herd of small lizards scrambled over one another in their rush towards the puce, light-washed night sky, a slinky reptilian wave cascading up the wall; they numbed Rashala’s senses, helped block out some of the Force-riddled sensations of everything moving around her.

Many of the creatures trying to escape were just as sentient and emotionally capable of knowing what was going on as any human but some were truly animalistic, aware of pain and fear to the extent of desperation for anything but where they were brought to. Rashala smelled the panic, felt her muscles twitch, tasted the terror in the air on her tongue, and knew none of the alien sensations were her own. The stormtroopers below kept firing on the fleeing creatures and Rashala’s fear surged under her skin. Nearby, a furry creature let out a harsh shriek before falling off the beam, the pungent stench of blaster-singed hair sleusing through Rashala’s helmet filters.

Ahead of her, making faster progress than her own krynka now that the herd was free of the restricting corridors, a massive assassin spider bearing a tall, slim rider momentarily blotted out the skylight. The phosphorescent markings on the spider’s legs and underbelly were toxic-green, a harsh and glowing verdancy streaking through the flickering lights. Rashala couldn’t see all of Crosshair for the spider’s blocky abdomen but caught the tip of his rifle bobbing briefly with the assassin spider’s lumbering gait before a sharp crack cut through the noise. Crinkling like thin ice bearing too much weight, glass shattered but didn’t fall, the shards webbed as the skylight held together. Crosshair shot again and the ceiling fell apart, a million knife-like shards slicing down, and Rashala thought to lean over her krynka’s head to block its numerous shiny eyes from being ruined; the glass bounced off her armor harmlessly. She holstered her blaster lest she lose the weapon in what was about to come.

As though unleashing an unforeseen but undeniable momentum, every creature swinging up through the gymnasium scaffolding pushed their last bits of energy towards reaching the top. The sleek, cat-like animals got through first, their puffy tails flicking through the busted skylight, and the small lizards washed out like water between rocks in a tidepool. The opening was just large enough for the assassin spider to stretch through, its talon-tipped legs and clacking mandibles an insectile bouquet reaching up into the pale dark; Crosshair rode the spider into the warm Coruscanti midnight.

Rashala wanted to close her eyes against the lurching rush of freedom, to brace against the hurried surge up into the sky, but a strange new part of her–someone she always was but never knew until she had to survive in the most unlikely of circumstances–willed her to open herself to every moment of the experience.

The massive spider jumped in a desperate strain.

Like falling in reverse, a flare of adrenaline sent an elated whoop up through Rashala’s heart and she felt time slip away; it could have taken a year or a second to cross the last threshold keeping her from escaping the Command Center.

The krykna’s legs caught the edge of the broken frame.

In a glorious burst that was easily the most exhilarating thing that ever happened to her, Rashala and the krykna pushed through the open skylight.

An oil-washed breeze swept across the harsh steel rooftop, raking through Rashala’s short, tousled hair. The Coruscanti air teemed with the dazzling menagerie of life on an overwhelmingly busy city planet: heat-warmed concrete; rain-stained streets; transport lanes brimming with brightly colored vehicles, metallic confetti flowing through layers stacked a dozen zones deep; skyscrapers towering over plazas as benevolent gods overseeing the festivals spinning at their foundations; music, a hundred instruments and a thousand voices all talking, singing, shouting, calling; a distinct smell of fried food and stale liquor and something delicious and green pushing through the olfactory clamor; electricity flowing in thickly woven cabling to set every building in a tinsel spectacle, a riot of light blocking out the ozonic push of night that long ago gave up trying to shroud the city in anything akin to peaceful darkness. The planet was unwieldy, unnerving, brimming with promises and promising more than could ever be fully experienced in a single lifetime.

Rashala’s sigh of relief was short-lived when the krykna stumbled.

The spider, blaster-riddled and already crippled from the Empire’s abuse, didn’t have the strength to continue to run while carrying Rashala; the spirit was willing–through the Force, Rashala felt the krykna’s desperate lurch despite the pain flaring through its body–but it was old and struggling before Rashala ever climbed upon its neck. The Stassian slipped off clumsily, her knees sore and muscles weak from the chaos of the last few hours, and the krykna scurried to disappear over the side of the building. Animals ran past her, a trynsutt almost knocking her down, and Rashala cried out at the retreating assassin spider and its rider.

“Crosshair!”

Pushing his thigh hard into the spider’s hairy flank, the sniper tried to steer the venomous arachnid away from the edge of the Command Center but the spider wouldn’t obey and Crosshair had never experienced the predicament of trying to ride such an untamed, toxic beast before. No animal ever appreciated a gunshot, though, and Crosshair aimed carefully to avoid hitting one of the spider’s many legs. It turned away from the seizing crack of Crosshair’s rifle shooting so close to its neck, scuttling back across the roof instead of over the edge. The clone held out his arm for Rashala as the Stassian sprinted to close the distance. Force-sensitive creatures continued to flow from the open skylight, interrupting Rashala’s path, and both the Stassian and the spider had to dodge animals fleeing in blind panic.

Rashala almost missed Crosshair’s hand but the sniper grabbed her wrist in a tight grip, swinging her up in front of him. Rashala narrowly avoided the assassin spider’s clacking mandibles, turning her leg just in time to keep the hot-green, dripping venom from landing on her armored ankle. She straddled the spider’s neck as best she could as the creature slowed just enough to feel its way over the edge of the roof. The horizontal quickly became a harsh vertical and the spider’s sticky pads made a faint squelching against the Command Center’s outer walls; the long, needlesharp hairs rimming the spider’s many feet helped anchor it as it moved sharply around narrow windows and thick bolts of exposed ductwork. Fluorescent green poisons stamped the multilegged gait down the walls, leaving a glowing trail.

Rashala’s helmet cut back the decibels of hovercraft and gravity-fighting engines as the vehicles whipped by but Coruscant was so loud, so entirely unfamiliar, that the Stassian would have been overwhelmed even had she not been clinging to a giant spider on a crazed effort to escape the Imperial Army’s grasp. Blasterfire pinged over her shoulder but the stormtroopers had poor aim and only the spider’s bulbous body was grazed. Lights blurred and the urbanscape pulled at her peripherals when the spider jumped the last forty yards in desperation to get to the ground. Crosshair’s squeeze around Rashala’s ribs was crushing, his gloved hand gripping the edge of her breastplate to keep her from sliding away from him as they momentarily took flight on the arachnid’s back, and their joined experience of falling at the speed of flying tied them together.

With a fantastic rush, the pavement zoomed up to meet them all too soon and they both flew from the spider as the creature’s hobbled leg couldn’t quite take the force of its expedited landing. The spider rolled, pitching off its riders, but scuttled back onto its feet with a brief high-pitched screech, indignant. Pedestrians screamed, bystanders shouting as the assassin spider ran off to hide itself in the labyrinthine city-planet, scurrying along the hot pavement to disappear into the milky-dim Coruscanti night.

Rashala rolled heavily, her armor scraping audibly through her forced cry as the breath was pushed from her body. The fall seemed to last for minutes, the rolling for ages, until she finally tumbled against a monolithic streetlamp; bright, blue-rimmed light dappled her damaged armor as she groaned. Crosshair’s landing was far more graceful, the sniper tucking and using his momentum to roll to his feet within a moment, rifle at the ready. He shot back at the roof and took out every merc-turned-trooper by the time Rashala stood with a stagger.

“We need to go!” she shouted at Crosshair, backing up as stormtroopers in fresh white plastoid turned the corner with blasters raised. The sniper expertly tripped a trigger to turn the long-range firepuncher into a short-barreled custom blaster, dropping the first row of pursuers within a second. Rashala reflexively pulled out her own blaster, briefly checking if the weapon was still set to stun before she added her return-fire to the melee. Her visor alarms told her she had sustained damage in the fall from the assassin spider but Rashala couldn’t focus on the alerts. She barely felt the pinch as a thigh plate stabbed through her blacks with a small, short needle to deliver an adrenaline injection so strong she tasted the copper at the back of her tongue within moments.

Crosshair turned and ran, shielding Rashala in their retreat. The Stassian didn’t know where she was supposed to go, didn’t pause to consider anything but a straight line down the nearest street. Crosshair nudged her down an alleyway before taking the lead. He grabbed her hand, pulling her right when she moved to turn left, guiding her down another street before running through the open doors of a neon-lit dance club. Music with a thudding beat pressed at Rashala’s chest as they ran by the stage, Crosshair moving through the packed crowd and Rashala following closely; they sprinted through a kitchen, the smells of sugary food momentarily overwhelming before the escapees broke out into a wide side-alley. The sniper looked around before pulling Rashala towards a narrow emergency ladder bolted to the side of a slick-walled skyscraper; the mesh tunnel guarding the ladder from the elements provided excellent cover from any pursuers who would think to look up.

Rashala’s hands were weak and legs trembling by the time she came to a service platform, a small but covered jut from the ladder almost a dozen levels up from the ground; the Stassian swung a long leg over the stomach-dropping gap between the ladder and the platform and could have collapsed in exhaustion when she finally stopped moving. Crosshair guided her over, a large hand at her side, and Rashala slumped against the grating when they were finally pushed back against the sturdy, opaque guard at the end of the platform.

For a long while, they breathed together, helmets rasping and chests heaving as they sat shoulder to shoulder. The needle poke at Rashala’s thigh was hardly an issue when she thought of how much she had truly needed the extra boost; her numerous visor warnings told her she was well over healthy endurance margins and, ridiculously, warned her to rest or risk further physical damage. With a short bark of a laugh that held nothing but exhausted disbelief, Rashala pulled off her helmet.

The city air was refreshingly cool against her matted down hair and she ran her gloved fingers across her scalp to dry the sweat. She closed her eyes to fully feel the air pressure shift between the buildings, the warmth radiating from the skyscraper securing the service walkway so far up in the air, the surprising comfort of feeling a billion bodies move through the city-planet and yet distant from them all as she hid with Crosshair at her side.

She laughed again, this time with full awareness she sounded like she was losing her mind and not caring one bit. Quietly, Rashala reveled in the pure joy of knowing she was outside the Command Center, hiding but free from the terrors of testing and deployment and sheer torture the Empire had put her through for months that felt like decades.

A contented sigh accompanied her slump into Crosshair, who hadn’t moved through her unexpected outburst. Her suit pinged her helmet and Rashala knew the sniper had requested information from her tech through his command priority protocols but she didn’t care he hadn’t directly asked her if she was alright: she didn’t even know if she was okay, still numb from survival chemicals pushing her beyond her limits.

“You’re bleeding,” Crosshair informed her quietly, and she followed his stare down to her leg. A deep cut between the armor plates at her knee was gumming her blacks to her skin, blood cooling in the night air.

“Clean it,” he directed, fixing her with a stare through his helmet. “That’s an order.”

With leaden arms and a tired slip of a sigh, Rashala pulled the miniscule aid kit from the utility pouch on her belt, moving as slowly as possible to hold onto the dregs of unbridled satisfaction that she would never take another Imperial command.

The space was narrow but larger than her cot in her cell, giving Rashala room to sit up and attend to her injury. In a slim slice of muddy light, the Stassian pulled a razor sharp krykna hair from the wound, the blade-like strand having wedged into her blacks and slicing through fibers and skin. For being a superficial wound, it bled copiously when she put flushing antiseptic on the cut; she let it bubble before smearing it with a dab of bacta and working a pad of thin gauze through the damaged blacks to adhere to her skin. She didn’t know much about krykna, only that the arctic cave-dwelling type on Stassa II were small and immensely territorial, but hoped the krykna wasn’t toxic like the assassin spider.

As the adrenaline wore off and her body’s reactions became more obvious through the thinning veil of sheer desperation, Rashala couldn’t feel anything amiss besides the perpetual numbness in her damaged shoulder, the lightsaber ruining the nerve beyond repair. Her thighs and hips were already starting to ache from having to learn to ride a krykna and dangling upside-down from its back without falling. Her upper back was sore from landing on the pavement when the assassin spider took its desperate leap from the wall to the ground and her head still rang from the krykna’s rebuke. Rashala knew she was only at the start of at least a rotation’s worth of intense discomfort as her body recovered but she was free: comfort was a small cost.

Elbows on her knees, the Stassian sat for a long moment, letting the noise weave around her in growing familiarity. She couldn’t see out from the service platform but imagined the roaring stretch of Coruscant blanketing them from Imperial reach. For a moment, Rashala pretended she didn’t have anywhere else to go, anything left to do but sit with the satisfaction of reclaiming her autonomy.

Feeling Crosshair’s stare, Rashala glanced at the sniper over her shoulder, uncertain what she’d find.

He was pale, moreso than usual, and even the molten patch of scars stretching over his ear was ashen. His brown eyes were dark, only a hint of amber as their hideaway leached color from the limited light. Crosshair’s long limbs stretched in front of him with a sniper’s practiced conservation of space and he held his helmet in his lap; the rifle rested in the crook of his elbow.

The clone looked like he had lost everything—and he had—but was too drained to think of anything beyond his next breath.

“Cross,” Rashala whispered, the sniper continuing to stare at her as though she were part of the scenery. “We’re out.”

He simply closed his eyes and leaned his head back, silent, and Rashala’s elation was finally curbed by knowing Crosshair didn’t care what came next.

---

A long way away, a modified Omicron-class shuttle intercepted a message bound for Stassa II.

---

Only as dawn swept through Coruscant’s sawtoothed skyline did sirens cease blaring from the Command Center. Through the cusped hours before sunrise, as revelers and drunkards passed through the throngs of shift workers exchanging time for credits, the city breathed steamy exhalations from gutters and grates, a sweeping cacophony of lives hurrying and slowing and calling all around the cocoon Rashala and Crosshair made of their service walkway.

As the Stassian watched through the narrow gap between the opaque panels shielding them from a passing glance, soft blue skies feathered the edges of enormous buildings. The cloudless sky promised heat for a planet that already sweltered under the duress of peak galactic industrialization. Rashala had never seen such an efficient, normal, practically unremarkable sunrise before and yet the morning was one of the most beautiful moments of her life.

Even though she wore the dark armor of an Imperial Army special forces squad and carried the ration bars, weapons, medkit of an Imperial soldier, Rashala was anything but a pawn of the Empire.

She had shed her silent tears of gratitude and overwhelmed disbelief in the night, taking first watch with quiet insistence when Crosshair’s pallor proved the sniper struggled stoically but struggled nonetheless. He hadn’t said a word while they came down off the rush of fleeing the Empire’s largest military stronghold on Coruscant and, when Rashala glanced at him one too many times with a concerning sweep over his various injuries, he put on his helmet, closing himself off. She wasn’t offended or even hurt by the intent for privacy—she would give a finger on her left hand if only for a hot shower with real water and a half-rotation of uninterrupted sleep—but she worried for Crosshair as much as she did for herself. He had undergone something so absolutely crushing that even what she felt through the Force was little more than a slip of energy. His cheeks were snowburnt, his forehead scorched by an arctic wind: wherever he was deployed to while she languished after her injuries in her final test had been a brutal environment.

To ask his body to do even more work after his skull had been sliced into and a chip pulled from his brain was just cruel.

Crosshair had slept during the night, arms loosely crossed and legs out, and Rashala didn’t have to reach through the space between them to know his body was struggling to heal. The sniper was absolutely exhausted and, although Rashala couldn’t deny her own tiredness, she was too hyper-aware of her lack of familiarity with the planet around her to even consider sleep an option. Every smell felt like the first time she had smelled, every hint of music the first song she had ever heard. The sheer routine chaos of Coruscant assured her she was a miniscule speck no one could see and promised anonymity with little effort. Hidden away in the service walkway, Rashala sat near Crosshair and handled the confusing flood swirling within her.

She searched her soul in the remnants of the light-riddled night, breaking up the unknowable hours with prayer and tightly woven awareness that she didn’t know what came next. Not just how to find her way to the undercity and off the planet but what would happen once she left Coruscant’s atmosphere. Everything that pulled her from the desperate clutches of hopelessness, depression, and terror in the long servitude of conscription was now up for questioning. Her home, that beautiful moon she had never wanted to leave to begin with, felt so very far away even as she was so close to getting away from the Imperially-dominated Inner Rim.

Rashala fought her own confliction as she remembered the terrible things she had done, the ways the Empire changed her against her will, even the things she found out about herself that she wished would have stayed hidden. The Force—whatever it was and however it flowed through her—ran through her very soul and fed on the darkness as much as it did the light. Doubts she never had before, questions she never even thought to consider in the longest stretches of the Empire’s control, swept through her.

Staring at the fully armored sniper, she wrapped her arms around her knees and watched the way the last of daybreak shifted gradient streaks across his scratched armor.

Crosshair had been awake for some time, dozing but finally fully conscious beyond the bare minimum lucidity wakefulness required. His head ached but in a different way than usual, in a way that meant something was missing but already filling with scar tissue and the healing that only came with time. His skull had been cut into, something that had been with him all his life taken out and discarded out of his reach; Crosshair would have liked to have held the little chip, to see what diseased thing it was that tortured him and very nearly killed him had he not begged for help like a coward. The thing that cost him his brothers, his life… Even though he still breathed, lungs pushing and heart pumping, he knew he wasn’t truly living.

The Republic, the Empire… the difference never mattered, Crosshair had told himself until the moment he ran from the Command Center with Rashala at his side.

Lies only comforted for so long.

He hesitated to let Rashala know he was awake but he had slept so heavily against the hardpack that his entire body ached for the awkward angle. He had to move, if even to uncross his knees and let the blood flow back to his feet. She likely knew anyway, had kept an eye on him all night based on the extra layer of exhaustion in her expression.

By the way the Stassian looked at him, Rashala was aware he was avoiding speaking to her, postponing the moment when they’d have to address what came next.

The only thing he was sure of was the conflict rooting through his chest and scooping out entire parts of his throat to seize his tongue.

“You don’t have to speak,” Rashala said softly, and the way the perpetual city bluster tickled the strands of her pale hair against the rim of her ear was the only thing that stopped Crosshair from an instinctually scathing retort. “Just listen.”

The sniper only shifted his limbs and settled back as though waiting like a predator, a passive snake too sated to strike, but he put no real animosity in the posture. Rashala would never be scared of him again and, as he admitted to himself silently, he never wanted her to be. But he couldn’t fight the defensiveness as he prepared himself for the Stassian to say her goodbyes.

“Crosshair, I’ve kept something from you,” she said, and the unexpected guilt edging her steady voice was both so very Stassian and unnerving all at once. “Since Metalorn.”

He didn’t speak, continuing his braced and falsified indifference.

“I have a way off Coruscant,” Rashala continued calmly, delivering the information with all the indifference of a technical report even as Crosshair felt her heart pounding in the ephemeral space between them. “A Partisan, I exchanged information for a way off the planet. She gave me a name, a location- We have to get there in two rotations.”

We.

Beneath his helmet, Crosshair frowned at the word.

Coruscant hurried around them, easily filling the gaps with distant shouts and billions of engines where any other planet might have birdsong or swaying treelines to usher in the morning light. There was nothing to hold onto, only snippets of noise and flares of electronic buzz over the perpetual low-roar of the city-planet insisting on the routines of life. The clone didn’t know if he hated the sounds or if he could get lost in them, could find a way to hide in the noise and shield himself from having to answer Rashala in any way. There was something unsettling in the way she looked at him, the open honesty in her blue eyes making his muscles tense because he knew he had to answer her somehow, find words to respond when he’d rather lash out at anything and anyone besides Rashala herself. None of this… none of it was right, none of it was what he wanted.

What did he want?

The plural, the assurance he might be more than a mistake the Empire simply failed to execute…

But everything inside that had lit up when Rashala pulled him back, the familiar flame of a mission and a meaningful task to complete in securing their escape from the command center, all the ice that weighed him down and kept the broken pieces from completely falling into shard-like ruins… Crosshair couldn’t find what he had lost in the moment his last bit of energy got him up into the service walkway.

“Crosshair?” Rashala asked, and her voice was so quiet—almost tentative—that a tiny slip of anger spun up in his throat. Anger at himself, that he could look at her and do anything but know what to do even as he felt what he felt… He turned the frustration into a blade against himself.

“You traded military secrets for transport.”

His voice was rougher than he intended, dangerously low, but Rashala didn’t shift under his hint of accusation. Without intending to, she felt the pulsing edge of his anger, the sharpness of his confusion, and preferred his response instead of the disturbing hollowness swallowing him from the inside out since before they escaped the Command Center.

“We’ll find a way to pay for you, too,” she said, unphased. “Or we’ll find another—”

“You gambled the lives of my men for a way out of the Command Center.”

“Off Coruscant. We had to get out of the Command Center ourselves, and we did.”

Rashala spoke slowly, firmly, and Crosshair knew she was both preparing for what was likely to be a convincing argument and bracing herself for Crosshair’s inevitable rebuttal.

“You risked everyone, for yourself.”

“To be fair, the clone army is disbanded,” Rashala said, “and your men were killed or disbursed by the Empire themselves. You’re not angry about this. I know you’re not.”

“Do you even know what information you gave to the enemy?”

“Facilities, credit chains, officer rosters—”

They stared at one another, letting the Coruscanti hustle flood around them as Rashala took a calming breath. For as much empathy as she had for Crosshair’s undoubtedly harrowing experiences before she stopped the AZ unit from fulfilling Imperial orders, she had gone through almost unsurvivable ordeals herself, horrors she only kept tamped down and pains she could only barely ignore because there was still so much more to do. They weren’t safe, just temporarily hidden, and Rashala felt like a mouse at the edge of a trap. 

“What are you afraid of? What do you think I gave them?”

Information about my brothers, about my sister, Crosshair thought before catching himself, hating that he had accidentally accepted Omega in his mind as what she was instead of Hunter’s pet project in the sniper’s absence. He stayed quiet, waiting for Rashala to bluster or stumble, but the Stassian waited for Crosshair to breathe again before continuing. He stared at her behind the false privacy of his helmet and reminded himself who he was speaking with.

“That chip didn’t have information about the clones or the Kaminoan experiments,” Rashala said, and Crosshair tilted his head just enough to make her aware he caught her insinuated plural.

“The Partisans are murderers,” he said slowly, waiting for his soft-hearted Stassian to flounder in the same conundrum that cost him a blaster to the breastplate.

“So are we.”

Rashala’s acceptance of the accusatory word, her stoic handling of the admission they were no different than one another, momentarily scraped the surface of Crosshair’s thoughts before he brushed the worry away.

How could everything hurt if he was so numb? Why so much pain when he couldn’t feel?

“Have you ever been to the undercity?” the Stassian asked, holding herself with dignity even as she pulled her knees tighter to her chest. “Do you know how to get us there?”

“And what makes you assume there’s a we?” Crosshair countered with a quiet snarl, “Us?”

Rashala’s blue eyes filled with a momentary pain Crosshair immediately wished he could wipe away by never having spoken. She pulled on the impassive expression of her people, the chill silence as cold as the winter landscape the Risedellian moon was known for, and didn’t stumble for a moment before speaking again.

“I know what I felt, what I feel—”

She paused, hesitating as though she, too, wished she could take back what she just said.

“—and I want you to come with me.”

Crosshair didn’t respond for a long time, long enough to know his stubbornness and lack of reply would be enough for anyone else to give up on him. Rashala sat and waited, a patience that could never be mistaken for subservience but proof she was willing to wait for him to find his words. He would have dismissed anyone else who ever dared treat him with careful consideration: Crosshair wasn’t a man used to being seen, an individual without the looming absence of Clone Force 99. The last year had been nothing but following orders in the dark and now everything was too bright, too wide-open and unknowable…

He didn’t just not know what to do next: he didn’t care what happened to him.

Rashala’s blue eyes, a beautiful hint of teal striking through the iris in the morning light, seemed to see past his helmet and down into his heart. She didn’t pity him, didn’t let her expression fall in disappointment or troubled sadness. She waited for him and the curve of her bottom lip was all Crosshair could focus on as he struggled to find something honest through the numbing black crushing him inside.

“You don’t know me,” he eventually said, his rasping tenor ripped by his helmet’s filter.

The Stassian nodded, considering his hushed statement. A tiny hint of a smile, the smallest thing at the corner of her lips, was unexpectedly beautiful.

“It feels that way, at times,” she said with a slow nod. “And you don’t know me. Not really, in many ways.”

The perpetual shift in air pressure between skyscrapers continued to ruffle her blonde hair, the silvery waves barely brushing her neck but drifting so that Crosshair briefly—ever so briefly—wanted to brush them aside.

“But we can find out,” Rashala finished, and Crosshair would have bowed his head had he been anything but a prideful man even beyond his brink of collapse.

Maker, he needed a kriffing pick.

“What’s best? Moving during the day or waiting until nightfall?”

“They’ll expect us to wait until dark,” Crosshair answered before he could stop himself, his default soldier’s expertise taking over when the rest of him hid from Rashala. He didn’t want her to see any more of him than she already had, covering up the parts of him that begged her to rescue him and pushing aside what he could of the truth that they were both right: they had seen into each other’s souls and yet knew nothing of the rest that seemed simultaneously so superficial and desperately important.

“We’ll find coverings. Get down to the undercity as quickly as possible. Find Sniv’s—”

“Sniv?”

Crosshair’s cutting interruption was less of a question and more of a disbelieving, cynical blurt. Rashala’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“That’s what I was told. Sniv’s Canteen.”

The sniper’s impassive helmet gave her nothing to go off and she refused to assert her little-understood sensitivities to find out more about what the sniper was thinking. As it was, he was a tidal wave of confusion, a desolate expanse of loss and ruin threatening to blot out what he hid so carefully from even himself, and Rashala didn’t want to push Crosshair anymore than she already had. Whereas she was finding her strength in the first stretch of freedom outside of the Command Center, Crosshair was beyond lost. Something inside of him hadn’t wanted to answer when she reached for him in the medbay, balked when she pulled him back from the promise of certain death under that surgical machine.

“Sniv- they can’t be trusted.”

“You know them?”

Crosshair didn’t answer, checking a surprising sigh of exasperation. It had been a long time since Clone Force 99 had handled Sniv and the cover operation that was the seedy little canteen in the lower levels of the Coruscanti undercity. Even if he hadn’t been pulled in by the way she stared at him, hadn’t known the heart inside her, had never wanted to hold her and simply knew her as a star crossing his path in the oceans of space, he’d understand to leave Rashala without a guide through the undercity would be to toss her to the rancors.

Secretly, he was relieved he could lead her, that she’d let him follow her, that this moment wasn’t a parting of ways.

“Stay close,” Crosshair warned Rashala, and the service walkway seemed dimmer for the Stassian putting on her helmet. The sniper found it easier to look away, though, to recuse himself back into the hollow left by his choices.

He barely managed to get to his feet, ducking to avoid scraping the top of his helmet on the flimsy opaque roof covering the walkway; every muscle protested and even his lungs seemed to condense in on themselves. His skin hurt, parts of him bruised from riding an enormous assassin spider, a deep pain in his knee joints that proved he wasn’t getting any younger. Between the elements on Barton IV, the surgery, and escaping the Command Center, Crosshair wondered not for the first time if death would have been easier.

He felt—felt—Rashala repress her own groan as the Stassian got to her feet.

Crosshair didn’t let sentiment slow him down as he stepped onto the first rung of the narrow metal ladder, ensuring his rifle was secure before sliding down the smooth metal. He had his weapon drawn the moment his feet touched the ground, ensuring no one lingered in the tiny alleyway, but only a handful of slivery-grey mice scurried away from an empty trash bin. Rashala slipped on her attempt to slide down the side of the ladder as Crosshair had and stumbled on the landing, her stiff muscles keeping from anything but a clumsy recovery. The sniper caught her against him to steady her.

Touching her even through her armor, his large hand cupped around the curve of her waist, Crosshair felt her mingled emotions as vividly as though they were his own. The flush of joy at being anything but a prisoner, the deep-seated worry for those she left behind, the entwined concern for Crosshair blending with the security of knowing he was coming with her into the undercity. A crisp, glittering memory of snowflakes masking a subtle sunset—a moment that wasn’t his memory at all—temporarily soothed his headache.

After everything that had happened, everything he knew, Crosshair didn’t understand how he could ever risk someone he cared for through the selfishness of his own proximity ever again.

Without a word, Crosshair let her go, shouldering his rifle as he led the way out of the alley.

---

The upper levels of the Coruscant underworld were a neon riot, even the brightest of sunbeams crisscrossing the artificial sky failing to do more than pinprick through the crust of reinforced foundation for surface-level buildings. Descending into the first stretch of streets was deceptively easy, an invisible line crossed between the respectable and the illicit without so much as a warning until the signage for storefronts became brighter and gaudier, advertising for things no prim surface-dweller would be caught seeking in the daylight.

Shapes built upon themselves, staggered sizes and oblong verticals intersecting with stretched horizonals and meandering diagonals until everything was either a portal or a promise, a doorway to underbellied businesses or a road to get there. Hot pinks and electric blues shimmered among long lines of florescent greens and flickering yellows, colors blending into white illuminance that did more than any streetlight. Nothing organic lived in even the uppermost levels, no sign that anything naturally grown had ever dug in a native root and stood its ground against industrialization. All angles and deep-shaded corners, the levels were as much of a construct as any of the buildings tightly packed on wide streets riddled with grates and unevenly set access portals to the next layer down.

Crosshair guided Rashala through the underground without more than the occasional muttered word, directing them down one street or the other and the Stassian following without hesitation. Their long robes were barely adequate cover, the rough-woven cloth stolen from the back of a laundry transport left unguarded by a trusting delivery droid; the cloaks were fortunate finds in the bale of clothes pulled from the unlocked trailer, a deep grey cloth that suggested a clerical role in some poorly-represented temple on the Coruscanti surface. Crosshair pulled the wide hood as far as he could over his helmet each time a passerby made a honorary gesture in their direction. He held the firepuncher under his arm, aligning the barrel with the length of his body, but the hems barely covered his armor-plated ankles.

At his side, passing as an attentive acolyte for the way she tried to match Crosshair’s long stride, Rashala was completely covered under her grey robe. She held the hardpack close to her side, the case wrapped in a silky scarf pulled from the bale of stolen laundry to hide as much of the dark katarn as possible, and her blaster in her hand. The long, wide sleeve covered the weapon and Rashala forced herself to keep from continuously checking the blaster was set to stun. In the thronging crowds, she couldn’t stand the idea of aiming to wound anyone, even the stormtroopers patrolling the hustling streets. Crosshair steered them clear of the shiny white plastoid-clad soldiers and kept moving without hesitation. It had been a long time since he had paid Sniv a visit and even then he had done no more than reluctantly following Wrecker and Hunter through the undercity.

The Couruscanti underworld teemed with variety, clubs and restaurants beckoning with creative signage in every language Rashala knew and then some. A polluted haze swirled through the minefields of crooked grates and dented railings, oilslick rainbows puddling in chipped gutters, and the humid air thickened with each descending level. Humidity dripped down the heaving metal scaffolding, layer after layer of skinny passages and enormous exhaust tubes narrowly allowing space for miniscule apartments and afterthought eateries, and landing platforms—scuffed from multitudes of ships traveling from improbable distances for impossible reasons, chrome boundary lines shimmering in the pleated gloam of tainted fuel and burnt exhaust—jutted from the concave belly of the undercity’s empty core, a jagged-rimmed and hollowed pillar stretching into the narrowing stamp of cerulean sky; staring over the slim railing as she followed Crosshair down, down, down, Rashala was reminded of the gradient deep of the mines on Stassa II, the burrowed bore of generations carving, pulling, chiseling, scooping, and building into the tunnels in search of glistening thorilide, a raw vein glimmering with a dirty-quartz glow and spinning to bright, pale gold as extraction and processing made the rare mineral a usable product, fueling spaceship shields before eventually burning to dregs a billion miles from origin.

She almost ran into Crosshair’s back as the sniper paused suddenly, hems swinging above his ankles and sleeve shielding Rashala when he put out an arm to stop her. A single stormtrooper, an obvious merc by the lazy way he shuffled his boots, was a plastoid beacon at the end of the winding street. An R5 astromech whirred past and Rashala tucked herself behind Crosshair even further when a surveillance droid—too much like a probe droid for comfort—careened around a corner. She stared over Crosshair’s tall shoulder, leaning on the tips of her boots to see if the droid would keep going, but grasped the seriousness of the situation when Crosshair pulled out his blaster and shot the camera out of the air. It had paused just long enough to catch them, stopped just long enough to stare back, and the sound of the blaster caught the trooper’s attention. The mercenary-turned-soldier shouted at them and Crosshair grabbed Rashala’s wrist to keep her with him as he darted down an alleyway so narrow they had to turn to sidle through the hot metal walls. Crosshair seemed to search for the best path before picking a random direction, Rashala’s hood falling back as she tried to keep up.

“But, the diner- weren’t we- aren’t we close?“

“Still getting my bearings,” Crosshair muttered, and Rashala flattened her brows in annoyance.

“You’re kidding- slyapp scriff, Cross!”

The clone guided them down another street before tipping them out into a crowded throughway crammed with vendors, shops, hovercarts, glowing signs, and too many species and droids to count. Rashala followed Crosshair’s tall form so closely she almost tripped on his heels, hurrying through the throng of people waiting impatiently outside a slim, closed door. They fussed as Crosshair practically pushed them aside, a Wookie—the only one taller than Crosshair himself—taking offense to the slight and bellowing after him. Determined, Crosshair found another alleyway and gestured for Rashala to go ahead of him, and he pressed her into the shadows as a helmeted stormtrooper shouted through the disturbed crowd. The familiar sound of filtered orders and vocoded commands fed the anger in Rashala’s heart, a slip of that terrifying fury she felt in the medbay when the AZ wouldn’t obey her order creeping around her neck to tighten her throat. Her skin felt like it was humming, her fingers numb and feet leaden. She pushed her head back against the wall, the ambient heat of the building strong enough to keep her warm even as her sweat cooled, and Rashala swore softly in Stassian as she tried to push down whatever terrible thing was trying to slither around the backs of her teeth.

Yrisadael, she needed to know what this was, why the Force—however it manifested and why it chose to do what it did—wanted her darkness more than her light.

Eyes closed tight, she holstered her blaster without fumbling and wrapped her arms firmly around the scarf-shielded hardpack, willing the moment to be over as fast as possible and failing to block out a brief flash of the testing room swelling from her unwanted memories. Rashala took a deep and shuddering breath, a reminder to her body that she was more than whatever was trying to provoke her into more sadness, more fear, more doubt than she was already surprised to find so far within her.

“When did I agree to that name?”

Crosshair’s rasping whisper was wary, cautious as the clone peered briefly around the edge of the alley. Two stormtroopers had joined the first and their questioning of the thickening crowd around the corner drew hisses and jeers from the braver youth. Rashala stared up at Crosshair, understanding his attempt at distraction even as the sound of boots grew closer; she was able to take a deep breath, then another, grateful Crosshair was with her. Navigating the undercity alone would be terrifying enough but, as she tentatively let in the energy around her, Rashala felt Crosshair’s steady calm temporarily overshadow the terrible hollowness deep within him. He thrived off adrenaline, found his focus in the eye of the maelstrom: the chaos around them was a welcome distraction from his tattered sense of self. The curve of his helmet was barely visible under his deep hood, his lean body shrouded in the stolen robe and cloak, and Rashala put her hand on his breastplate when Crosshair pressed in to hide her completely from sight.

“You’re not my commander anymore,” Rashala said in little more than a breath, safe deep within the shadows as the stormtroopers ran past. There was no need for honorifics anymore, no reason to ever acknowledge the authority of the Imperial Army over her every move. For a moment, her relief at the multilayered realization was so palpable that Rashala couldn’t hold back. The only betrayal of Crosshair’s inner confliction was the tip of his helmeted chin when he tried to block out Rashala’s radiance, turning from her joy with the futility of a scorched man turning his back on the sun. She was there—wonderfully warm, beautifully bright—and he couldn’t stand the brilliance when a deep, essential part of him so desperately wanted to fade into oblivion.

Without a word, Crosshair stepped back and twisted around the corner, checking the busy street for any sign of stormtroopers or surveillance droids before gesturing for Rashala to follow him. The clone waited for her just long enough to guard her as she, too, checked to make sure the crowd was clear of white plastoid.

“I remember now.”

Crosshair’s mutter was almost lost in the noise as a vendor called for customers, the crowded masses resuming their normal slosh through the grated streets. Not a single person or droid paid any attention to Rashala or the tall clone at all but Rashala ensured her hood was as low as Crosshair’s as she joined him at his side. Her sore muscles protested despite the heat pounding down from everywhere, a ventilation shaft bellowing out from a nearby building to swaddle the crowd in a brief burst of steam so thick as to feel chewable. Sweat dripped down her blacks and her armor felt slick under the robes and cloak, too many necessary layers for Rashala to feel anything but the salty itch of her hair flattened under her helmet. The cut on her leg was fine but every joint in her body ached, especially her hips and back; riding a krykna through and out of a temporarily crippled fortress in the heart of the largest city-planet in the Inner Rim was an act of desperation not without consequence.

“We’re close,” Crosshair told her as they descended another level, and Rashala trusted him without hesitation when he guided her around a tight corner. Tucked amongst dirty, nondescript buildings was a squat restaurant with broken shutters in the front windows. An electronic sign flickered unsteadily above a dented metal door and graffiti littered the slim space above the grated sidewalk. A ripped, water-stained menu taped to the doorframe listed a few overpriced items in a barely legible attempt at Basic, the Aurebesh little more than wilted ink. The hot stink of fried food reeked out into the street when a tipsy patron stumbled down the low steps and swayed away.

Rashala didn’t know why she expected the interior to look any different than the exterior but she was mildly surprised by the severe sense that the whole place would collapse if even a speck of grease-laden dust was out of place. Booths lined the walls, slick blue cushions ripped and patched and ripped again. Grey-flecked tabletops with worn edges spread haphazard across a checkered tile floor that seemed older than some planets and green-tinged lights hummed despondently above the long bar at the back of the diner. A handful of unremarkable patrons, all strangers to each other and none with an interest in changing the matter, slouched on their stools. No one looked over when Crosshair pulled back his hood and scanned the room.

A platter of something diced and fried beyond recognition hit the bartop with a clatter, tossed in front of one of the few customers without ceremony, and Rashala looked for the barkeep without success.

“Ordered sauce-“ one of the patrons started before a harsh, nasally voice cut over him.

“We’re outta sauce!”

The weequay didn’t even shrug at the brusque reprimand for even daring ask about the missing sauce, picking at the brown, burnt bits on the chipped plate to find an edible piece. A metallic screech of something being shoved under the bartop pierced through the rattly din of an almost entirely broken speaker pushing out a tune that sounded as nostalgic and out of date as an old Shili holovid soundtrack, and the unseen cook hummed along loudly.

“Fine, fine, ttaskkkk, ttaskkkkk,” they interrupted themselves without prompt moments later, “I’ll make more sauce. Gonna be the last of the day, though—when it’s out, it’s out!”

A metal bowl and a large butcher knife rattled up onto the counter, tossed moments before a set of long, patchy-tuffed ears made an appearance along the edge of the oily bartop. The barkeep bobbed up onto the stepstool, brassy copper fur and a set of half-crooked whiskers eliciting no surprise from anyone besides Rashala. The dirty white tip of a tail flicked in amusement as the diner’s owner twitched their black-tipped and heavily scarred snout, sniffing the air as though that would tell them everything about Rashala and Crosshair before any polite introductions were remotely considered. The Amaran wiped their claw-tipped paws on their filthy apron before raising an eyebrow.

“Well, well, well,” Sniv said, nasally voice high with interest. “The batch is back.”

Chapter Text

“Eat up.”

Sniv tossed the plates onto the table, an ear-pinching clatter sending Rashala’s shoulders up around her ears. Under the quasi-privacy of her hooded cloak, she stared up at Crosshair and the marksman glanced at her and the food before returning to his distant glare at nothing in particular. He folded his arms under his stolen robe, focusing on the radio announcer’s recap of the latest explosive Senate declarations, and even the news that Rampart had been condemned to a lengthy sentence in a high-profile prison couldn’t distract him from the widening hollowness in his gut: the clones were officially dismissed from the Imperial Army, and there would be no place for them–any of them–in the new regime.

“Eat,” Sniv prompted with a tail flick, wiping their paws on their apron in obvious habit. Rashala shifted a shoulder uncomfortably, speaking when Crosshair would not.

“We don’t have any credits,” she said quietly. “I-”

“On the house.”

“I can’t accept charity, but thank-”

Sniv pulled a handful of rumpled paper napkins from their apron and tossed the stack in front of Rashala. The white, ruffled edges fluttered on the table and diffused the hot, oily smell of fried vegetables into the hops-laden air.

“Eat,” the Amaran ordered, “and I’ll be right back.”

Sniv’s limping shuffle dragged the floor, fur picking up dirt to darken their limp tail and toes; clawtips tapped the tiles in a rhythmic clack as they disappeared behind the bar to pull on taps. Everything they did had noise attached, every action a clatter, bang, clank, or boom as they moved through their diner with wizened efficiency. The patrons at the bar seemed used to Sniv’s perpetual motion, sitting as silent props but for the occasional sip of their drinks. Rashala watched the tufted tips of Sniv’s ears drift back and forth behind the cracked bartop until she noticed the weequway glancing at her under their broad-brimmed cap. Nervously, she took to staring at the plate of fried food, debating if Sniv’s generosity was true to intention.

“The efforts of Senator Chuchi of Pantora proved integral to removing the threat of blind obedience and unpredictable violence against peaceful citizens,” the news clip stated, audio pushing through static interference. “The remnants of the Grand Army of the Republic cannot be allowed unfettered access to weapons–”

“Move over.”

Sniv didn’t wait for Rashala, sending the Stassian scrambling to the end of the booth as they tucked their tail and settled into the ripped, creaking vinyl bench. Rashala continued to look for guidance from Crosshair–he had obviously encountered Sniv before–but the clone continued his hard-faced contemplation. Sniv pushed a foaming mug towards Crosshair before tapping their glass against Rashala’s with a prompt to drink up. Rashala took a tentative sip as Sniv drank the heady brew like water; the ale was strong but delicious, something Scopsen might have ordered a round of for the crew after a shift. She allowed a polite gulp before giving her hands something to do by holding the dewy glass, suppressing the guilt of a drink and a meal when others–Dex, Router–might not be so fortunate.

“Carve out your heart, why don’t ya?” Sniv quipped, nodding firmly at the ale in Rashala’s grip. “Get that down your snout and maybe there’s another.”

Sniv sounded so much like Dex, so much like Scopsen and her brothers, that Rashala had no issue obliging the Amaran with another sip. Sniv nodded once, fixing their shrewd gaze on Crosshair. The marksman stared back with narrowed eyes, chewing the end of his wooden pick and worrying the stub between his thin lips. He had gone through four of them since Sniv pointed them to the booth at the back of the diner. Crosshair raised a thick, dark eyebrow at Sniv when the Amaran speared a crisp vegetable on the end of a long talon; Sniv popped the bite into their mouth between large incisors and licked the talon clean before retracting in a practiced act.

“Normally your brother’s the broody one,” Sniv stated as fact.

Crosshair’s deepening glare was his only response.

“This one’s new,” Sniv continued, swiveling their attention back to Rashala. “Don’t look like much of a clone.”

Rashala took a quick breath, unused to conversation. Her old life–and her heart cringed to think of anything before her Imperial abduction as a Before in a life now stamped as an After–wouldn’t have found her speechless in a pub with strangers. There were no strangers on Stassa II, no reason to stay quiet when there was song and dance after a few overflowing rounds, and her natural preclusion to silence otherwise wasn’t because she had nothing to say but because she was simply more comfortable without the noise of words. Sniv was loud, their canteen strangely somber despite the food and drink, and Rashala didn’t want to speak for her companion any more than she wanted to speak at all.

“I was conscripted,” she said, deliberate in her choice of words. “We escaped, barely.”

“Just to end up down here,” Sniv laughed with a snarling bark that startled Rashala.

“I was sent to you. By a woman… Ola?”

Sniv quickly sobered, side-eyeing Crosshair; the marksman kept quiet, watching Rashala with an almost accusatory stare. The windburn and frostbite peppering his cheeks and forehead wasn’t fully healed and the lavafield scar over his ear was flushed despite his pale face.

“I exchanged information for transport off Coruscant,” Rashala explained, repeating herself as much for Crosshair’s sake as mollifying Sniv’s suspicious studying. “A Partisan gave me your name, told me to come here.”

“I don’t deal with Partisans,” Sniv sniffed, spearing another vegetable and talking through a satisfied swallow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rashala’s panic flooded her stomach and she was suddenly immensely grateful she hadn’t eaten anything yet, dizzy and clammy in a sudden sweat.

“I know I heard her right-”

“Sounds like what you know could fit in Senator Amidala’s tiniest clutch, may the Maker guide her soul,” Sniv added at the last moment. “I’ve got a room for rent, upstairs. If you want it.”

“But-”

“Finish up and I’ll show you,” Sniv interrupted, sliding clumsily out of the booth when the door chime interrupted the radio’s chatter. A woman dressed in dark brown weave glanced around the room as she entered the diner and Rashala turned in the booth in time to watch an obviously practiced eye scan for threats before the woman seemed to turn to look directly at her. The newcomer’s green braids shifted over her wide shoulders and a tattoo on her ruby lip stretched when the woman smiled as though she knew Rashala as a friend instead of a complete stranger.

“The same?” Sniv asked, walking by the woman without pause on their way to the kitchen. Something burned on the grill and the diner was beginning to smell of smoke. The stranger nodded, murmuring a word of thanks before taking a seat in a distant booth.

Rashala pulled her hood deeper over her face, reluctant to put her back to the door again. There was something about the woman, different from the strangers on the stools at the bartop, that Rashala couldn’t place but trusted as an intuitive warning. Everything felt like an alarm, though: the entire undercity breathed like a siren, one long exhale of unending clamor. Despairingly, Rashala missed the quiet of her cell.

“Seems you’re an informant for a fraud,” Crosshair muttered, his slinky tenor nothing but frustrating as Rashala reminded herself annoyance wasn’t a solution to their larger problems at hand.

“Ola told me Sniv’s Canteen and we’re here,” Rashala rationed, wiping the condensation off her mug but refusing to take another sip. “Maybe Sniv wasn’t supposed to know.”

“You were tricked.”

“Perhaps. I was desperate.”

Crosshair was too much of a soldier to flinch when Sniv snapped the radio’s clacking dial to a different frequency, an exotic percussive tune filling the diner instead of the repetitive reel declaring the Emperor’s will. Propaganda was a terrible companion but the music’s false cheeriness felt worse. Rashala tentatively nibbled a small piece of an unidentifiable plant battered and fried beyond an inch of remote recognition; the salty oil was just as delicious as the ale and the crunch was so obviously not an Imperial ration that Rashala’s confliction was set aside for just a moment in favor of a single, savory bite.

“We’re safe, for the moment,” she started but Crosshair cut across her with a quietly dismissive huff. “As safe as we can be, at least. We need a plan.”

“We need to be more careful,” Crosshair growled, keeping an eye over Rashala’s shoulder at the woman in the far booth. “We’re being watched.”

Despite her annoyance with the clone’s dismissiveness of having achieved a goal that kept Rashala alive in her darkest moments with the Empire–get to Sniv’s Diner and get off Coruscant–Rashala pushed the large plate towards Crosshair. The clone stared at the vegetables dismissively before pulling his last ration bar from his utility belt. Rashala pinched her lips together but didn’t say anything, unsurprised Crosshair’s stubbornness bordered on spite.

“I’ve done the best I know how, Cross,” she offered, taking a tentative sip of her drink once her stomach quieted enough to trust liquor. “I thought I could trust Ola. She was genuine-”

“She’s a murderer-”

“We’ve gone over this-”

“You put your trust in the wrong people.”

Rashala stared at Crosshair across the booth, the gap between them wider than the chipped table. For a moment, Rashala felt betrayed and diminished. She recognized how the marksman tried to push her away from a place of fear and loss even as she couldn’t condone the continuance of placing his misplaced frustration on her shoulders. He obviously included himself in that damning statement but he had no idea what had happened during Crennit’s final test while he was sent out to Barton IV. Rashala balanced her words carefully.

“I don’t believe that,” the Stassian said quietly. “Not for a second.”

She took another sip, staring at Crosshair over the rim of her glass, and watched as he pulled farther in on himself under her stare.

“Please don’t speak to me like that again,” she said firmly, keeping her emotions smooth and unruffled by Crosshair’s obvious sawtoothed swing between exhausted emptiness and burning frustration. “We deserve better.”

Crosshair looked at Rashala as though to commit each and every shadowy feature under her hood to memory, waiting for the longest time before unfolding his arms under his robes; a flash of dark katarn-coated armor shone dully in the diner’s smoke-fogged light. Rashala’s heart sank when she thought he was moving to get up and leave, that he was as aware as she was that either of them could use the diner as an excuse to walk away without further obligation to the other.

Unused to the open display he offered, Crosshair put his arm on the table, palm up.

Heart corking the bottom of her throat, Rashala put her hand in his and answered his squeeze with her own.

For a moment, the Force washed between them, an invisible tide around their clasped hands. Rashala’s soul sighed to find Crosshair’s and the marksman let his heartbeat match Rashala’s in an imperfect symmetry. Different but together, separate but the same. Crosshair softened the edges of Rashala’s disappointed anxiety and Rashala rounded the jagged edges of Crosshair’s brittle, bitter belief he had failed in everything that mattered. They took refuge in their touch for just a second but time was proven a failable construct, a unit of measurement the Force didn’t recognize as a law or adhere to as a suggestion. Together, even as Rashala took her glass in both hands and Crosshair finally accepted a bite of something that wasn’t his ration bar, they stayed connected.

Crosshair noted how the woman in the far booth smiled quietly to herself in an unnatural serenity for somewhere as oppressively dark as the Coruscanti undercity.

“You’ve been here before,” Rashala said more than asked the marksman, watching how Crosshair traced the rim of his lower lip with the sharp tip of a new pick as he filtered memory into words.

“Several times. Sniv was a suspect in a trafficking operation. A senator requested the Republic investigate. When regs went missing, the trail led back to Sniv.”

He looked at the untouched glass of ale with a glaring disdain that came from unwanted want, a semblance of old standards that condemned alcohol while on-duty, and realized he’d never be on-duty again. A weight settled back over him.

“Sniv wasn’t, didn’t-” Rashala tried to ask, watching the Amaran darting around the kitchen behind the bar.

“Set up,” Crosshair said, connecting their current situation to the mission that felt like it was decades ago and not years. “A Zygerrian faction, running flesh for the Shadow Collective. We ended up back here because Wrecker-” the marksman’s voice unexpectedly threatened to break and he pulled himself back under strict control “-had more stomach than sense.”

“So Sniv was framed.”

“Sniv is as innocent as any average undercity criminal,” Crosshair corrected, “but they don’t trade in sentient species. At least, they didn’t then. Weapons and contraband, but not people.”

Crosshair glanced at the busy Amaran as though to stare through them and discover illicit goods in the boxes stacked near the still smoldering griddle.

“If Sniv has anything to do with the Partisans, it's because they know the black-market trade routes better than most.”

Rashala tethered her excitement that Sniv could still know a way off the planet even if they weren’t lying about refusing to deal with the Partisans.

“Whatever it takes,” she promised Crosshair, “we’ll get away from here.”

The marksman’s half-smirk was as close to a smile as she’d seen on his face outside of practice in a target lane. Even if he was only trying for her, even if he didn’t feel an iota of self-preservation beyond ensuring Rashala’s escape from Coruscant, his effort was not just noted but appreciated. Her thankfulness, genuine and laced with affection he knew he didn’t deserve, was begrudgingly received.

He worked the pick into a corner of his mouth and leaned into the back of the booth, wary but aware he was more of a threat to the patrons at the bar than they were to him and Rashala. He nodded for Rashala to take his drink and the Stassian did if only to hold it contemplatively, her stomach full for the first time in months. They sat quietly together in easy company, ignoring the radio’s ambling transitions from song to newsreel to song, refusing to flinch at the brief report of a failed clone uprising in the Imperial Command Center. When Rashala accidentally shuffled her foot to lean against Crosshair’s boot, he didn’t pull away.

While the Stassian dozed in the comfort of her shadowy hood, allowing herself to close her eyes for just a moment and settle into the temporary reprieve in the liminal space of Sniv’s Diner, Crosshair kept watch. He stared through the narrow slats of half-broken blinds ribbed against the dirty panes of glass, trying to make sense of the life he forfeited, the life he gained if only he wanted it. There wasn’t much light in the depths of Coruscant’s lowest levels but what little there was slowly sank into blackness lit only by the embered ends of cigarettes from the rare passerby. A glimmering puff of exhaust from an open grate briefly fogged the night.

Crosshair leaned into the curve of his helmet at his elbow and Rashala shifted into the scarf-wrapped hardcase in the corner of the booth, the Stassian’s chin dipping into her neck, and Crosshair wouldn’t deprive her the relief of the end of the longest mission of her life. There had been so many times he had limped his way back to the Maurauder after hours in a swampy trench, so many rotations up in the scorchingly hot treetops of some jungle, and just wanted to climb into the ship even to lay on the floor, somewhere secure with a hatch lock to keep everything out until he could think again.

Crosshair watched her sleep, noting the way her nose and cheeks curved in beautifully traceable lines, contrasting the darker blonde of her eyebrows with the pale gold of her hair, and, in a single sterling moment of gratitude, counted himself fortunate for the first time since Kamino that he had lived long enough to be where he was.

The moment was cut all too short by Sniv’s toeclaws clacking on the title.

“Really needed a break, didn’t you?” the Amaran said, dark lips hinting in a smile as they looked at the Stassian.

Crosshair didn’t condescend with an answer, shifting his boot against Rashala’s with a subtle gentleness he wouldn’t have afforded his brothers. He wished he could take the fearful flash from her heart when she woke with a startle and was begrudgingly impressed when her first instinct was to reach toward her blaster. Rashala held her composure and batted aside the brief embarrassment of having fallen asleep in the muzzy comfort of Crosshair’s guard and a drink.

“Wait here,” the marksman told her, sliding out of the booth and crooking a finger to Sniv to follow him into the kitchen. The patrons at the bar huddled into their drinks, trying to keep from Crosshair’s attention; the man was intimidatingly tall and the fierce edge to his deep grimace at knowing he had their attention kept everyone subdued. Sniv snorted and rolled their eyes as they took the empty plate and mugs.

“The nerve,” they muttered before walking away, and Rashala kept quiet, suddenly aware she was alone outside the Command Center. The sheer relief at reclaiming a slip of autonomy was as effervescent as sunlight, as silky and comforting as clean sheets, and a tiny part of what tarnished her spirit lifted to let the brightness in. 

“Customers aren’t allowed in the back, toothpick,” Sniv barked, dumping the scratched tableware into a soapy sink and turning their back on Crosshair as though to make a point they weren’t afraid of the tall, grim clone. “Where’re your manners?”

“You lied.”

Crosshair’s rasping tenor dipped under the noise of the radio. Sniv wiped their paws on their apron and slung a tray of chopped vegetables into a bowl of eggy batter but their ear twitched to betray their false confidence.

“Look, you go around talking about the Partisans and Saw’ll have my hide for a rug,” Sniv snarked, keeping their eyes on the patties sizzling on the grill. “I don’t trade like that anymore.”

With a single finger, Crosshair lifted the flap on a box in the haphazard storage shelf and a rutta root rolled out before a dozen followed; highly prized and intensely regulated, the root was an ugly, shriveled thing to behold but infamous for its intense hallucinogenic properties.

“Really.”

Crosshair leaned against the wall and watched the Amaran’s crimped whiskers twitch alongside the tell-tale ear.

“You think I keep this place running on burgers and veggies?” Sniv shot back, roughly shaking the bowl to coat the roughly chopped snacks. “Who’re you gonna tell about it? Empire doesn’t care.”

“The Partisan promised transport for data,” Crosshair reminded tersely. “You know something about this.”

“I don’t deal with the Partisans.”

Sniv threw the battered vegetables into the fryer with a severity Hunter could have admired and the marksman’s gut twisted in the unbidden recollection of his brother. Last time the Batch was at Sniv’s, Hunter and Wrecker had roped Tech and Crosshair into a begrudgingly satisfying meal after the search for a missing padawan in Coruscanti’s lowest levels. They had found the girl but Hunter’s brief comm call from the reg captain of the 501st cut off the mission to bring her in; Crosshair had the Togruta in his scope, tranq ready, but the Batch didn’t ask questions when a mission was scrapped.

Standing in the diner again had been an exercise in tolerance for the past.

The sniper’s grimace deepened when Sniv shot him an unimpressed smirk.

“Not much without the rest, are you?”

With a swift kneel, Crosshair grabbed the top of Sniv’s apron and yanked the Amaran off their feet, swinging them both around the corner behind the shelving and out of sight of the diners. Sniv gave an involuntary yipe when the clone dropped them back on their feet and they landed roughly on their hobbled ankle.

“How’s that for a thanks?” Sniv snarled, snout rippling as they dropped to all four paws.

“Why was Rashala told to come here by a Partisan?”

“I could turn you both in and kick my feet up for a change,” the diner owner continued with a growling snap. “The Empire only wants you dead, though. There’s credits on her.”

Crosshair held back from the urge to take out his blaster and use the Amaran for target practice, his thin lips twisting in disgust. Sniv got back on two legs, rolling their shoulders under their dirty white shirt with a certain amount of indignity that promised they didn’t want to repeat their reaction any more than Crosshair wanted to rough up the diner owner. The Amaran was someone his brothers had laughed with, someone who fed them when he walked in with a tired Stassian and not much more strength to protect her without a place to rest. Sniv was a known trader on the black market and not everything they traded was simply a regulatory issue but the Amaran had more on the line than hiding rutta root next to burnt burgers. They both did.

“Look, whose side are you on?” Sniv offered, retying their apron to hide the last of their embarrassment at being carted around their own diner. “Last I heard, you’re the Empire’s man. Wrecker was, well, wrecked when they came through the other day.”

“They… were here?”

“Yeah, with another little blonde cutie. Got a sister?”

Crosshair’s eyes widened and he felt his breath hot in his throat even as he kept his composure.

“That one out there, though… she’s not your sister, is she?” Sniv quipped, a return of their usual smirking humor smoothing out their ruffled snout as though they had never threatened to bite.

“When were they here?”

“Two, maybe three rotations ago. Swung by to pick up an order, get blondie out of the ship for a while. Kid seemed sad.”

The marksman swallowed hard, trying to keep his face an emotionless mask. He hadn’t seen his brothers in over a year, had no word of the Batch since his bid for survival on Kamino’s lone landing platform. Rampart had kept him tethered to the Command Center until assigning him to the resurrected War Mantle project, putting Force-sensitives conscripts under his command until the only one who remained was Rashala herself. For a moment, Crosshair dared wonder if Rashala would like the rest of Clone Force 99, if she’d treat Omega as a daughter. He cleared his mind, shoving aside the firm knowledge that the Stassian would undoubtedly be loved and love in return, especially by the little girl. Crosshair practically snarled at himself for sparing time for unbidden, unrealistic wondering if he’d ever see Wrecker finish off a plate of Sniv’s fried food again; his sneer kept Sniv on edge.

“They didn’t leave a message, if you’re wondering,” the Amaran admitted, putting their paws in their apron pockets as though to check for a missive before stopping themselves. “Caused a ruckus at the Imperial shipyards instead. Big mess now, getting imports in and exports out. Haven’t had a new delivery of anything since.”

By the way Sniv put it, all supplies–above board and below–were stopped in the wake of the Batch’s infiltration of the shipyard. There was an invitation, an unspoken offer, at the edge of their words and Crosshair regarded the Amaran with as shrewd of a look as Sniv gave him.

“What do you need?”

“There’s a delivery due the day after tomorrow,” Sniv explained quickly, sniffing the air and confirming the fried vegetables were well beyond edible. “Dock 432 on the 76th level. Never picked up an order there before but that’s the ship I have an… arrangement with.”

“And you need the dock scouted.”

“And I need the dock scouted. The pilot is a bit of a riot but generally keeps his word. He picked the dock. Get an eye on it and make sure he isn’t pulling tricks. Ola introduced us–it's one of her ships–and the deals been good so far but I don’t trust ‘em after all this shakeup.”

“That’s the transport-”

“Yup. Only one Ola would trust to transport a stranger. Although I’ll take a bite out of the next skug using me and mine for personal business,” Sniv growled, wiping their hands on the apron before pushing past Crosshair’s armored thigh. “Knew this wasn’t Partisan-related. Told ya. Just Ola and her bleeding heart.”

Crosshair stepped back to put himself in front of Sniv once more, slowly sinking to a knee to put him closer on their level. The Amaran gave him a nasty look but stayed to hear him out despite the stench of incinerated vegetables.

“You’re costing me a fortune in wasted food, toothpick.”

“Who is the woman?” Crosshair asked. “The one in the booth, watching us?”

“Ask her yourself,” Sniv answered. “She doesn’t bite. Not like I will if you don’t get out of my way.”

Crosshair’s silence was implicitly apologetic, an unusual blend of begrudging thankfulness contorting his tired face, and Sniv patted him roughly on his cloaked shoulder.

“Up the stairs, on the left,” the Amaran said, claws catching on the grey cloth. “Get out to the dock tomorrow and your tab is covered. We’ll get you outta here.”

“Why?”

The marksman’s question was quiet, reserved, as though the word didn’t want to come out from between his teeth and hung up on his lips. Sniv stopped in their step away, rocking back to stare at the rippled patch of scars over Crosshair’s ear. With a tentative, polite sniff, Sniv picked up the scent of damaged flesh and scratched bone, the work of healing a sharp tang under the sour hurt of fresh wounds. Crosshair could barely bring himself to look the Amaran in the eye but he managed, preemptively guarding against pity and finding nothing but a tired, busy, but spirited ally.

“Your brothers… they’re somethin’ else,” Sniv said with a patient humor that could have come from a mischievousness long since tamped into a honed survival tool. “You were, too. Once.”

Sniv gave a friendly huff and twitched their rumpled whiskers.

“Now, get outta my kitchen.”

–--

Rashala sat in the booth, tracing her finger along the well-worn edge of the table and blocking out yet another news reel interrupting the music on the radio, listening to the hum of Coruscant around her.

The planet hummed, pulsed and sang and whined and shuddered on every level of the undercity, and the Stassian could feel everything. The moment she leaned into the resonance of the Force, tuning her body and mind to the slipperiest little piece she could manage while keeping ahold of her surroundings, the noise amplified. If she didn’t tense up every time a patron left the bar, the door chiming on their way out as each stranger took the opportunity to slink away before Crosshair emerged from the kitchen, Rashala would have tried to pull apart the tightly woven strands of energy keeping the Force from layering over the top of her active awareness. There was something tricky about it, keeping her eyes focused and hand moving while feeling the thrum of electricity in the walls and the resonance of steel underneath the floor.

A soothing slip of reassurance wound around the back of her thoughts, a cooling and comforting presence joining her in the Force, and Rashala frowned before whipping around to stare at the woman in the booth across the room.

The woman stared back with a calm certainty Rashala was aware of exactly what had happened. The Stassian hesitated, especially when the woman twitched her thin eyebrows in a request to join Rashala at her booth, but nodded when she studied the woman’s face. There was something open and trusting about the way the tattoo on her lip broadened with her smile, a sense of peace and stability in her luminous eyes. She was broad-shouldered but short, sturdy but with the air of a scholar, not a fighter. The tips of her green braids barely bobbed when she crossed the room and Rashala grabbed Crosshair’s helmet from across the table, securing it next to her own. Touching the sniper’s armor felt personal, the action protective in a way she couldn’t figure out how to begin to define, and something Dex once said put pressure on half-woven thoughts.

“You’ve come a long way, on your own,” the woman said, sliding gracefully into Crosshair’s spot across the table from Rashala. The Stassian didn’t know what to say.

“You’re the one they’re looking for,” the woman continued, and Rashala tensed. “Rashala? They don’t have your description quite right, though. You’re taller than they’re reporting.”

“I have a weapon, and I’m not alone,” Rashala said, regretting granting the stranger’s request. The newcomer laughed briefly, a lovely chuckle as musical as Malivde’s laugh when a clone soldier had something she wanted.

“I’m not a mercenary,” the woman said. “I’m hiding, too. Teran, Teran Cade.”

The woman extended her hand as though the action was known but not often performed, an imitation of others, and Rashala hesitated before touching Teran’s fingers with her own. A slip of the same cooling reassurance ebbed between them, a tiny push from Teran to Rashala in as gentle of a greeting as their physical touch. The energy between them rippled and startled Rashala but the Stassian didn’t want to pull away; Teran had control, had a secure tether on the Force pulsing around them, and yet shifted through the energy with gentle reverence. Rashala locked eyes with Teran, trepidation not quite overtaking unexpected excitement. The woman smiled.

“You’ve never been taught,” Teran stated, her voice soft and unhurried. “This must be confusing.”

Rashala nodded slowly, letting her shoulders fall just a little under the robe. Her armor was a comfort against whatever Teran could do to her unexpectedly but she still kept an eye on Teran’s other hand. The green-haired woman openly noted Rashala’s wariness with a slight raise of her thin brow.

“Trouble for you is trouble for me,” Teran said. “I’ve been hiding in the underworld since escaping the Temple. A long, dark night of confusion and fear… another thing we have in common.”

Whatever Sniv had on the griddle was beginning to burn but Rashala couldn’t see Crosshair or the Amaran in the sliver of open kitchen behind the bar. She barely kept herself from making an excuse to go find her companion and sneak out the back, away from Sniv and Teran and the discomfort of not knowing if Ola had intentionally hung Rashala’s hope on a meaningless, dirty little diner deep in the dangerous undercity, but stayed where she was in the booth because of Teran’s whisper.

“I can help you,” she said, her low voice as reassuring as a teacher, as calm as an Elder.

“Thank you,” Rashala replied carefully, “but I wouldn’t want to put you out in any way.”

“Are you truly from Risedel?”

“One of the moons.”

“Ahh,” Teran said, her smile broadening and making Rashala feel like a child for how silly her reply sounded to her own ears. She had never had to describe her home before to someone who wasn’t fully familiar with what village her family was from, to someone who wasn’t a brief visitor she guided on a tour of the NATSIC M. Rashala was briefly ashamed of herself for not wanting to proudly declare she was from Stassa II; her icy moon was suddenly private, part of her heart and not for speaking aloud.

“And there aren’t many Force-users where you’re from?”

Rashala shook her head briefly, pulling away from Teran’s warm, lined hand. The older woman smiled wider before burying her amusement where Rashala couldn’t misunderstand.

“The Force isn’t a secret. It isn’t shameful,” she said, and Rashala took a deep breath. “There is only knowledge.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re simply taking the first steps.”

Teran regarded Rashala with a soft but penetrating stare, as though sizing up a student and determining if they were truly ready for a difficult exam. Rashala stared back, tired and more than a little unsure.

“If you choose to take up Sniv’s offer, I’ll be in the room next door,” Teran eventually said, a hint of her generous smile returning to reassure Rashala. “Sniv and I go back… well, I must have been a padawan when I first met them. You’ll be safe here until you find your way.”

Rashala and Teran both stared at Crosshair as the tall clone slunk from the kitchen and rounded the dirty bar. Sniv resumed their banging of pots and flinging of pans, grunting as they scraped at the charred ruin on the griddle. The burnt crisp of charcoal-like fried vegetables hit the wet metal sink with a sizzling spatter and, although Rashala didn’t understand a word of Amaran, Sniv’s pointed grumblings at Crosshair’s retreating back couldn’t have been complimentary. The marksman’s silver hair picked up ribbons of florescent light in the diner’s neon glow, thickening the dark stubble on his jaw, and shadows under his eyes made the reticle tattoo stand out on his pale skin. Crosshair pulled a pick from his belt and Rashala noted Teran’s lack of surprise to notice the armor beneath the long, hooded robes.

With a deliberate stride, Crosshair stood at Rashala’s boothside and crossed his arms, fixing Teran with a piercing glare. He didn’t speak, giving Rashala the opportunity to finish her conversation but ensuring the stranger knew nothing would harm the Stassian while Crosshair stood guard.

Crosshair studied the woman’s features—young skin but tense lines around the lips and eyes, long coppery-green braids, a small and simple tattoo fading on her bottom lip except when she smiled—and tried to place the sudden memory of having undoubtedly meeting this woman before. She was simultaneously a complete stranger and yet he felt as though he’d been trying to place her since the moment she walked into the diner and fixed her attention on Rashala.

“General,” Crosshair said in a throaty growl, raising a dark eyebrow to check the woman’s response.

Rashala picked up on a confluence of contradictory emotions from the woman, a heady blend of melancholy and pride spinning in the energy growing more and more unbalanced at the time with each second Teran and Crosshair stared at each other. Teran closed her large brown eyes with a sense of peace in acknowledging the title, tipping her chin to Crosshair respectfully even as she silently slid from the booth. The small metal clasps at the ends of her braids didn’t so much as rattle as she got to her feet and slipped her arms behind her back in what seemed to be a familiar repose before turning her attention entirely to Rashala.

“Please, feel free to knock at my door,” Teran offered, smiling once more with enviable serenity. The woman walked through the back of the diner and the creak of a warped wooden stair sufficed as a parting, leaving Rashala and Crosshair staring after her. Sniv’s grumping about the grill and the tinny radio filled the empty tiled space, and Rashala took a shaky breath. The woman’s Force-presence had been strong, complex like a perfume and no less lingering. There was so much missed opportunity in the meeting, so many questions about the Force that she realized she wanted to ask, and the dutiful Stassian cultural attitude to keep private questions to oneself—especially with a stranger—was a remnant tether to a past Rashala realized she couldn’t completely adhere to if she wanted to survive in the universe. Crosshair huffed tersely, obviously displeased at the woman’s interjection into Rashala’s space.

“She’s actually a Jedi, isn’t she?” Rashala asked, staring at the empty hallway next to the kitchen as though expecting Teran to appear from the shadows like an apparition. “She- well, she seemed like one.”

“Ever met one?”

“No, but I’d expect any Jedi to seem like Teran.”

Crosshair held out his hand and Rashala gave him the scarf-wrapped hardpack containing Meese, the marksman shifting the case to his other arm as he offered his hand again for Rashala to take. She held onto his long fingers a little longer than necessary, the clone’s chivalry a contradiction to the hard expression on his sharp face. Crosshair was tense, on edge in a way she hadn’t seen outside of a mission, and she asked him what was wrong with only a shift across her face. Their silent communication made Crosshair shake his head. Rashala felt a deep-seated sadness pass through their touch, a relief from the horrible numbness but no less reassuring to the Stassian. She pressed her hand into his and smoothed away her own worries for just a moment.

“Are we staying?”

Rashala’s soft voice questioning him reminded Crosshair he wasn’t able to simply sitting back down in the booth and berate himself for the crimes perpetrated against his brothers, taking memory after memory and sharpening both the good and the bad into weapons to use against himself until he fell asleep out of exhaustion. He couldn’t wallow in his own self-pity, even if Sniv’s words beat at his sore head, but he couldn’t bear the idea of failing in his only task: keep Rashala alive. Wearily, he nodded once.

Rashala led them tentatively up the stairs, not knowing exactly where she was going but trusting Sniv’s direction. The building was old, half study steel and half creaking wood, and deep brown stain had long ago worn off narrow floorboards. The faint light of the diner at the bottom of the stairs was all Rashala could see by but she trusted Crosshair’s eye to keep her from stumbling on the darkest steps even as she led him to the narrow landing. A tiny slice of warm candlelight slivered beneath a wooden door on the right. With a careful test of the latch on the door to the left, Rashala led Crosshair into the pitch-black room.

The sniper had to duck to clear the short doorframe and Rashala immediately stumbled against a large piece of furniture in an effort to feel for a sensor switch, muttering a quiet Stassian curse. Crosshair twitched his lip in an unexpected amused smirk at hearing Rashala’s native tongue in self-rebuke. He closed the door and squeezed her hand before letting her go, able to navigate without issue through the tiny room where a candle and matches sat on a nightstand made out of an old barrel. The matchstrike was little more than a whisper, the curling smoke slim and brief, and the candle glow quickly reached for every corner. There were no windows, just a single small bed, the barrel nightstand, a wooden chair with wide arms, and the rickety dresser Rashala had knocked into. With a habit borne of a life in military service, Crosshair briefly glanced around the corner of the miniscule addition that contained an ancient shower and not much more, finding nothing suspicious in the least.

Rashala crossed the room slowly, inspecting the meager surroundings for nefarious signs but finding nothing. The room was sparse but clean, especially compared to the diner downstairs, and she didn’t hear any buzz of electricity in a space obviously not wired for electronics. Compared even to the minimally integrated technology of her own small home on Stassa II, the room was a remnant of a past so old Rashala wondered if Sniv had the room built in secret, a single board at a time. The lack of electronics was reassuring in a way, so quiet she could hear her heartbeat without straining over the sound of the Command Center’s constant humming. Even Coruscant’s undercity streets were far away, a distant reminder of the planet they would hopefully soon leave behind.

Crosshair watched her in the light of the single candle he held in his gloved hand, taking in Rashala’s undeniable relief. He had grown accustomed to her exhaustion, knew her grit and determination to keep an impassive mask whenever the Empire was watching, but saw how the Stassian might never have had dark circles under her eyes before becoming a conscript. There was a worn weariness in her even as she visibly relaxed under the weight of her armor and the length of her hooded cloak, and Crosshair found himself suddenly and completely struck through with guilt so severe that he knew why Rashala stared at him questioningly. That she didn’t pity him was the only reprieve he had from the waves of disgust and despair pushing against the emptiness in his gut.

Without a word, she took the candle from him and he let her, hardly standing the possibility of rest. Sleep was more than he deserved, a comfort he didn’t earn, but the single bed was too much burden to bear. If he touched her, he’d unravel. Guilt added itself to the bitter mix in his soul when Crosshair thought of the last time he had rested next to Rashala on her slim cell cot, the lust between them in that horrid place reminding him how much power he had over her and how little power she had over herself, even as their presence in each other’s embrace was the only thing that got him through that terrible night begging for her help.

He should have let the chip kill him than put her in that situation.

“Please stop,” Rashala said so softly he had to strain to hear her whisper. “I can feel what you’re feeling right now, all of it.”

She had taken the hood off and, as Crosshair looked over his shoulder where Rashala busied herself with lighting more candles and tipping the wax to hold the sticks firmly in place, he turned away in regret. Her eyes shimmered in the soft glow, the strands of her pale blonde hair pushed back over her ears and down the back of her neck to the collar of her blacks. Rashala looked at him in a way he always wanted to be looked at, saw him in a way he had secretly always wanted to be seen: as a protector, a provider of security and safety, not a harbinger of fear and death as he always had been even before the chip sparked off in his brain. He clenched his hands at his sides and turned away.

“I’ll keep watch in the diner.”

“Cross-“

Her hand on his shoulder was as though she could reach through his armor and touch his skin through his blacks. The gesture was astronomical in the small, softly lit space and the marksman shuddered. He stooped to take the hardpack where he had tipped it against the leg of the bedframe, roughly unraveling the stolen scarf to toss it to the floor.

“The droid needs to be recharged,” Crosshair said firmly, and Rashala was too shocked to stammer a response when the clone crossed the room in three long strides.

“Lock the door behind me and don’t let anyone in,” he added unnecessarily, glancing at Rashala’s feet out of the corner of his eye. He was too ashamed to look at her, too stubborn to remind himself he was only putting distance between himself and the only person in the galaxy who might ever see him for more than his worst parts.

---

Rashala slept in her armor, curled on top of the bedsheets in the sort of deep sleep granted only to children, animals, and the most desperately exhausted traveler, completely immune to interruption without great intentional effort. She had blown out all but one candle, letting the wax drip down to little more than a stub before Crosshair pinched out the wick. Rashala hadn’t locked the door but he suspected she wouldn’t and couldn’t rationalize anything short of annoyance at her invitation for him to return.

She should want nothing to do with him.

Crosshair dragged his feet to the wooden chair, collapsing into the hard seat and letting out a hiss of a sigh that came from the deepest part of him. He didn’t deserve to sleep but the heart palpitations had started and his body threatened to force him into unconsciousness if he didn’t rest. He knew exhaustion well, borne it gladly when falling asleep on a mission would mean risking the lives of his brothers, but the rotations spent starving on a salt-encrusted landing platform had worn his resistance down. He had never regained the same muscle mass, the same strength and physical durability from before his final stay on Kamino. The marksman couldn’t ignore the way the aches and pains from the escape from the Command Center went beyond bumps and bruises. His brain had been sliced into, for kriff’s sake. Sleep was a necessity he didn’t want to need.

The MSE hadn’t been difficult to disable and an assortment of adapters from a crate at the back of Sniv’s crammed storeroom was enough to trickle a slow charge into the MSE’s batteries. Rashala had said she wanted to make it into a communications droid and so she’d have her communications droid, even if it was the only thing he could give her.

Sniv had shot pointed remarks at him as they closed up the diner for the night but Crosshair didn’t so much as look at the Amaran from his slump in the booth until Sniv finally gave up and turned the radio off to leave only their bustling clamor as the diner’s background noise. Crosshair had kept an eye on the door and chewed his way through more than a handful of toothpicks, worrying them down to splinters he tossed onto the dirty tiles. Sniv had swept them up, locked every bolt and chain and security alarm on the door and windows, and then turned out the lights before going upstairs without a word, leaving the sniper sitting alone in the dark. Even then, Crosshair sat and thought until every thought ran together in a muddled haze of disgraced frustration and confusion. Only then did he use that last slip of energy to find his way up the stairs to the door on the left.

For a moment, hand on the doorlatch, Crosshair hoped Rashala had locked the door against him and hated his relief when she hadn’t.

He propped his booted feet up on the end of the bed, leaning back into the uncomfortable chair with his elbows up on the thick wooden arms, and let the steady sound of Rashala’s restful breathing guide him to sleep.

---

Kaller’s binary stars melted snow to water in less than a rotation, thick snowflakes diminishing to trickles of fresh water. Bright green evergrass, temporarily bowed under the heavy veil of snowbanks, straightened from their yielding curve and swayed heavily in the brisk, warm wind that swept around the valley. Mist and fog rolled in equal parts from the gorge waterfalls. Fir boughs bounced under the melting blankets weighing on the dark needles, wood creaking as the forest rolled its sloped shoulders and sighed into the temporary heat of exponential noon.

The soft ground sponged up Clone Force 99’s bootsteps and the Marauder’s landing gears were slowly sinking into the mud when the Batch returned to the ship. Commander Grey had been elusive, dismissive in a way that only proved Crosshair was simply open in his distaste for regs: the rest of the Batch shared the sentiment, more or less, despite Echo becoming an exception to the rule after his rescue on Skako Mino. Hunter and the others had kept quiet even after boarding the ship, the situation with the Jedi and her padawan disturbing at best, but Hunter had set the example of chin up, eyes forward, and mouth shut.

As the Marauder’s landing gears sucked out of the earth, Crosshair hid the pained rub on the side of his head, swallowing hard against the growing ache.

---

The Stassian knocked twice on the door across the narrow stairway landing and the Jedi let her in with an unexpectedly warm, welcoming smile.

Two cups of tea and a little teapot sat in the middle of a worn red rug woven in ornate patterns, the entire center of the small room taken up by the rich remnant that had seen better days before becoming part of Sniv’s guest rooms. Teran’s sleeping blankets were folded tidily on the bed pushed against the wall and the light coming through the slim, curtained window was almost cheery despite the pale wash the Coruscanti undercity made over the floor.  

“How did you know?”

“That you’d come?” Teran gestured for Rashala to sit across from her on the rug, insisting the Stassian close the door and join her with a wave of her hand. “Your curiosity was palpable last night in the diner.”

“How did you actually know?”

Teran handed Rashala a teacup and pulled a small, embroidered bag from a pocket in her long tunic.

“You stood outside the door quite a while before you knocked.”

Rashala didn’t meet the woman’s eyes as Teran offered the bag to her, taking a pinch of the tea blend politely. The hot cup was soothing in her hands, dried petals and cut spices turning the water a rich orange within moments.

“You’re not bothering me, Rashala. Not at all. I invited you.”

“It’s just… It’s been a while since I’ve had a cup of tea,” Rashala said quietly. She felt Teran take in the dirty hem of her stolen robes, skim the gashes in her dark armor, and the scabbed scrape on the side of her forehead. She hadn’t done much more besides wash her face in the miniscule sink, unwilling to let her guard down for a shower so tempting she had even turned on the faucet to watch the water spray, and was acutely aware of how dirty she was. In the calm space of Teran’s room, Rashala felt the Imperial Army’s invasion in the Jedi’s presence like a stench on her own skin.

Teran nodded slowly, understanding, and the Stassian sipped her tea with the sort of proper manners expected from one displaced from a moon on the edge of the Mid Rim. The Risedelian Sector was known for restraint, a quiet strength bordering on stoic, silence preferred to noise except when it came time to celebrate. Rashala would not embarrass herself or her village with poor manners despite everything she had been through. To her unexpected delight, the tea was flavorful, petals dissolving into sugary powder at the bottom of the cup, and a light spice tingled with every sip. Rashala hadn’t had much that wasn’t Imperial rations since her capture and the drink was one of the most delicious things she had ever tasted.

“This was my master’s favorite,” Teran said after a restful stretch of silence. “I miss her greatly.”

Rashala held her cup close, letting the fragrant steam warm her face. She dipped her head at Teran’s mention of a passed loved one, as was respectful, and complimented the tea with another sip. Teran waited patiently for Rashala to open up, the Stassian realizing how unsteady she felt in the liminal space of her life.

“The Jedi are legends, children’s stories,” Rashala eventually admitted, unsure how to start her questioning when she wasn’t even sure she had the right words with which to ask. “Even though the Clone Wars brought patrols to Risedel and the moons, I didn’t believe there was such a thing as a Jedi, much less a Jedi general.”

“We’re certainly myth in much of the galaxy,” Teran said with a hint of a chuckle. “Your soldier is correct, though. I was a general, but not as others were. Whenever a fellow Jedi was injured or called from the frontlines for special missions, I was sent to temporarily lead in their stead.”

“You didn’t want your own command?”

“All Jedi are both student and teacher, in their own time and ways. I could do more at the Temple than I could on the battlefield,” Teran said with a polite smile. “Teaching meditation to younglings was preferable to blasterfire.”

Rashala eased her shoulders down little by little with each sip of the delicious tea, deciding there was no reason the woman would poison her or overpower her to hand over to the Empire. There was something genuine about Teran’s gentle wisdom, strong but yielding core of knowledge she so openly shared. Just as she made a decision to trust Ola in that rancid Metalorn alleyway, Rashala decided she could trust Teran and allow her questions to muddle for answers. In a way, Teran reminded Rashala of Malivde’s mother before she, too, succumbed to Schilmer’s Syndrome: a proud but kind woman who wore her age-lines as an embroidered mantle, a suddenly youthful laugh melting her wise countenance for just a moment. Teran smiled at her much the same way and Rashala took a deep breath, letting go of her worry.

“There is nothing you could ask that might offend,” Teran assured. “I cannot teach if I do not know what you wish to learn, and you’ve come a long way from your moon. You will not be judged for your questions… or your actions.”

The kindness in the Jedi’s voice was a choir breathing around her, a reverence in the silence between them, and Rashala felt as though she could be a child again, listening to the Elders and being asked to speak so that they might make a sermon of an innocent’s questioning.

“I don’t know if I’ve used the Force properly,” Rashala began, “and, although it wasn’t my intention to break any laws, I entered another’s thoughts both with and without their wishes.”

Teran nodded contemplatively and Rashala felt the burden of guilt release a choking grip on her throat.

“Permission is usually required of any interaction with another through the Force. Consent is an essential—and all too lacking—guide. Was a life at stake?”

“Well, yes—“

“Then I would not worry too much about this,” Teran said, briefly flicking her gaze over Rashala’s shoulder at the closed door. “Ask forgiveness if you must but you seem to understand what is or is not acceptable instinctually. This is a good foundation to build upon.”

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to do anything forbidden.”

Rashala clutched her hand around her cup and breathed steadily lest she lose control of her voice, tamping down horrible recollections of forcing the AZ unit to obey her, of pulling the blaster into her hands from across the training room before pulling the trigger against the ruined Coruscanti student. Teran studied her and Rashala let the woman sweep her carefully placed expression that served as a mask for the terrible times in her life even before the Empire’s arrival on Stassa II.

“Jedi are forbidden to do many things: retain wealth, break tradition, have families or lovers,” Teran stated thoughtfully, “but that does not mean a Jedi does not sometimes stumble.”

“You’re forbidden to love?”

“Formally, yes. The Temples are—were—strict and the Council was only trying to teach us as best as they knew how.”

“I- I don’t think I want to be a Jedi.”

Teran’s laugh was as gentle and soft as her smile.

“There are few left now to teach you, even if that was what you desired. The foretold balance was struck and the energies of the universe are still in great turmoil. Now is not the time to train in the ancient ways. Besides, the Force does not belong to a particular sect. It just is.”

“Am I even allowed to use the Force?”

“Everything uses the Force, in a way,” Teran taught patiently. “Everything is certainly a part of the Force, a thread in the grander weave of the galaxy, but I would ask you to consider: do you need to use the Force or do you need to listen?”

Teran filled Rashala’s cup and the Stassian clung to the renewed warmth as she considered. Understanding she was to do the same for Teran, Rashala picked up the small teapot and tipped the last of the hot water into the mismatched teacup, the Jedi smiling with a nod she might have given children in their first lessons at the Temple.

Listening to herself, turning her attention inwards, Rashala closed her eyes and tried to sort through the first tangled layer of temporarily repressed emotion. Fear the Empire would catch them before she managed to get off Coruscant with Crosshair was a strumming tension pouring unceasing worry through her tired nerves; confusion as to her sudden reluctance to return to Stassa II, unseating grief and guilt in unending copiousness as she tried to push down the sight of the Coruscanti student’s horribly changed demeanor in the testing room; equal parts frustration and concern for Crosshair, the sniper obviously struggling to reconcile Rashala’s insistence he live with his own resignation; the way she longed to see her brothers and Malivde again, to hug Scopsen, to see her crew and return to a semblance of normality and yet understanding she was irrevocably changed. A tear prickled in the corner of her eye as she let out a shuddering sigh.

“I don’t even know if I can go home, after what I’ve done,” Rashala admitted, and hearing the words from her own mouth made them suddenly terribly real. Teran listened in the space between them, her presence in the Force a wide and sweeping shield for Rashala’s vulnerability.

“Incredible loss, incredible grief…” Teran agreed, Rashala letting the Jedi see the broken pieces tumbling out of her to shimmer in the watery, peaceful dark. “But gratitude. Deep gratitude, and relief you’re on a path to something new.”

“I want to go home. I think I do. I feel like I do.”

“But?”

“But… Wanting to get home was what kept me going the entire time I was part of the Imperial Army,” Rashala admitted, feeing equal parts foolish and relieved. “Now that I’m out, now that I’m almost finally away from here, I don’t know if Stassa II is where I belong anymore.”

“Where you belong or where you feel you’re called to be?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Only you can read your heart and recognize truth.”

Teran sipped her tea but Rashala didn’t mirror her, holding the cup and leaning into the rigid carapace of her armor as she rested her elbows on her knees. There was so much that had happened to make her a different person, to be someone other than who she ever thought she’d have to be, but she didn’t know how to make sense of who she was now.

“I’m not thankful for being abducted,” Rashala said, tone tightening. “I’m not grateful to have been isolated, to watch Nish die, to kill-”

She swallowed the lump growing in her throat, embarrassed her nose began to run and eyes water, and she wiped her face on her robe sleeve.

“The experience of thankfulness is different than the lesson of gratitude,” Teran taught, and Rashala sat with the confliction wrestling inside her. She kept her mind open to learning even as her spirit wanted to shy away from Teran’s knowledge. “You don’t have to be thankful for anything that happened to you. In fact, you shouldn’t be, if that is how you feel. Terrible things have happened, Rashala, and you’ve had to do terrible things to survive.”

“How-” Rashala cut herself off, recentering her thoughts and trying to convince her heart to stop pumping so fast. “How can I live with what I’ve done? Even though I didn’t have a choice, even though I was forced to, I still did those things. I still killed someone! I… I don’t know what to do to make sure I can go back.”

Rashala’s tear was a hot trickle down her cheek, eyes stinging.

“Can I ever go back?”

“Do you want to?”

“I think I do. I… I don’t know. Going home was all that kept me going and now, I… I don’t want them to know what I did. I don’t know if they’ll accept me.”

“Do they love you?”

“I know they do.”

Undoubtedly, Rashala knew. She knew in the way her brothers keep her unafraid in the difficult months before and after their parent’s death, in the way Malivde helped her moved into the tiny cottage at the base of the trail at the edge of the woods, in the way Scopsen took time to show her a better way to repair something in the NATSIC M and then always insisted paying for the first round when the crew made their way down to the tavern. The villagers themselves, the people she knew by more than name and face, her people; her heritage in the lines in their faces, her lineage in the blonde hair and light eyes that genetically dominated the majority of the Risedelian System, her people’s history in her name itself.

“Love forgives.”

Rashala pinched her lips together, not wanting to believe the Jedi’s overly simplistic statement but unable to harden her heart against well-intended wisdom.

“Love doesn’t mean ignoring or excusing what has happened,” Teran continued. “Forgiveness, patience… all are acts of love. Never required of another but always essential where love exists. Master Koon would say that love for yourself is as important as your love for others.”

“I don’t even know if I can trust myself, much less love,” Rashala whispered. “Not after pointing a blaster at innocents, not after spreading fear and terrorizing helpless citizens. Not- not after what I did to live.”

“Did it feel good to pull from the darkness?”

Rashala struggled to separate the myriad of emotions that came with answering the question.

“Not good, exactly. Useful. Effective. Tempting.”

Teran nodded thoughtfully.

“The dark side does make itself appealing with each sliver it gains from the light.”

“If what I’ve done isn’t who I am, why is it part of me?”

“This is where your work will never end,” Teran admitted, ignoring Rashala’s slipping emotions as the Stassian couldn’t hide her tears. “You will always need to balance the light against the dark, the will against the want. This is a perpetual act. But, in balance, you may find peace.”

“I’ve done too much,” Rashala said, choking. “I can’t ever take away what I’ve been part of, even when I didn’t want to, especially when I did want to.”

“We deserve to forgive ourselves,” Teran said, glancing over Rashala’s shoulder as though to stare through the closed door and address the clone soldier listening on the other side. “Only then will we discover how far love can go to prove we’re all worthy of healing.”

---

Coruscant was a bustling amalgamation of any and all species across the galaxy, their ships and food and businesses ensuring the undercity was just as busy as the sunlight-laden crust above. Surveillance droids and the occasional plastoid-clad stormtrooper made minefields of the underground levels but the Empire’s presence, even with its hardened regulatory standards and rigid enforcement of even the pettiest laws, didn’t stop the black markets from thriving in the dense, buzzing hive of life. Shuttles buoyed up through the immense center pillar, disappearing into the pinprick of sunlight far above, and small ships drifted down on hot waves of humid air before tipping unsteadily onto tiny landing pads. A few transports with dedicated hangars glowed in the cusped caves inset into the undercity lanes and hired workers unloaded and reloaded cargo in accordance to both lawful and illegal manifests. Buskers played for the hope of a few credits, exchanging songs of their homeworlds for a bite to eat. The few temples thriving in the protective embrace of the underworld sent incense wavering from shrines and processions, and Crosshair relied on the stolen grey robes to disguise him as a holy man as long as passerby didn’t look at the hems barely covering katarn-reinforced boots or peer too deeply into the large, shadowy hood to stare at the helmet underneath.

He made his way through the crowds with the ease of a soldier on a mission, kept to the shadows and hugged the edges of the mundane lest he find himself someone’s opportunistic target, and relied on practiced instinct to guide him as he tried and failed and tried again to both block out what he had heard through the Jedi’s door and make sense of why the general’s words rang through him like blasterfire. He should be above distraction, more honorable despite his dark deeds than to listen outside a woman’s door to a private conversation, but the sound of Rashala crying had made him move for the doorlatch before the Jedi’s reassurance stilled his hand. Hearing the Stassian spill her heart and admit to killing someone had pulled at something deep inside him that he thought dead with Mayday in the brutal ice of Barton IV.

On that desperate, freezing mission, he had learned the truth at last: everything he stood for was a lie, everything he was worthless and abandoned. Part of him had died on that brutal moon, as lifeless as Lieutenant Nolan the moment Crosshair pulled the trigger.

To hear Rashala’s pain, to hear how she fought against what was trying to destroy an essential part of her from the inside, resurrected a miniscule piece of himself.

As Crosshair made his way through the levels and scanned the cargo bays for Sniv’s dock, Crosshair reviewed Rashala’s missions in his mind. In as much as his memory served him through lingering exhaustion and attempted distraction of residual pain, the Stassian hadn’t killed anyone. Her few mission statistics were startling low compared to the other soldiers, the conscript barely letting off anything more than a stunner and even then Crosshair couldn’t remember a single recorded kill. He used to look at his own logs with a sense of pride, each and every mission with the Batch proving there was no better sniper in the galaxy than Crosshair himself, but the records twisted his gut the one and only time he looked as an Imperial soldier. After Ryloth, the statistics meant nothing, proving only how monstrous he truly was.

Rashala didn’t carry the same burden: there was no possible way she had killed anyone in battle, not with how stringent the statistics were collected, and he doubted she counted the collapse of the factory on Metalorn. He hoped he would have felt the guilt in her when she touched him, would have sensed the certainty in the space between them when she opened them up to the energies that allowed her to temporarily disable the chip malfunctioning in his head. He had to trust he would have felt that, especially with how intensely Rashala felt everything.

Thinking you hurt someone and knowing you killed them were two very different realities. Crosshair knew.

Something had happened while he was away on Barton IV. Something that ripped at Rashala and only allowed reprieve in the adrenaline-shrouded chaos that was escape from the Command Center in a desperate bid for freedom from the Imperial Army.

He counted the dock numbers, doubling back in the busy lane and pressing into alleyway shadows when a surveillance probe chattered in a blend of Binary and Sisrai. Crosshair noted the dark language, aware only a Sith or maligned Force-user could program a droid to record in Sisrai. There were more than stormtroopers searching the undercity, more than just escaped clones to be caught and delivered to the Empire for use in colony-labor or experimentation. Suddenly, Crosshair was nervous for having left Rashala in the care of a strange Jedi and a contraband-dealing Amaran masquerading as a canteen owner. He thought about turning back and guarding the diner until the promised transport arrived and they could make a desperate dash for the hangar but Crosshair reminded himself of who he used to be.

There was no chance he’d leave Rashala’s fate to the hands of some skug pirate running illegal goods under the guise of a business enterprise. He owed her better than his morose self-pity.

Crosshair watched the surveillance droid skim away over the heads of nervous strangers, the crowd trying to avoid gaining the droid’s attention; someone ducked to keep from grazing one of its long, metallic pinchers drifting out the bottom of its bubbled oval body. The clone might not stand much of a chance against whatever Force-user could be looking for Rashala on the Empire’s command but he had more than enough experience outwitting bounty hunters. Whoever owned the droid was a serious potential threat.

Across the long, crowded street, standing solitary at the edge of a railed balcony overlooking a row of launch pads, a tall figure in a tattered brown poncho and a deep hood stared at Crosshair and the marksman stared back.

Glaring behind his helmet, Crosshair fought a surge of worry at being recognized even though he knew there was no possible way someone could identify him under the layered robes; he was as indistinguishable from anyone else unless they caught a glimpse of his dark helmet, but his hood hadn’t slipped.

He made to move out of the shadows and part the busy stream of travelers spanning the distance but the figure had disappeared into the crowd before Crosshair managed a single step.

---

There was little to do in a modified Omicron-class shuttle, especially while attached to the underside of an asteroid fragment. Low-power and laying low was Hunter’s plan until Cid’s mark left the planet’s surface but Tech doubted weequay pirates monitored the transit lanes diligently enough to pick up a ship as shielded as the Marauder. The clone doubted many things, including Cid’s word, but fuel was expensive and credits were hard to come by even with the Trandoshian brokering on the Batch’s behalf. The pirates running contraband to and from the Inner Rim likely made far more with far less risk than what Cid put them through just to scrape by.

Although he knew the reading wouldn’t change, Tech checked the thruster coil and fed his quietly growing anxiety. The performance cue was low—immensely low—but he had done everything he could to ensure the Marauder would at least limp into hyperspace. Relying on the assumption a pirate ship might have opportunistic scrap-stock for the illegal markets didn’t do any favors for the analytical pilot’s sense of control. Assumptions tended to go poorly quickly.

Routing the monitoring back to the immensely reassuring static of open space, Tech slid his goggles up to his brows, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Omega’s effort to teach Wrecker a new move in dejarik was thwarted by exhaustion, the sleeping girl looking miniscule next to the lightly snoring ballistics expert, and Tech watched them for a moment. Wrecker’s accident had occurred when they were little more than Omega’s age and, although Omega had always looked to Wrecker for brotherly companionship moreso than the rest of the Batch, the two had stuck even closer together since Echo’s choice to part ways; Wrecker’s perpetually jovial and usually immature demeanor had been good for Omega’s flagging spirit. The girl’s over-eagerness to fit in amongst Clone Force 99 was tempering with the looming threshold of pubescent growth but she still cuddled Wrecker’s tooka-doll as though she, too, could hold onto childhood in perpetuity.

Aware Hunter was watching him as he studied Omega and Wrecker, Tech silently joined the leader in glancing over their brother and sister for any sign of injury or poor health despite obviously restful sleep. Anxieties—and there were many since the Fall of Kamino—ran unreasonable circles around the pilot’s thoughts. Since he guided the Marauder away from the oceanic planet that was the closest thing to a home world he’d ever know, Tech often found himself asking questions that had no immediate, data-driven answers:

where was Echo and was he managing his pain; how many more jobs for Cid until Hunter finally snapped; could Cid’s contact, Phee, be trusted knowing about Omega; how much longer until the next run-in with the Empire; how many repairs could he make on the Marauder until the Batch would be forced to find another ship; were the Lawquanes somewhere safe; was Crosshair still alive;

Tech placed his goggles firmly where they belonged and straightened in his chair, divorcing himself from the rapid-fire concerns that had no place in the forefront of his thoughts, especially not during a mission.

“Something on your mind?” Hunter asked tentatively, and Tech boosted the signal platforms if only to give himself something to do. He didn’t like answering obvious questions but, recognizing Hunter asked as much for himself as he did for genuine concern for Tech, the pilot shook his head.

“We gotta stay put-“

“I’m aware of the parameters of our mission’s success,” Tech said quickly, too quickly to fool Hunter, and continued to skim communications channels instead of meeting Hunter’s pointed stare. Making a point himself, Tech patched the scanner to the console comms speaker but Hunter closed the cockpit door before taking the co-pilot’s chair with an unburdening sigh. Tech pushed the receiver to capacity, refusing to let himself become distracted from his self-assigned task of scanning for nothing in particular, even as Hunter continued to press his presence.

“Tech, I know-“

“I’m fully satisfied with the repairs following the events on Ipsidon. We need not speak of it again.”

“Tech-“

“Although I would have liked to secure a backup processing booster while we were on Coruscant, the-“

“Tech.”

Hunter followed Tech’s goggled gaze over his shoulder to see the flashing light pulse on the Marauder’s comm panel, a message request trying to populate beneath the asteroid field’s heavy magnetic interference.

“More data?”

“Unclear.”

The Marauder’s media fabric was a custom bit of orchestration Tech was rather proud of, running a neatly integrated series of high-capacity transponders, receivers, converters, and a translator pulled from the brainbox of a protocol droid, but there was little to pick up on when idling on the edges of Mid Rim systems. Tech scanned the subwave frequencies to distract himself from the pressing obligation to answer his brother, hoping for another fortunate catch in the communications streams.

He had picked up the trove of data contained in the compressed packet by complete chance just a rotation prior to Cid’s latest assignment, snagging the unique transmission in a complex series of routes intended to disguise the media package from easy identification. The Techno Union Communication lock codes proved a temporarily pleasant distraction, cracked with a little bit of effort; he had wished for a more complex puzzle but would make do with what proved surprisingly intriguing. The proprietary codex was easy enough to tinker with and Tech had a quarter of the ship’s computers filtering the tightly compressed information into a tidy report.

“Could use a set of chain codes,” Hunter mused, letting Tech avoid conversation a bit longer, and the pilot shook his head.

“I haven’t yet verified the chain codes are authentic. They could be part of a trap.”

“Seems like a lot of effort for a prank.”

“A trap is not the same risk as a prank,” Tech emphasized, “and with the rumors being what they are— It’s Echo.”

Tech immediately identified the link sequence beeping at the helm and let the signal through. The ARC trooper’s grim, pale visage was a stuttering ripple on the holoprojector, a digital smear in electron blue struggling to transmit in any passible fidelity.

“Didn’t think we’d see you again so soon,” Hunter greeted, leaning in with elbows on his knees, but his face quickly fell when he noted Echo’s deep frown. “What’s happened?”

“The Command Center, purged,” the clone explained quickly, his light amber eyes pinpricks in the shifting communication stream. “We’ve got soldiers to get off-planet and fast. Not many escaped and those that did are being rounded up, or shot on sight.”

“So, the rumors are true?”

“More than rumors. Fact.”

Tech leaned back in his pilot’s seat with a thoughtful crossing of arms. Immediately, he started to think of mass transport potential—cargo freighters, interplanetary courier ships—and rapidly reduced his line of thought to smaller efforts with no less impact. Black-market trading routes, pirate hideaways, anywhere the Imperial Army had yet to turn their attention to disbanding for the sake of a blind eye to galactic commerce that benefited them as much as it did the entrepreneurs… Strength in numbers could be useful temporarily, but then where to disburse the rescued clones? He let himself wander through solutions while Hunter took control.

“How many are we talking?

“We’ve got a few of ‘em. There’s a couple dozen at the shop, a handful more at safehouses Trace set up with the help of a few senators.”

“What do you expect us to do from out here?” Hunter asked, even as Echo shook his head.

“There’s something else,” Echo stated firmly, never having lost his appeal to command even after what the Techno Union had done to pull apart the soldier from the inside out. “Rex picked up a trail based on Fulcrum’s info: Sith are training Imperial conscripts. He was tracking an Inquisitor in the undercity and found a clone he didn’t expect to see on the run.”

Hunter’s eyes widened even before Echo nodded.

“Crosshair,” the ARC trooper confirmed. “Yesterday, on a cargo level."

“Why didn’t he attempt to establish contact?” Tech asked, pushing his goggles up against the bridge of his nose before tapping rapidly across his datapad, trying to hide his pleased relief.

“Rex only ever threw the first punch against one soldier in the entirety of the wars,” Hunter said with no small hint of embittered embarrassment, “and that would be Cross.”

“The timestamps on the data packet I intercepted from Coruscant are recent, within the last three rotations.”

“When was the Command Center—” Hunter couldn’t bring himself to use the word purged, that much was obvious when Tech glanced at not just his brother but his squad leader. Echo didn’t make Hunter finish the sentence.

“That’s about right,” the ARC trooper confirmed. “You picked up a transmission from the Empire?”

“I have yet to ascertain if the data packet is genuinely intentioned or not,” Tech clarified. “Its point of origin does seem to suggest the Command Center but it is quite easy to emulate a-“

“How did Rex know Crosshair was on the run and not just running Imperial errands? Chasing down loose ends?” Hunter asked warily, leaning back in his chair as though he wanted to be wrong to hope. For all Tech recognized his own anxiety becoming an unwanted but normal part of every rotation, he recognized how the others had changed, as well, including Hunter’s creeping cynicism. Echo rubbed his scomp over the back of his neck as he suddenly became uncomfortable and indirect.

“Well, there’s street surveillance the night of the… the purge, and a clip—mind you, the video is kriffin’ blurry, and anyone who didn’t know him-“

“What happened?” Hunter asked flatly, and Echo briefly scowled.

“Crosshair rode an assassin spider out of the Command Center roof,” the ARC trooper said quickly, “and there was someone else with him. Another soldier, in similar armor. From what Fulcrum has on record for the stolen Force-sensitives, seems like Crosshair had a special forces squad with at least one experimental conscript still alive by the time he left the Command Center. We’re assuming she’s with him.”

Hunter sat back in the co-pilot’s chair, running a hand coarsely along his jaw as he thought. Echo’s holo stuttered.

“He didn’t have to go back for her but he did. It's right there on the tape.”

---

Deep teal din crested over the undercity in the quietest, longest hour of evening, too many levels below the Coruscanti sky for even a speck of starlight to shine. The few out roaming the narrow streets this far into the undercity spoke in whispers if they had to speak at all.

Crosshair walked through the empty cantina, booths wiped clean and only the barlight flickering green in the blue-hued cool, and the sniper took the steps one at a time in his weary stride; the creaky staircase was built for Sniv and others of similar size, the steps mismatchedly small compared to the rest of the building, and the sniper felt entirely out of place from his size alone. He crossed the landing, floorboards shifting with his rough booted stride, and slipped through the narrow door on the left without more than a whisper of his cloak against the frame.

The single fuel-cell lamp on the barrel bedside stand was a beacon to light the room, a soft and forgiving glow barely illuminating the bed and nightstand beyond the work of candlelight. On the floor near the dresser, the MSE droid sat in pieces, an obvious effort to clean the unit’s parts complete with a loosely folded dirty rag. Tall flames shivered at the tops of candles moved to the dresser when Crosshair entered the room, pulsing long shadows across the small room. The hideaway was content in a tungsten-feathered peace. Rashala had placed her armor in a tidy stack next to the bed, her blaster within reach of the bathroom door; steam from the running shower made a humid, wispy crawl through the room. For a moment, Crosshair wondered if domesticity wasn’t perhaps the peak of civilization, the simple pleasure of walking into a domicile already full of familiarity and the contented business of going about life’s basic tasks. The thought surprised him, even as he put his helmet on top of the dresser and stared down at the carefully arranged set of droid parts laid out to dry after a thorough cleaning.

He had never felt the same contentedness Hunter and the others had on the Marauder, Echo the only other clone refusing the sentiment of the cramped ship. Crosshair’s bunk on Kamino had simply been a convenient place to sleep. The marksman saw how he pushed aside the potential to make the Batch’s private room on that diseased planet a kind of home, knew how he diminished the Marauder down to bolts and wires when he could have embraced the ship as more than a transport. Sentiment had always been a sign of weakness, a fool’s chance to lose composure and give into distraction, but the manta was worn thin now that there was no bunk and no Marauder to do anything more than vaguely miss at unexpected moments. Even the firepuncher, a weapon he had customized within a millimeter and more, was a rare give against the firm understanding attachments were simply something to fear losing.

He sat in the single wooden chair and leaned back with a sigh, not even taking off his cloak. Knees spread, head in his hand, Crosshair kept from rubbing his forehead with his gloved fingers if only because the relief might be more than he deserved. The slip of comfort in knowing Rashala was content in hot water was beyond bearable; he should be punished, kept from ever enjoying a pleasurable moment for the rest of his miserable life, but Crosshair slowly relaxed into the shared sensation of muscle-soothing heat. He knew the warmth was Rashala—the echo of a tired yet content sigh loosening his tight chest, the subtle happiness of soap and real water—because he had never experienced those things.

Through her, even as he wanted to fight the sensation of knowing vicariously, Crosshair let himself keep from clenching his jaw as he felt the phantom sensation of water streaming down his skin. Warm, fresh water, not salt-coarse and freezing like when he was stranded on Kamino, not acidic and odorous like the reconnaissance mission on Kippani. He gave into the voyeuristic guilt of letting Rashala’s simple joy radiate from her to him.

Crosshair had walked the lanes and levels for hours, telling himself he had responsibilities to clear not just the docking bay but the surrounding streets. He looked for any and all signs of the stranger staring at him or another hint of the suspicious surveillance probe, found a handful of ideal nests to hideaway in should he need to exercise his sniper’s skill before the transport’s arrival, and refamiliarized himself with the shady streets of the Coruscanti undercity, but Crosshair knew he was deluding himself if he wasn’t trying to process the events of the last few rotations. So much had happened he had a hard time keeping everything straight, swinging through a private range of emotion under the privilege of distance from a Force-user with poor control over her perceptionary abilities.

He had made choices in the long hours he walked the underworld, accepting he didn’t yet have answers to everything he questioned.

Crosshair sighed when the pipes finally cut off with a lurching creak, the air clearing quickly as the last of the steam disbursed. Because he was a coward, because he didn’t know what he’d see when he looked up, Crosshair kept his eyes closed when he felt Rashala walk into the room.

Any other woman might have startled in surprise at his presence, tried to draw him into conversation, or even wordlessly step into bed and turn out the lamp to leave him in the dark. Kriff, he knew his own brothers would try to force him to talk about what happened or let him boil in his own silence while they failed to punish any him worse than Crosshair already punished himself. But Rashala…

He should have known she’d disarm him before he could even think to stop her.

“Crosshair.”

With just his name. His name.

He let out a shuddering sigh, unburdening the first of his apologies without a word.

Crosshair heard the floorboards shift under her damp footsteps, felt her presence as she approached, and grief welled between his ribs.

Grief, and anger, and the reminder of desolation. Absolute awareness his life was forfeit. How cold Mayday was when he finally had to let the clone collapse on the icy landing pad in front of the outpost, how cold Hunter’s skin felt before Tech swung the Marauder between roiling stormclouds to rescue them from the narrow cave… Memories he never wished to remember, things he tried to forget and knew he never could, swelled up only to be choked down in a hard swallow.

Crosshair’s fingers tightened against his forehead, pressed harder against his brow as he couldn’t quite shield his face from Rashala. She didn’t need to see this—he didn’t want her to see him tired and overcome—but the Stassian waited for him until he could push back the remembrance of the chip sparking in his brain the first time it activated. Under the weight of a shuddering sigh, Crosshair pushed aside everything he could until the guilt became manageable, until the screaming on Onderon stopped.

With careful consideration, as he had rehearsed on the long walk back down to Sniv’s Canteen after a rotation’s worth of contemplation, he picked one thing—just one from the tumultuous awareness he had a galaxy’s worth of apologies to sort through and disburse—and took a deep breath before cracking one tired, amber eye.

“I didn’t know, the first time I saw you.”

Crosshair’s high tenor was little more than a muttering, a murmur against the safety of the lamp glow to remind them both of the darkness they only barely managed to survive. Rashala sat on the edge of the bed, a grey robe wrapped around her damp body and wet hair leaving thick drops on the tops of her shoulders; the robe looked borrowed, about the same height as the shorter Jedi across the hall, and the cut left Rashala’s long legs bare. Her feet were boney, long-toed, and Crosshair could have spared a teasing smirk at seeing Rashala’s feet for the first time in such a vulnerable moment had he been a man on whom any humor was spared. He didn’t mean for his breath to shudder the way it did when he forced himself to stare at her blue eyes instead of taking the coward’s way out by continuing to stare at the floor.

“I didn’t know—”

He couldn’t catch the words as they flew away to leave him bare.

I didn’t know who you were then, when they took you and shot your friend and put you in that cell.

I didn’t know what you were capable of. I was given a report, a briefing, a directive. I was told you were Force-sensitive, that you were an experiment, and I let them experiment on you because I didn’t think to fight them.  

I treated you like the I treated the others and then— and then…

I didn’t know I’d love you.

“I didn’t know, either,” Rashala said quietly, her Stassian accent holding him as much as her words themselves. “It took me longer, too.”

Crosshair’s shake of his head was so small as to be lost in the expanse of his palm pressing against his eyes as he hid what he could from her even as everything was open between them. The vulnerability was almost a physical pain, a heart-jolting disorientation he was speaking without moving his lips, that he was talking without moving his body.

“But we know now.”

Crosshair watched through cracked fingers as Rashala stood and took a single step to stand between his knees. Gathering his composure, reminding himself of the dignity he afforded in every ill-gained heartbeat, he straightened his neck and rested his head against the back of the chair, staring back at Rashala as she waited for him. Her patience was a gift he could barely accept, a prize he didn’t deserve to win, a treasured rarity in a galaxy brimming with everything from subtle indignities to planet-ruining atrocities. She waited for him to stop questioning himself and he could only express the slimmest form of gratitude by extending his hand.

Rashala smiled, the soft and private smile borne of a stoic village upbringing, the small way of proving she was holding in even when she didn’t have to, of never being too much or too little of anything as part of life on her distant, arctic moon. She smiled and Crosshair gently pulled her one step closer, staring up at her as her wet hair dripped on his thighplates.

“Why does it feel like I should have seen you?” Crosshair asked, not expecting an answer whatsoever and yet wanting to ask for the sake of asking. “That I should have known sooner?”

Rashala’s fingers curled around the back of his hand, her palm cupped in his.

“Teran says the Force has a will. Who is to say what that means for any of us?”

Crosshair would have scoffed had he not lived the end of a previous life and started a new one in the span of just a few rotations. The callous-hearted sniper might have openly sneered, refraining from rolling his eyes if only because the Force was an untouchable reality he did his best to ignore since he was a child; if he just closed his eyes tight and pushed down against what the Kaminoians tried to pull out of him, the untethered feeling fell away.

Even as he held Rashala’s hand, long tendons making ridges under her thin, pale skin glowing with lamplight, he tried to keep himself from drifting into the vast expanse that came so easily when he touched her.

“Come,” she said, trying to guide him from the chair, but Crosshair didn’t stand. He stared up at her, the harsh lines of his face a brutality against the open request in his brown eyes. With the softness of a kinder, gentler man than he ever knew himself to be, Crosshair pulled her forward with just enough tension between them to ensure Rashala could easily step away if she truly declined his unspoken invitation.

She straddled him slowly, his large hand guiding the back of her thigh and caressing her skin with his long fingers. He put her hand on his armored shoulder, the dark cloth of his robes sliding across the katarn at her touch, and Crosshair kept his intense gaze on Rashala’s eyes even as her bathrobe parted at her hips. Her knees on either side of his narrow thighs, Rashala’s grip in his hand tightened when the cool plates of armor sent prickles along her bare skin. A sensuous shimmer flickered like stardust between them.

Crosshair slid his hand along her leg, across the side of her knee, along the stretch of bare thigh and underneath the faded robe to brush along her hip; his thumb stroked the top of the bend of her inner leg and glided over the smooth span of taut muscle at her lower abdomen, tracing the ridge of her hipbone before letting the fabric cover her again. Over the silky, worn cloth, he flattened his hand at the small of Rashala’s back, pulling her into him as he leaned back in the chair. Rashala’s fingers tightened in an instinctive grasp as she stifled a gasp, Crosshair’s armor pressing against her naked core. His breastplate rose and fell with his even breathing, reminding Rashala just how fast her heart was beating, and she became more unwound even as Crosshair’s broken edges came back together.

His hand traced her back, feeling along the ridges of her ribs and the stretches of muscle flexing under his touch. Rashala’s eyes fluttered closed when Crosshair ran his fingers through her hair at the base of her neck, arm stretching to pull her in; he wanted to taste every moment of Rashala’s pleasure, share his own with her. Her flush when he rolled his hips under hers brought a shadow of a tilted grin. He wanted to stare at her, to see where her flesh pressed against his codpiece and thighplates, but his entire focus was taken entirely with the small way Rashala sighed at his fingers entwining with hers.

With a hint of playful consideration, a teasing slowness that fumbled only slightly when she thought too much about what she was doing, Rashala pulled off Crosshair’s gloves. The thin leather was pliable, warm and smooth and perfectly molded to the shape of his hands. Rashala barely needed to reach to place them on top of the dresser near his helmet, the dark visor reflecting the curves of her long body as she straddled the tall, lanky man.

Crosshair watched the flush at the base of her neck creep up to her jaw when he cupped her chin to pull her in, and he almost didn’t close his eyes when he pressed his lips to hers. He wanted to see her, all of her, all at once and without end, and know exactly how she felt when he touched her.

The way her skin slid along his and how she tasted when he flicked his tongue along the curve of her bottom lip was delightful agony. He settled under the weight of her body and drank in the bliss of her response, a smirk tangling their kisses when Rashala’s hand shifted from his shoulder to the base of his throat and untied the grey robe from his neck. Her fingertips traced the long line of his tendons and caressed his pulse, a fingernail scratching lightly along the stubble speckling his sharp jaw. Rashala’s momentary protest at Crosshair removing his hand from hers was stifled by the feel of his firm fingers wrapping around her hipbones to pull her tighter into him, and he rocked up against her with the promise of more if she never stopped kissing him. He inhaled as though he had taken the first deep breath of fresh air in his entire life when Rashala raked her nails over his scalp, ruffling the silver hair as she attended to him gently but insistently. Her acceptance of the mottled patch of deep, vicious scars over his ear was so intimate, so unnecessarily beautiful of her, that Crosshair momentarily loosed his restraint and moaned into her mouth.

Rashala’s worry that she had hurt him was glaringly obvious in the way she pulled back and Crosshair seized her hands immediately without breaking their last lingering kiss. He put her hands on his breastplate, leaning back to stare at Rashala’s swollen lips. Slowly, Crosshair ran a finger along the loosening line of cloth at her neck, pulling the silky tie from around her waist without ever looking away from her lust-glossed stare.

For a teasing moment, he stopped and Rashala’s momentary disappointment made him smirk in heady satisfaction. Crosshair craved the surge of intensity when a lover trembled for him but nothing came close to reveling in the moment when he discovered what he wanted to do was exactly what made Rashala want him more. Crosshair stifled a groan at how constraining his armor truly was.

He paused at the bare stretch of skin at her breastbone, momentarily wondering how he had dreamed of a tattoo at the base of Rashala’s neck when the Stassian had nothing of the sort, and his finger brushed between her covered breasts as he thought. The dream had been so vivid—he had felt the snow-laced cold on his tear-stained cheeks, remembered exactly how long Rashala’s hair had been as he swept the pale blonde strands through his fingers—but the tattoo had been dark and obvious over the dip of her scarf.

He pulled the dressing robe over Rashala’s shoulder with a single finger, revealing scar from surgery as an angry silver streak under the hollow of her collarbone; to remove the explosive chip that could have made Desix her first and only mission was a tough task for even the most well-programmed medical droids. Crosshair leaned in to press his lips to the mark, an unanticipated pause in his lustful determination to make a shaking, blissful mess of the woman in his arms. He felt again that he should have protected her beyond what he managed through his selfishness and pain, a creeping hollowness threatening to stifle the heat building between them, but Rashala felt his sudden distance before he ever pulled away from her shoulder.

She took the tie from her robe and let the fabric drape, the curves of her breasts drawing his attention. He wanted to put his mouth on all of her, starting with the plane of her stomach and following her direction whether she wanted him to kiss his way up her body or down. With a firm exhale, Crosshair leaned forward and wrapped Rashala in his arms, holding her firm as he bent her backwards and put his mouth on her peaked nipple through the fabric of her open robe. She gasped, surprise mingling with delight and desire. Rashala wrapped her legs around his waist, knees tightening around his sides as she couldn’t help but shift against him when he moved. The smooth span of armor between her legs pressed against a spot that made her muscles clench and a satisfying shiver run down her spine.

Spurred by her open-mouthed gasp, feeling her pleasure spark between them, Crosshair licked and sucked until he slid the robe down her arms to leave her breasts bare. He pressed her chest against his own, the Stassian whispering a wordless exclamation when the chill of his breastplate sent prickles along her skin. She pushed the open robe off his pauldron, the fabric falling back to leave Crosshair’s battle-scarred katarn bare; Rashala traced the deep scratches along the armor with the edges of her fingernails, feeling the smoothness of the few unmarred parts contrast so heavily with all the scrapes that could have easily become mortal wounds.

Crosshair buried his face in Rashala’s neck, his aquiline nose pressed against her as he blindly sought the perfect spot to place a mark on her. He ran his fingers down her spine, keeping her caged against him when he sucked on the curve of muscle under her ear and, feeling her breath catch with peaked lust, he nipped at her skin. She ground down against him when he bit harder, daring delve into his own rough desire, and Crosshair only pulled away when the thought of Rashala tracing the purpling flush in the morning made him ache.

The Stassian hooked her fingers along the ridges of the breastplate, looking for the right spot to release his armor, and Crosshair considered—for a moment—letting her do it. The moment passed and the clone swept her up as he stood from the chair, forcing Rashala to hold onto him as he forced her off-balance. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist and he carried her to the bed, easing them onto the sheets. His knee steadied them as he laid her down, and her smile when he pulled just far enough away to look down at her face was enough to make his chest hurt. He wanted her, all of her, and she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck to pull him into a single deep kiss.

He bent over her and pulled her thighs up around his waist, relishing the way the robe completely fell away to leave her body naked underneath his armor. The way he had to wait, knowing he could only touch her with his hands and lips and tongue, shredded his patience, making him hungrier for every bit of skin he could reach. His firm hands gripped the sides of her ribs, pressed against the roundness of her breasts, moved her neck so he could lick the line from her shoulder to her ear. The way her fingers ruffled his hair, the silver threading through her touch, was an indulgence he could allow himself however long she wanted to touch him.

When she bit his lower lip—not hard enough to do any damage but enough to tell Crosshair exactly what she wanted—his throaty snarl was entirely involuntary. If she wanted to be rough, he could give her rough. Without hesitation, Crosshair leaned the side of his face against hers, forcing her knee away with a swift push and exchanging the press of his codpiece with the pressure of his palm between her thighs. He restrained himself when he thought of the selfish consideration of placing his wants over her needs: the need to be gentle, the need to be careful, even if she wanted him entirely without hesitation. The slip of delicious uncertainty in her touch reverberated brightly through their connection and Crosshair slowed himself down, turning the sharp-edged quickness into a subtle roll of his hand against her core. She gasped, back arching into the motion before tilting her hips to met him, and her instinct made him shudder. Her muscles tensed and relaxed, the residual soreness of their escape and the journey through the underworld loosening as his touch excited her, and he soaked in the way she stretched under him before finding the ability to part himself from her long enough to slowly kneel on the floor.

Rashala welcomed his mouth on her, a quick inhale as he put his lips over hers for too short of a moment before pulling away. Crosshair smirked when she stared down at him in disbelief that he’d tease her that way, his dark brow pulling in a cocked challenge to see if she could do anything about it, and her breathy laugh shimmered between them. She relaxed into the bed, pulling her arms from the wide sleeves of the robe and stretching them in delight, holding onto the sheets when Crosshair ran his open mouth against the inside of her knee. He held onto her calf, pushing her foot into his hipbone as he ran a hand up her long leg, marking a path along her inner thigh with a whisper of stubble and hot breath.

He stared up at her between her legs when he finally put his mouth back on her and Rashala closed her eyes to fully feel his tongue explore. He breathed deep, tasting her and savoring the moment when she gasped against his blunt lick. Crosshair moaned again between her legs and Rashala was suddenly and entirely undone, pleasure sweeping her up in a bright, swift warmth. Crosshair stroked her thighs, whispering against her as she came, and the shudder that ran through her slipped through him in a deeply satisfying echo of her orgasm. He leaned his head against her pubic bone, nose brushing the oversensitive bundle of nerves, and closed his eyes. After everything his body had done in warfare, after everything his body had endured, the act of giving and receiving the exact opposite of pain was a resurrection of part of who he used to be. He could feel something here besides weariness, besides aches from old blaster wounds and residual hurts borne of thousands of missions, and he’d worship her if she let him.

Rashala reached down to run her thumb along the top of Crosshair’s sharp cheek, stroking the side of his narrow face with her careful fingers, and he let himself be led up her body and to her mouth for a kiss so tender, so forgiving, that he sank into her touch despite himself.

When Crosshair pulled away, he guided her hands up to the clasp on his shoulder plate and curled her fingers under the edge. Rashala took a deep breath before undoing the piece of armor with him, Crosshair staring at her with reverent intensity as she pulled the plate away; with respectful grace, Rashala draped her arm over the end of the bed to let the armor rest on the floor next to her own.

Slowly, she divested Crosshair of the dark armor across his shoulders and arms, adding bracers and plates to the growing pile. He leaned over her, brown eyes skimming her expression as he kept from trembling, and Crosshair forced the perpetual battle inside himself to a temporary truce. Nothing about the clone would ever be peaceful, could ever fully unburden after all he had done, but he was so tired of fighting.

Rashala’s hands at his breastplate were a promise, a meaning he couldn’t explain without diminishing the act itself, but the Stassian—the beautiful, brave, brilliant woman who stared up at him with the hint of a smile on her flushed lips—knew. She knew.

Crosshair kissed her and the armor came away.

Past the moment of reverence, in the afterglow of an unspoken vow to protect her no matter what the galaxy held in reserve for torment and toil, he leaned his forehead against hers and they breathed together.

The breastplate, then the plackart, then the last of his vambraces joined the stack before Crosshair finally stood. Propping herself up on her elbows for a better view, Rashala watched him remove his lower body armor, admiring the way his lean muscles shifted under his blacks, the faintest memory of dark arrogance galvanizing in the long lines of his jaw when he knew Rashala was enjoying watching him. A sudden and subtle fear threatened to derail his lust, a renewed awareness of how different he looked to himself since his early trials with the Empire. His body was worn down, a hard-earned wiry strength wrapping his bones in tendons and scars. Removing his boots, he hid his momentary shame he wasn’t the soldier in his prime anymore—an echo of his former strength—and when he glanced at Rashala watching him from the bed, he braced himself to disappoint her. He removed the top of his blacks and left them on the floor, running a hand through his hair and shying away from his own mottled scar over his ear, unable to look at Rashala’s reaction to seeing his bare skin in the light, but her shaky exhale surprised him.

Rashala’s flush when he caught her unabashed stare made him flex a brow without thinking, his unguarded reaction making the color rise from her neck to her cheeks; with a pleased and crooked grin, Crosshair watched Rashala struggle with her own unexpectedly obvious reaction and let out a quiet huff of a laugh. He undid his utility belt and draped it over the arm of the wooden chair, letting Rashala stare at him and feeling proud without needing a reason beyond the way she blushed without even touching him. Her nakedness was a delight but, as he noticed the way her ribs curved under her pale skin and the pull of the weight of her breasts to overemphasize the sharpness in her shoulders, Crosshair realized she, too, was changed by the Empire. The woman he stared at wasn’t the same, either, now that the Imperial Army hadn’t just scarred her but forced muscle to try and fail to replace weight drained by slim rations. A wound at the edge of her shoulder scarred into her bicep, a mess of tissue only recently healed as though from a terrible burn, and Crosshair frowned to see the hurt he had no idea she sustained.

Aware Crosshair was staring at her damaged arm, Rashala’s blush drained, a slip of nervousness edging in on the warm, relaxing glow of passion. The pitted part of her arm where the lightsaber had burned through muscle was a horrible red, flushed from the hot water, and she tensed.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” Crosshair said in a sibilant whisper, reassuring her.

Rashala’s soft, almost shy smile melted something iced deep in his core.

Deliberately, in a whisper that barely carried the few feet between them, Crosshair repeated himself. He raked Rashala with an openly lustful gaze as he took a step toward the bed. He told her again and she smiled wider despite herself, even as she shook with both eager anticipation and a heightened realization that—even as Rashala wanted him, even as she welcomed what came next—she didn’t know what to do. Between them, Crosshair felt her gentle anxiety, knew her confidence to rely on instinct, and softened his stare.

Crosshair immediately distracted her from awareness of her own body by removing his codpiece, leaving him in only his bottom blacks, and he smirked at her stare. Unrestricted by the dark armor, his stiff length pushed at the fabric; Crosshair watched Rashala split her attention between his suddenly serious expression and the pressure between his thighs, her blush—that lovely pink blossoming under her skin—starting to return.

If she wanted him, she could have him, but Rashala had control above all things.

He offered Rashala his hand and she accepted, pulling Crosshair down to her once more, and she wrapped her knees around his hips. She sucked his bottom lip and, spurred by his inadvertent groan into her mouth, she kept kissing him while letting her hands roam his body. The small reactions meant everything—the way his muscles flexed when she skimmed over his sides, the twitch when she gently scraped her nails over the edges of a sensitive scar, the sigh when she cupped the undersides of his slim shoulder blades to pull him against her breasts—and Crosshair breathed into Rashala’s neck when she ran her fingertips along the beltline of his blacks. He held still to let her explore, holding back his urgency for her to touch him, and kissed into the side of her shoulder with long, worshipping strokes of his tongue. He stifled a gasping breath when she finally ran her fingers along the side of his cock. The gentle, careful strokes weren’t enough and Crosshair pressed her palm into him with a reassurance she couldn’t hurt him.

“I’m yours,” he whispered throatily, and meant exactly what he said. There was no half-truth, no false pretense of commitment or cohersion to submit, only his hand guiding Rashala’s as the Stassian stared up at him with bright blue eyes. She leaned up to press her flushed lips to his and kissed him fiercely, continuing to caress his firm length until he was panting against her. Rashala traced the defined lines of his muscles, fingertips following burns, scars, and blaster wounds along his abdomen and across his back, learning Crosshair’s body as intimately as her own. The marksman kissed her ear, her neck, her hair, cupping the back of her neck and tracing the edge of her cheek with his thumb.

Although her request was clumsy at best, Rashala sat up under Crosshair’s weight and guided him onto the bed, encouraging him to sit back against the pillows at the headboard, and the sniper’s dark smirk goaded her into playfulness. He caught her hands and took her with him, Rashala flinging a leg over his with a small, lovely laugh Crosshair leaned in to catch with a lustful kiss. His large hands kneaded her lower back, dipping lower and pulling Rashala against his hips to trap his erection against the hot crux between her legs, and her laugh turned into an open moan. Crosshair encouraged her to do as she would, whispering encouragements breathlessly against her breasts while she rolled against him, learning a rhythm that made her clutch at his shoulders.

“Can I-“ Rashala started to ask, a shyness borne of inexperience fumbling her request. “Can you-“

“Whatever you want,” Crosshair answered, running his hands along her back and tracing her spine so that Rashala’s skin prickled in the dim light. “Everything. Anything. Whatever you want.”

He leaned his head back against the wall and let out a shuddering breath when Rashala freed the rest of his erection from the beltline of his blacks. He lifted his hips to let her drag the fabric down his legs and over his feet. She stared at him from the end of the bed, taking in his muscular legs and the silvered pepper of dark hair between his thighs, a slim trail leading up his stomach and to his chest. Crosshair quirked a thick eyebrow at her open exploration, lip twisting in an encouraging smirk, and he watched her just as lustfully when she dared put her hands on either side of his hips before dipping to lick the tip of his flushed member. A stunning flare shot through him and he accidentally jerked too far in the rush of warmth that was Rashala’s mouth, smacking the back of his head against the wall with a muttered Mando’a curse.

“Don’t have to stop,” Crosshair whispered, and met Rashala’s smile with his own when he opened his eyes to see his blushing Stassian crawl back onto his lap.

She was the most beautiful woman—inside and out—that he had ever known, and he gently cupped Rashala’s chin to pull her in for a single searing kiss. She kissed him back, eyes heavy-lidded with desire and her blonde hair mussed. He’d never again deny himself the opportunity to push the golden waves over the cusp of her ear, vowing to always touch her the way she wanted to be touched, to do small acts that allowed him to brush his fingers against her in a way that showed her how much he cared. He’d set the galaxy on fire if she asked and things would be so much easier if Rashala wanted the destruction he was capable of, but she wasn’t a world-breaker or a battle-hardened brute: her soft heart would be his glad ruin, her kindness forcing him to do the tough work of becoming a better man. Crosshair kissed her again, searching Rashala’s new blush and grinning darkly when she guided one his hands across her waist to settle between them.

“Please?” she asked, and Crosshair was all too willing to oblige her, sliding a long finger between her legs. Rashala closed her eyes in ecstasy to feel him rub the sensitive spot that had her gasping earlier, letting her body react to the bliss of being touched, and Crosshair watched her in pure pleasure as he teased her. Her chest flushed and he stared at her beautiful breasts while he tipped a finger into her, letting her rock against him. He felt a resistance and hesitated, reaching up to brush against her check and catch her attention as she slipped farther into pleasure.

“How?” Crosshair asked simply, pointedly removing his finger from where he had slipped inside her core, and Rashala let out a shuddering sigh as she realized what he meant through her passion-fueled haze. That he thought to stop for her instead of just taking, to consider what her culture and customs might be for an unwed woman who had never known a partner, filled her with such a warmth that she couldn’t help but to smile with shaky, flushed lips. Leaning forward, Rashala eased her hips against Crosshair’s, and gasped when he traced his lip with her wetness. His hard brown eyes flickered with candlelight, his gaze softening only for her when Rashala rubbed against him again, and he guided Rashala as he rolled his painfully stiff cock through the slick between her legs.

When she couldn’t stand the tension any longer, heart beating fast and entire body trembling against him, Rashala knelt up just far enough for Crosshair to take himself in hand and guide his tip to her entrance. His fingers tightened on her hip as she sank down onto him. In a moment of sudden worry at the blunt press inside her, Rashala hesitated and Crosshair didn’t warn her before snapping his hips up. She whimpered in a flash of passion blending with a swift, brief pain that quickly subdued to an ache, and gripped the tops of his shoulders as she struggled to fit around him. Crosshair held onto her thighs, caressing her skin and keeping from unleashing a satisfied groan as Rashala inadvertently flexed. He reassured her with whispers—to take her time, how well she was doing, how beautiful she was—and nodded when she finally looked at him. Eyes on his, Rashala eased up slowly before sinking back down, and the tug and slide of his cock inside her finally sparked a deep, unyielding pleasure she didn’t anticipate but craved more of.

Rashala controlled the pace as long as she could but faltered when Crosshair rubbed his thumb where they were joined, sending a rolling wave of intense pleasure to all the right places. He took one of her hands from his shoulder and slowed just long enough to encourage her to feel them as she sank down fully onto him; Rashala moaned and murmured his name, making him lose a tether of control as he growled against her skin. Crosshair twisted her beneath him, holding her as he waited for her breathless ask to keep going, and then slowly pulled out with such lustful teasing that Rashala begged him with her hands on his hips to move faster.

The marksman rolled against her and she gasped into his neck, Crosshair finally grinding so the firm stretch above his cock put just the right amount of pressure on her clit to make Rashala shudder beneath him. Her orgasm rippled through him in her uncontrolled release and he came shortly after with a deep, shaky moan. Rashala stroked the back of his head, nails dragging through the sweat on his neck, and, when Crosshair finally managed to look down at the woman underneath him, she smiled so lovingly that the sniper had to bury his face back in her neck to hide the swell of unexpected emotion.

He held her tightly, long fingers splayed across her back, and Rashala held him just as tightly when she felt his first shuddering breath hint at a sob. If a tear blended with the sheen of sweat from their lovemaking, she’d never admit she knew, and Crosshair kissed her neck when her own emotions welled over to leave her chest tight with failed restraint. They held each other in the lamplight, candles flickering against the shadowy corners of the small room, and neither needed to acknowledge with words what they had found within the other’s heart.   

Chapter Text

Icy wind needled his skin.

Breath-stealing cold locked his lungs.

His limbs were leaden, fingers and toes completely numb.

Each gasp was a fierce fight, each exhale a waste of warmth caught in the dry, greedy air.

Crosshair held Mayday tight, curling into the shield of granite boulders scattered through the mountain foothills. Digging into the snow had only done so much. They’d suffocate if they stayed too long but Mayday couldn’t go much further and Crosshair had to conserve energy: they’d both die if the sniper made one wrong choice. He made sure Mayday’s gear was tight, tucking in as much heat as possible, and pulled him closer. The firepuncher was a shield between them and the rest of the galaxy.

The ripple of scar tissue over the side of Crosshair’s head was an intense ache, his skull an iron block. He wrapped his arms around his wounded brother.

No one was coming to save them.

---

Crosshair sat up with a panting gasp, sweat trickling down his neck.

He was used to nightmares but the trembling always took him by surprise.

Awake, he was in constant control of his body, steady and calm. Asleep, he was someone else entirely, a stranger in the foreign land of flushed flesh and choking breathing; most of his life, he had tried to stay awake. Even after the most exhausting of missions, Crosshair hated the uselessness of time on the Marauder, time that lulled him into a guaranteed replay of the worst moments of his life. Sometimes he envied Tech: the pilot at least had something to do in the stretches between missions, in the liminal space of transit where there was nothing in the gaps between mission research and equipment repair.

Even as a child on Kamino, not old enough yet to understand warfare for the horror it was and yet too old to cling to a blanket, Crosshair had always tried to keep awake as long as he could bear.

Asleep, he dreamed. Unsafe dreams, memories that didn’t seem like his own, things he didn’t remember feeling when awake. Later, after missions began to blur into a rapid succession of planets and places and bloodshed in battle, he dreamed not just of war but of the seconds of his life that felt as stressful as running through a maze of clankers, as hopeless as the space between heartbeats.

He despised Kamino, couldn’t stand the wet and cold and lashing winds that made the whole city sway, and hated when the rain seemed to pour down the insides of his skull when he woke up from those nightmares. There was a reason the Kaminoans had data on how long it took Crosshair and his genetically modified brothers to heal from broken bones, a reason why the medbays were more like sanitary torture chambers than a place of healing, a reason only four—no, five—genetically modified clones were left…

Those nightmares, too, felt real.

He gasped into the dark and tasted the air, salt and skin and the scent of the woman next to him blending into the pollution rampant throughout the underworld. Sorted pieces of the MSE droid lay on the ground near the locked door and his helmet rested on top of the low, worn dresser. Something unusual on the ground—a women’s silky robe—created a watery pool at the bedside and the dim pillars of extinguished candles were slim compared to the dark lantern. Water ran through pipes in the walls and, faintly, Coruscant hummed outside. In the unlit room, Crosshair ran his hands over his face and through his mussed hair, catching his breath and, despite the irrationality of it, checked his skin for ice. He could see well in the dark, knew his vision was well beyond the limits of most, but couldn’t believe his eyes to find the blankets weren’t crackling with snowcrust.

“Red, on the ground,” Rashala whispered, awake and hesitant to put words to the visions he inadvertently shared with her in their sleep. “A roar… An avalanche?”

He didn’t speak.

Every part of him ached like a fever, chilled and flushed at all once. For a hollowing moment, Crosshair felt the pressure trigger tighten under his foot, holding his trust in another by the sheer necessity of survival when he almost tripped the bomb in his careless exhaustion. He might have died alone in the dark, dead weight deep in a cave on Barton IV, and nothing would have saved him had Mayday turned his back.

Mayday.

Rashala’s light touch on his back was simultaneously unwelcome and craved, a foreign comfort he didn’t deserve. He kept his breathing steady, tried to calm his heart, but the memory of curling a fellow clone into his shivering clutch was a horror the sniper couldn’t shake.

Against his will, in a body that always did exactly what he told it to even before the Empire seized and stripped and tortured it, Crosshair’s face crumpled. He bowed his head and let out a singled choked gasp, as close as he had ever come to a sob in his life. Rashala held him, wrapping her arms around his heavy shoulders, and he sagged.

They breathed together in the dark.

Crosshair placed a large hand over Rashala’s and pressed her fingers tighter into his arm.

She chased away the shadows, the misdeeds of his past and the trials of innumerable missions slinking to the corners of his soul, and leaned his head against her with all the weariness of a man who saw his own death come and go in perpetual eclipse. He shivered under the memory of being buried in the snow.

“Go warm up,” Rashala said after a time, her voice as soft as her touch.

Crosshair reluctantly let her go, barely willing to open his eyes and pull himself out of bed. The sheets draped over his thighs and the wood floor was cool under his feet. The last thing he wanted was to be wet–he had spent rotation after rotation on Kamino with nothing but saltwater chill and lash of brutal rainstorms–but he remembered how satisfied Rashala was in her hot shower when he had slipped into the room, the luxuriousness of warmth in sore muscles and brief return to some semblance of wholeness a tempting sensation. Glancing over his shoulder, he focused on the sloping curve of her hip and leg, tracing her form in the dark.

Even if he hadn’t wanted to push away the snowpack in his lungs and ice blocking his threat, he couldn’t bring himself to stay in bed. He couldn’t hold his lover, couldn’t find temporary refuge in her embrace: he didn’t want to expose her any more than he already had to the hours of his last–and failed–mission for the Empire. Rashala had already seen the blood trail of the raider he clipped, heard the way the mountains groaned with the avalanche, felt the life-stealing chill sap the heat from his marrow.

Through their bond, so vulnerably permeable in sleep and proximity, Crosshair couldn’t let his nightmares become Rashala’s. She already had so many of her own as it was, so many of those because of him.

Naked, he pulled a pick from his utility belt before stalking into the fresher.

–--

The probe droid chattered to its mistress and the Sith accepted the data without a word.

This was the third unit she had procured and programmed in the last standard year–the first droid destroyed on Stassa II, the second shot down on Naboo–and its report in Sisrai was a tinny bleat. The information it gathered wasn’t surprising in the least. With a single whispered command from the Sith, the droid whirled away, a spectre scooping out shadows as it passed between buildings and disappeared into the night.

Gi’ra stared over the dirty ledge, black robes a rustling rush in the billowing drifts of Coruscant’s open core. The humid flicker of airflow set the undercity’s innumerable lights to twinkle in the glassy reflection of her dark eyes. The Sith watched the perpetual transit in silent contemplation, letting the rush of the city-planet pass through her as she thought. In secret reassurance, Gi’ra touched the lightsaber where it hung at her side, a heavy hilt resting against her thigh.

The Empire had sent her to track down the Jedi, keeping her on the filthy, stinking, noisy city-planet to do the thankless work of stomping out the remains of the Republic while brothers and sisters of the Order went out into the galaxy to shape the Sith’s place in the new regime. To question her orders was to question her Emperor but the woman couldn’t help but resent the Empire’s menial tasks.

Especially when the last meeting hadn’t gone well at all.

Tracking down Force-sensitives the Jedi had passed up was little more than a wasted chase, procurement of bodies for Rampart’s twice-doomed Project War Mantle a poor use of time and energy. A fellow adopting the title of Second Sister had reassured that the vice admiral would be properly disposed of but warned against failure to recapture the Stassian. Doctor Hemlock wanted the woman and was becoming impatient: after the loss of the omega clone to the collapse of Tipoca City, the Imperial researcher warned his research could not wait much longer.

As much as Gi’ra resented Trilla’s self-importance, the Sith wasn’t so wrapped in envy to crave the duty of reporting between the lords, generals, doctors, and politicians, especially when the Emperor’s direct interests were on the line. In fact, the holo-gathering had been plenty enough attention for Gi’ra; she had been a youngling at the Temple the last time she felt her tongue lock up in the start of a stutter when asked a direct question but her attendance in the presence of world-breakers had clamped her lips.

The meeting had been brief, the quiet tension in Hemlock’s voice proof he held no more or less respect for anyone in his presence beyond the necessity of procurement. The man’s eyes–calm, piercing even through the holo–had sent a shiver down the back of Gi’ra’s neck. Of all those attempting to shape the galaxy under the Emperor’s cunning eye, Hemlock was guaranteed to succeed if only procured the resources he required.

The Sith narrowed her eyes as she watched the hollow spindle of the undercity.

If capturing the Stassian was all that was required of her before she could rejoin the Brothers and Sisters of the new Order, she’d see it done by the next dawn.

–--

The MSE was easier to put together than take apart.

Rashala wiped the last of the oil from her fingers before checking her work, avoiding smears of cheap grease and crumbs on the paper napkin even as she gave Meese a final once-over. The droid’s processor had been left intact, a thin wire tethering the unit’s brainbox to the low-power reserve that kept the MSE from shutting down entirely, but everything else had been pulled apart and put back together under Rashala’s careful touch. The Stassian studied her handiwork, knowing where Scopsen would approve of her efforts. She wasn’t much for engineering work but was never so grateful the rigorous licensing exams had forced her to learn comm droid repair.

The little bit of sunlight piercing through the shimmering pollution of the underworld was an almost pleasant dapple on the sidewalks outside the diner, a canopy of air traffic and hustling commerce shifting the light like a canopy swaying in a smoggy breeze. Galactic residents of all types passed by the smeary windows, tentacles and arms and eyestalks ignoring the charmless allure of a watered-down drink at Sniv’s Canteen. Fried vegetables and the hoppy smell of thick brews settled through the diner in heavy layers, a faint pungency of cleaning liquids and balding scouring pads blending with Rashala’s own tabletop-turned-droid-repair-bench.

She pushed a few tickling strands of pale blonde hair off her face with the back of her hand, scanning the results of her attempts to scrape the blastermarks off the MSE’s casing. The street traffic ignored the diner and Rashala gazed out through the swaying slats of the blinds shuttering the window. Finally, her mind was clear enough to start pulling apart the choking knot of uncertainty smothering her spirit, her body rested and fed for the first time in months. A satisfying soreness between her thighs reminded her of Crosshair’s body within her own just a few hours ago, pulling and pushing a new experience that finally brought pleasure instead of pain. She leaned back in the booth and stared out the window.

Rashala enjoyed the novelty of seeing without being seen, watching species she had only seen in holovids move past the diner without even a glance her way, and felt simultaneously homesick and eager to travel as they did: free, with the galaxy within their reach.

She balanced herself against the confusing lurch whenever she thought of the potential ahead of her, whenever she thought of the conversation she had had with Teran the previous rotation. She was still stuck in indecisiveness, all too aware of the unresolved struggle in her heart as she stared at the dizzying variety of human and alien just on the other side of the glass. Stassa II was a tiny moon with a homogeneous culture and monolithic expectation; she hadn’t known how a planet could be so diverse, that a place like Coruscant was something more than a dramatized setting for a holovid.

Before her conscription, Rashala never would have believed she wouldn’t know what path to follow.

Until escaping the Command Center, she never thought she’d want to go anywhere but home.

“Eat,” Sniv ordered as they passed by the booth, sticking out a claw at the plate of untouched food. The Amaran hustled in their lurching gait, tail sweeping the floor in time to the music on the radio, and their floppy ear twitched with each limping stride. They tossed the platter of fried vegetables in front of the only other customer in the restaurant—the weequay with the blue hat–before stalking off to the kitchen, wiping their paws on their apron. Rashala glanced at the weequay but he paid her no attention, and she watched him pick up the spilled food from the table with pinched fingers and a tolerant sigh.

Rashala couldn’t tell if Sniv was in a bad mood or usually marched around the diner with a sense of urgency that didn’t quite keep up appearances of being busy. Although the runny yolk and stale toast was delicious in the fact it wasn’t Imperial rations, completely free of medication or metallic-tasting vitamin supplements, it was still a questionable breakfast for anyone with an interest in flavor. The music on the diner radio shifted to propaganda, a new newsreel starting up with a Coruscanti newscaster impressing the importance of reporting suspicious activity, including but not limited to suspected traffickers of unregistered retired clone soldiers–

Sniv switched the dial with a disgusted twist of the wrist and went back to lathering soap into the sink, giving Rashala a glance over the bartop that the Stassian appreciated for the proof Sniv didn’t care for the Empire any more than they cared for the Republic. The Amaran’s stare hardened when they pointedly tipped their snout at the droid on the table and Rashala got the hint.

She patted the MSE on the top of its metal casing and put the droid on the ground, flipping the little power switch; she barely pulled her finger away in time to keep from being pinched. The droid whirred to life, processor buzzing and gears shifting. Meese beeped indignantly at first, shuffling back and forth in minute increments to realign itself the way it preferred, and Rashala smiled lightly at the droid’s protest.

“You’re clean and safe,” she said, amused as the droid’s annoyance shifted to satisfaction as it tested its treads.

BRRRRRRRAP

“You’re welcome.”

The droid spun in tight circles and tried to speed across the tiles as fast as it could, Rashala smiling broader for how it attempted to skid and almost rolled for the effort. It pinged her comm bracer and she tapped a quick response back, the droid muttering as it checked Rashala’s work. The Stassian knew she wasn’t much of a programmer but it had been harder to properly clean and tidy the chaos of droid parts than it had been to reconfigure the MSE’s communications system to respond to only her bracer comm. The Empire couldn’t hijack Meese without deliberate effort to capture the MSE and take it entirely offline. Her work ensured she could send and receive data to and from Meese without tipping off the Imperial Army to their location.

The MSE checked the little scomp and antennas, confirming all was in working order, and gave an experimental zap of its self-defense system; a blue spark lit across its carapace and it squealed with delight. Rashala gave it a cue through her bracer and Meese protested only a little before obeying, sulkily pinging back a systems check. Satisfied with the latency, Rashala gave it free reign and Meese spun around the diner at varying speeds, trying to trip Teran on the bottom stair. The Jedi stepped gracefully over the droid and smiled at Rashala. Meece wove between Teran’s feet but the woman didn’t miss a step.

“I thought you’d be ready to go,” Teran said without judgement, scanning the diner and Rashala’s casual dress. “Your soldier, too. The transport should be docking shortly.”

“He- didn’t sleep well.”

“I heard.”

Rashala fought the flush peeking over the collar of her blacks before realizing the pipes were likely as loud in Teran’s room as they were in their own. Crosshair had practically fogged the room with the heat from washing up after waking from his nightmare; the soldier bathed like he had never experienced hot water before. Rashala had fallen asleep to the sound, comforted by the echo of muscles forced to relax under steaming, rain-like patter. When she woke, cleaned blacks and wiped armor waited for her in a severe stack on the dresser, Crosshair coiled tightly at the edge of the bed as though not to touch her with so much as a toe.

For a moment, she thought about wrapping her arms around him as she had when his shared nightmare—memory?—of carrying a great weight under brutal conditions, but his exhausted body needed whatever unbroken rest he could get. Rashala couldn’t see him in the dark but their inadvertent bond was quiet, calm; Crosshair’s breathing was slow and steady. He was so soundly asleep Rashala wondered how she didn’t accidentally wake him when she dressed, gathered Meese’s parts, and slipped from the room.

As morning slipped from dawn towards high noon, he hadn’t emerged and Rashala didn’t want to rush him. She had only caught glimpses of his nightmares but they were as vivid as anything she had ever experienced herself. Now that she understood where the false memories came from in her time trapped in the Command Center–the Force-bond receiving as much as it gave between them–she knew Crosshair a bit better for still hardly knowing him at all.

“We’ll need the extra time to avoid attention,” Teran said, and Rashala brightened with the unexpected statement.

“You’re coming with us?”

Rashala quickly checked her bracer comm for the time, tapping the armor as though it could steer her wrong, and covered her temporary hope Teran was indeed joining them. The Jedi sat across from Rashala and the Stassian knew she hadn’t done a good enough job keeping her feelings to herself by the way the woman joined her at the table. Rashala straightened her back and tried to breathe out the tension tightening her shoulders. Teran nodded approvingly, an instructor through and through.

“Proper training takes more than a day to teach,” the Jedi said, “but we did what we could with the time we had. One rotation gives you a foundation to build upon, not expertise.”

Teran accepted the plate of fried vegetables topped with runny egg, Sniv setting the meal down in front of the woman with far more consideration than that of the weequay customer in the corner.

“I can’t follow where you’re going,” Teran added, and Rashala felt the weight behind the Jedi’s words. “Especially when you don’t yet see your path yourself.”

Rashala kept her disappointment close. The previous rotation had been an emotionally and mentally grueling attempt to learn as much as possible about the Force, about how to meditate and listen to her body as mind as much as her surroundings so she could move through the galaxy with intention. Shielding her emotions, masking her thoughts, and keeping herself from broadcasting everything she was feeling would only be useful as long as Rashala was cognizant of herself.

Suddenly overwhelmed again, Rashala nodded, watching Meece dart in and out of the kitchen under Sniv’s feet. The Amaran kicked half-heartedly at the droid and the MSE whistled with the play-fight it made of Sniv’s twitching tail. A hint of contentment was an unfamiliar and almost frightening intrusion after the continously harrowing experiences of capture, battle, and escape.

“I’ll accompany you as far as the cargo bay,” Teran said, her quiet intensity fixing Rashala’s attention. “The Empire has more than droids and stormtroopers looking for you.”

Rashala didn’t speak, understanding she didn’t know the intricacies of the potentially innumerable disasters that waited outside Sniv’s Canteen. She had barely survived battle, hardly managed to save not just herself but Crosshair, too, and knew nothing about how to get off the planet if the cargo transport fell through. The same fear that made her hesitate to attempt an escape on Metalorn crept back: she knew so little about moving in the galaxy beyond the comforting smallness of her homemoon. Could she trust herself to keep from panicking? From making bad deals with the untrustworthy?

Picking at the last of the food on the plate, vegetables gone cold and unappetizing, Rashala was more aware of her insecurities and ignorance than ever.

“Why do you hesitate to trust yourself?”

Teran’s question expected an answer and Rashala watched Meece spin around the diner while she found the right words. The previous rotation had brought tears, contemplation, even laughter as Teran helped untangle the mess the Empire had made of her. Old hurts–her parent’s passing, her brother’s injury–amplified the more recent terrors of abduction, of watching friends die, of choosing her own life at the expense of another’s. Teran had listened without judgment, had asked thoughtful questions before giving Rashala answers to the Stassian’s own questioning.

“You’ll find your confidence,” Teran said quietly, Rashala’s discomfort obvious. “Soon enough.”

Rashala wrapped her fingers around her arms, aware she was sitting back in the booth as though she were a student sulking about a poor exam score and not a woman overwhelmed by everything that had happened to her in just the last few rotations. Intense battle, numerous injuries, saying goodbye—perhaps for the last time—to unlikely friends, hurting others, killing… and yet so many things that were not horrors and atrocities: escaping imprisonment, fleeing by spiderback, finding a teacher, holding Crosshair in the safety of the dark, warm room serving as a temporary harbor, the generosity of not just Sniv and Teran but the opportunity Dex and Router gave her to flee… Everything wrapped together in a confusing tangle of emotion, encapsulated by the awareness she was constantly in the mercy of another’s goodwill.

With Yrisadael’s presence in her heart and the memory of village-song, along with the galaxy’s generosity of tolerance and wary trust, Rashala knew there was little to do but continue to rely on common sense and opportunity as she took the next steps in her upended life.

“You don’t need to break your hiding for us,” Rashala said after a little while, Teran seeming to sit in patient silence for her to speak without directly prompting. “Crosshair scouted-”

“There are few who stand a chance against what waits,” Teran stated firmly, shaking her head. “Including your soldier. When you were looking for the Canteen, were you followed by a probe droid?”

Vividly, Rashala saw every surveillance unit all at once, recalling each and every hint of a probe droid as they made their way through the undercity. Recollections of the droid in the Command Center sticking her after she attacked Viz mingled horribly with the fresh memory of the probe droid attacking Router in the communications bay.

Rashala’s heart staggered into her throat and her chest hurt thinking of what might have become of Router in the time since the escape from the Empire. Swallowing hard, the Stassian shook her head.

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m not convinced.”

Teran started to fold her arms, hands shifting in muscle memory not quite lost, and crossed them instead. She tapped a finger thoughtfully, watching the passerby with Rashala.

“Someone was searching nearby,” the Jedi said. “Last night. I’ve suspected… but they’ve never come this way before.”

Rashala didn’t have to ask, the question slipping between them with childish lack of control from the Stassian, and she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to know except for the fact ignorance was a deadly risk.

“There is darkness beyond the Empire’s militaristic changes,” Teran answered cryptically, “and the Jedi Order has fallen: those who remain can only hope to hide.”

“But, you were a general. You know how to fight.”

“You were a soldier,” Teran countered, unhurried. “You know how to fight.”

Rashala saw Teran’s point. The Empire stole her and put a blaster in her hand but the conditions in which she had to fight with every fiber in her being just to stay alive didn’t make for an invincible warrior.

“A peaceful path doesn’t mean a smooth path,” Teran reminded her, listening as the weequay tossed down a credit and left the diner. Rashala watched over Teran’s shoulder, glancing away when the patron looked at her on his way out the door; she had been foolish to leave the room without the rest of her armor or even her hooded cloak, suddenly extremely conscious of her Imperial-issued blacks.

“You cannot hide under comfortable familiarity,” Teran added, and Rashala knew her thoughts were as obvious on her face as they were in her emotions. “Show yourself and you might be surprised at who you truly are.”

Despite herself, Rashala couldn’t help but take comfort in Teran’s easy willingness to teach.

“Do all Jedi speak in riddles?”

“Only some,” Teran smiled.

–--

For a moment, Rashala stood in the doorway and stared at the tall, pale soldier.

Crosshair was a dark slice in the shadows of the small room, the small lantern failing to reach past the edges of the bedside stand. He had shaved and his sharp jaw was a harsh line, muscles flexing as he shifted a pick from one corner of his thin lips to the other. Fully dressed in his armor, the sniper was repacking their hardcase and, at her quiet entrance, he glanced at her with a brief but sweeping search. It was the sort of look Rashala realized she had come to equate with concern, a way of Crosshair checking on her without having to say a word. The action was natural between them but she couldn’t imagine the same look on Crosshair’s face in any other position. Rashala softly closed the door behind her.

“Teran is coming with us to the hangar,”

“Figured she would,” Crosshair said, his rasping tone hardly more than a whisper. He closed the hardcase with a muted snap. “We’re being hunted.”

“The Empire.”

Crosshair didn’t speak and Rashala leaned back against the door, closing her eyes.

The room was pleasantly quiet, wonderfully dim against the fluorescent glow of the diner downstairs. She had held out a touch of hope that the Jedi was wrong, that there was no impediment between the canteen and the hangar, that no one was looking for a rogue clone and an escaped conscript, that maybe everything would be alright now that she had gotten a few decent meals and a night of deep, barely broken sleep… But what came next? Guilt gnawed harder at the edges of her homesick heart. How could she even think of next when they weren’t yet off the planet?

“Yrisadael help us,” she sighed. “Will we ever be out of danger?”

The sniper was staring at her when she opened her eyes again, a listlessness in his gaze that didn’t match the attempt at a return to his old, arrogant stance. Crosshair had once scared her when he stood like that–shoulders back, a hand on his narrow hip–but he was so changed as to be a replica of a different man. Rashala wondered for a moment if she was perhaps just a replica of a different woman, a Stassian who had never touched foot to the moon she came from.

She stared back at Crosshair and skimmed his tall figure. Part of her wanted to touch him and tell him everything was going to be alright, but they weren’t the sort of people to give or receive false comfort. They were far from alright, nearing the end of the temporary reprieve carved from the lowest levels of the dark, corrupt undercity, and couldn’t afford the cost of anything but hard-earned momentum.

“I was spotted yesterday.”

Crosshair’s statement sounded like a confession. Rashala frowned.

“I took out two surveillance units,” he continued smoothly, as though reporting to a commander. “Placed pucks. We’ll run into trouble at the hangar.”

Rashala couldn’t feel strongly enough for panic or anxiety, not when she thought of the challenges ahead she’d need to keep a level head to survive through. She rubbed her fingers between her eyebrows. Crosshair wouldn’t make a firm statement unless he was sure but his definition of manageable trouble was far different than her own.

“We’ll make it to the ship,” she said, listening to herself and hearing the uncertainty in the affirmation of what was to come. “We’ll get there and take off and never return to this horrible planet. Ever.”

---

A ripple of thunder echoed in the undercity’s depths, the cacophony of cold storms far, far above bouncing through the underworld, and humidity fogged the streets. Diffused pinpricks of light scattered in the misty air, sparkling condensation like glitter on their dark katarn as Rashala and Crosshair navigated the shadows.

Meece scouted ahead, the small droid made all the tinier as it slipped through the mist, and its metal carapace shimmered wetly. The damp air made cloaks heavy, fit overly large hoods to the sleek curve of helmets, and set hems to flop around armored ankles. The clone and the conscript kept close to one another despite the nearly empty roads. A few travelers strode by in anonymity, their own capes and robes hiding the secret missions and motivations that drove them out into the sodden mid-morning.

Meece scouted and Rashala followed, Crosshair at her side. The sniper held the firepuncher close, his gloved hands wrapped around the weapon in an expert grip; he moved silently, a dangerous man in a dangerous place, and his sharp eyesight pierced the milky haze. The hardcase under his cloak made a hunchback lump between his shoulders. Rashala was quiet, her booted footsteps as soft as tiptoeing, and she wrapped her grey robe tighter around herself to keep out the same muggy wet that made the sides of the buildings drip with rainlike condensation. The strange weather stomped down some scents and amplified others, a yeasty, oily stench settling through the undercity levels and buoyed by the occasional burst of exhaust from the multitude of grates and pipes running a maze under Coruscant’s crust.

“How many levels left?” Rashala asked, her helmet modulating her voice.

“Five.”

Crosshair’s hissing whisper amplified in her ear and Rashala was struck through with a sudden, not entirely unpleasant shudder. A sliver of exhilaration–the same as when she jumped down to the rooftop from the dropship on Metalorn, the same as when the krykna took a stretching leap toward the open skylight–pierced through the pervasive reminder of the terror missions promised. She tried to hold onto the unsought excitement that thinned her anxieties, tried to lean on the reassurance that Crosshair was with her and she didn’t have to navigate the Coruscant underworld alone. She had a communications droid pinging her comm bracer every few seconds, a blaster set to stun, and a little less naivety than when she was forcibly brought to the city-planet she was about to leave and never, ever return to.

Rashala clenched and unclenched her fists under her long cloak, sloughing off nervousness and focusing on the optimistic perspectives that seemed to fortify the feeling of the Force flowing around them. Thinking of Teran’s gentle lesson in mindfulness, Rashala counted her breaths instead of the steps as she followed Meece up the sloping inclines swirling one level into another. They just had to make it to the cargo bay Crosshair marked on their shared data map and hope the pilot accepted the credits Sniv gave them to cover the sniper’s unexpected addition to Ola’s promise of transportation as far as Lothal. Rashala breathed steadily, reminding herself not to consider complacency for even a moment.

“What is it?” she asked as Crosshair shepherded her through the shadows, occasionally pausing and listening for something she couldn’t hear.

“We’re being followed.”

Hardly a moment after he spoke, a probe droid swept straight down from the thick fog and grabbed Meece with a tentacle-like metal claw.

“No!” Rashala shouted, reaching for her blaster, but Crosshair was quicker. He fired four shots in rapid succession, the first three testing the probe droid’s protective shielding before the fourth shot took off the tip of the droid’s tripod grip on Meece’s metal casing. Meece’s treads spun wildly, prey in a raptor’s slipping grasp. A thin cable audibly popped and the claw snapped open.

The MSE squealed as it fell, a harsh scrape cutting its cry short with a feeble squeak, and Rashala ran to it before something harsh halted her. A hand seized her around the throat, a short but powerful figure stepping out from the narrow alley between dilapidated buildings, and Rashala flailed at being forced to her knees. She heard Crosshair shoot at the attacker, could practically feel the force of the firepuncher’s bolt flying past her helmet, but a pinging ricochet echoed through the streets and the hand strangling her didn’t change its grip.

In the brittle neon glow from the few signs and directional markers diffused in the polluted mist, Rashala stared up at the woman pushing her into submission, and a terrifying moment came and went in the blink of an eye as Rashala thought the woman was Crennit. Unlike the rear admiral’s severe bob and sallow complexion, the attacker’s short, curly hair was a damp tangle around her ears. Her orange-tinted skin was a weak veil for purple veins spidering across her cheeks. The woman’s eyes were both mirrorlike and fathomless, dark and deep. A satisfied smile–almost polite–twisted her thin lip.

Rashala scrambled to take in more than a sip of air, trying to beat at the arm holding her down, but there was no physical pressure she could uncoil from her neck: the woman, black-robed and muscular, squeezed under Rashala’s jaw by simply holding out her arm and jutting her hand into the air between them.

“Found you,” the woman said, her voice high and wispy. “Again.”

In Rashala’s helmeted peripheral, she saw the flash from the end of Crosshair’s rifle before the weapon was tugged from his grip. The woman tossed the firepuncher over her shoulder with an easy flick and the rifle skidded into Meece while the droid continued to spin helplessly on its back. Crosshair pulled his blaster from his side and the modified DC flew from the sniper’s hands. With a harsh gulp, Rashala forced herself to push down the seizing panic and listen to the quiet voice growing louder and louder in the ties between her body and mind. She tried to remember Teran’s patient teaching but memories of words and tone jumbled together as Rashala kicked and slapped at the air.

The energies around them amplified, the Stassian suddenly feeling like a receiver tuning to a weak frequency as she focused, her attention boosting the strength to allow her to sense an almost preminitory manipulation by the attacker. Rashala’s strangled shout was hardly a warning before the woman used the Force to lift Crosshair from the ground. She slammed the sniper against the side of a building, brick dust quickly wetting in the foggy air. Rashala’s choked cry ended in a gasp when the woman picked up Crosshair’s limp form and threw the clone over their heads to land in a sprawled heap near the MSE; his stolen grey cloak ripped in the force of his skid and he was terribly still after a heavy bounce in the watery street. The probe droid hovered over him. Its red eye glowed in the fog.

“You cost me a padawan,” the woman accused calmly, squinting as though to peer through Rashala’s helmet. A scorching recollection of the Coruscanti boy’s last seconds in the testing room before Rashala had to make the choice to protect her life at the cost of his seemed to pierce the Stassian’s heart as she struggled in the woman’s invisible grip. Rashala fought and the woman squeezed harder.

Everything happened very fast.

Through the static sparks flooding her oxygen-starved vision, Rashala saw the probe droid shoot away from Crosshair’s prone form like a blastershot, smashing in between two wide girders holding up the next level of the undercity. The unit’s casing crimped and buckled in the tight trap and the droid’s multi-jointed appendages pawed at the air like an upended bug; it chattered in the same strange language Rashala remembered from the NATSIC M on the terrible rotation that ended in her abduction from Stassa II but started as a bloodstain on the snow.

Her captor’s dark eyes widened, her stare over Rashala’s shoulder a blend of fury and fear as her callous mask cracked at the interruption. The grip under Rashala’s jaw loosened just long enough for the Stassian to fight back. Rashala followed her instinct, gathering what felt like every drop of strength from her limbs to spin into pure energy within the cage of her ribs, and she pushed outward without moving a muscle. Vaguely, Rashala remembered the same feeling in the moment before she launched herself at Viz in her desperate bid to be sent to the medbay, a sweeping rush of fire in her blood and ice in her heart as all the worst pieces of herself launched into action at the expense of her better nature. It was the same feeling that pulled the blaster from the guard’s hands in the training center, too, a space of clarity where something Rashala had never tried to feed suddenly roared up out of her gut, long-toothed and craving.

She forced everything from her with a single thought–escape–and the strangling grab on her throat ceased when the dark-robed woman was physically shoved back without Rashala putting a single hand on her.

Sheer fury roared like a freshly fueled fire beneath the Stassian’s breast.

For a moment, terrible memories of despair on Desix, of a foolishly blind attempt to flee despite the explosive under her collarbone, flooded her mind. She didn’t care about consequence, just result to her most immediate need: freedom.

In the space of falling from her captor’s Force-grip, Rashala recognized the darkness she fed with her fear, loneliness, and desperation. The vast emptiness, patinated with salt-red fury and paved only with the ruins of what she used to be, threatened to catch her.

Rashala dropped to her knees, a deep inhale giving her energy, and pulled out her blaster. She fired.

The shot deflected against a bar of glowing red, an orange tinge running like crackling embers along the same type of weapon the Coruscanti student tried to kill her with, and Rashala’s oxygen-starved mind momentarily thought the sword was made of pure fire. The lightsaber lashed out and Rashala rolled away, the blade leaving a gaping slice in the grated street exactly where Rashala had been.

The Stassian got to her feet and held the blaster with both hands, barrel pointed directly at the woman who was too proud to hold her hand to the wound Rashala put in her arm. A thick drop of black blood fell to the ground and washed away. The assailant snarled in the light of her blade.

Rashala stepped to the side, knees shaking but determined to put herself between the attacker and Crosshair. The sniper groaned, trying to pull his long limbs in and get himself off the cold, damp ground. Rashala’s scream ripped through her helmet’s modulated filters when the woman spun to slash her blade down across Crosshair’s back.

A bright blue blade–the most beautiful blue Rashala had ever seen–intersected with the life-stealing red strike. Mist swirling around the hem of her earthy robes, her lips pressed tight together and eyes shining in the violet blend of diffused light, Teran stood her ground.

Thunder rumbled through Coruscant, a storm finally breaking in echoing descent from the skies far above tumbling to the depths below. Needlelike raindrops slipped through the foggy shapes of ships and shuttles bobbing and sinking through the undercity core. The squealing droids were drowned out by a ferocious boom as a lightning strike far above cracked open.

“Gi’ra, don’t do this,” the Jedi said firmly, as though chastising a naughty child. The dark-eyed woman didn’t flinch at Teran’s tone.

The probe droid shuddered above and Teran pushed the unit back into its metal trap with a subtle flick of her wrist. Meece spun wildly on its side, a renewed effort to get to its treads spurred by the scrape of the probe droid trying to dislodge itself overhead. Rashala couldn’t think to pick the unit up, couldn’t notice the probe droid’s rocking attempts to break free from the girder’s noose, couldn’t do anything but try to hold onto the fading sensation of what she had just done. Like water draining from cupped hands, the Force working within her at her bidding slipped away in irreversible flow.

“She belongs to the Empire,” Gi’ra replied simply, another drop of amethyst blood dripping thickly to the ground. “Just as we belonged to the Republic.”

“She belongs to no one but herself. She serves no masters… unlike you.”

Teran’s teacherly tone, so soft and considerate in the warmth of the borrowed room above Sniv’s Canteen, was gone. Rashala watched Teran in momentary awe, searching the Jedi’s hard expression and seeing her for the war general she was forced to become when peaceful intellectualism was no longer an option.

The electric snap of the crossed blades filled the foggy street with harsh static. Gi’ra stepped back just far enough to pull away from Teran and adjust her grip on the black metal hilt, preparing for another strike.

“I warned you I wouldn’t ask twice,” the woman said, her fierce snarl hiding a hint of old betrayal. Teran advanced again, giving Rashala the opportunity to get to Crosshair. The Stassian was momentarily afraid to move, locked in place

“And I told you I would never join the dark side,” Teran answered, her blade humming under her words. “The Order was flawed, yes, but-“

“Flawed,” Gi’ra mocked. “A pretty way to say an ugly truth.”

“Nothing knowable will ever be perfect.”

“Don’t quote Master Sekk to me.”

Teran and Gi’ra slashed through the thick air, lightsabers clashing with the startling luminance of lightning.

Rashala finally took a single hesitant step, her worry for Crosshair’s slow return to consciousness forcing her to break the tension of hiding in plain sight. Gi’ra glanced at her and Rashala froze. Teran took the opportunity to advance on the woman with all the striking force of a starving vulptice, using Gi’ra’s distraction as a chance to force the Sith back another large, hurried step.

“You’re not here for her.”

“I’ve been searching for her since before the fall of the Republic,” Gi’ra spat back at the Jedi, her ire rising as Rashala crept behind Teran’s wide-legged stance. “The lists from the Temple proved the Order ignored far too many younglings. She wasn’t the first I delivered to the Empire, or the first to be returned. The Order’s loss is the Emperor’s gain.”

The Stassian crouched at Crosshair’s side, putting her hand on the soldier’s armored shoulder, and Crosshair shrugged her off as he braced himself on his shaking hands. She had never seen him tremble in his strength before and his weakness scared her. The sniper’s formidable capability on the battlefield had enforced his status as squad leader, had proven he didn’t just survive but thrived under the pressures of exertion; Rashala had only seen him weak under the influence of the chip.

The droids screamed, frustrated with their stuck positions as the battle waged in the flooding undercity street. Rashala cringed as the lightsabers struck behind her. The whirring hum of the weapons rose and fell with the scuffle of battle. Rashala hastily hoisted Crosshair to his feet despite his snarling protest at her assistance.

“Get- tothedock-” he panted, a harsh rasp of an order reminding Rashala that the clone staggering to his feet was once her commander. She had survived more than one of his missions by following his explicit direction. He stood to his full height and fought a sway as he looked for his firepuncher. The sniper threw off his ripped cloak with little effort.

Rashala hesitated to leave him but Crosshair stared at her so intensely that she could feel his piercing stare through the reflective glare of his helmet shield. She stepped backward hesitantly, the flashing sweep of lightsabers in the gloam reflecting dully on the edges of Crosshair’s harsh lines.

Through their bond, Rashala’s hesitation only aggravated Crosshair before the clone let a slip of reassurance ebb between them.

“I’ll be right behind you. Now run!”

Rashala snatched up the MSE with a turn on her heel and sprinted away from the sizzling clash of lightsabers.

–--

Crosshair didn’t pause to watch Rashala dash into the rainy dark. Sentiment was a liability, a dangerous lack of focus when lives were on the line.

She’d get to the dock. He’d make sure of it.

The sniper reached for the firepuncher in the crook of a nearby gutter. He quickly checked the weapon and aimed over the Jedi’s shoulder, waiting for an opportunity for his line of sight to open up just enough for a single pull of the trigger. Teran–the reluctant general he shared more than one battlefield with during the wars–was holding her own against the dark-robed woman but barely, Crosshair noting the way the general’s arms strained under the fierce blows of the red lightsaber.

“Gi’ra, stop!” Teran shouted, trying to push the woman back without the convincing influence of an attempted lethal strike. She matched Gi’ra blow for blow even as the Inquisitor kept the Jedi between herself and the sniper.

Crosshair slunk in orbit around them, Gi’ra maintaining the center of battle to prevent Crosshair from getting a clear shot. The sniper would have shot a hole through Teran if it meant taking out the woman who had thrown him like a limp doll through the street, the low-ranking Sith who thought for a moment she could take Rashala from him when they were so close to making it off the last karking planet Crosshair ever wanted to return to in the entire galaxy, Kamino included. He looked for a vertical advantage.

The persistent glottal chattering of the probe droid stuck between two metal girders was an avoidable distraction. With a swift turn, he shot the unit until the force of the blasterfire against the droid’s failing shield pushed the droid out from its stuck position to land heavily on the ground. Its motors were severely busted and Crosshair took the opportunity to shoot it to pieces before it could reapply its stuttering security protocols; even as he shamed himself for being no better than a reg–and a shiny, at that–for letting his baser emotions take over at such a pivotal moment, he held down the trigger and blasted the droid into a dozen twisted peels of metal and ripped ribbons of wire. Only when the unit was no longer recognizable as a former specialty surveillance droid did Crosshair run through the shards.

So much for abandoning sentiment.

Momentarily securing the rifle in the slot of the hardcase, he climbed the girder one hand over another, scaling the metal support with ease. He pushed into the narrow space that had trapped the droid and leveraged his lean body to give him enough support to accommodate a return of his rifle to his hands. Finally at an advantage, Crosshair wasted no time sighting the Sith in his scope.

The Jedi blocked his shot with her lightsaber, costing her full attention for just a moment. Gi’ra lunged and Teran had to flip backwards to avoid more than a scorch wound to her leg. Crosshair snarled to himself. Part of the benefit to being outsiders was Clone Force 99 never had to routinely report to the pompous, self-righteous Jedi generals beyond the occasional mission. Always leading with their egos instead of their heads, predictably ready with a useless statement instead of battle directives and constantly over-exerting themselves with stylistic flair rather than utilizing their precious lightsabers as the formidable weapons they were.

“Always in the way,” he muttered to himself, sibilance catching in his helmet filters. He took another shot and the Jedi blocked again.

Teran reminded him yet again why a Jedi couldn’t be trusted: they always made the noble choice, even when that choice was a wrong one.

“Gi’ra, it isn’t too late,” Teran tried to convince her opponent. “You can stop this!”

“The Emperor can never be stopped!”

Teran regained her ground in a flashing fury of moves so fast Crosshair had a hard time following the flow of positions. Like all clones, he had trained with the Jedi battlemaster Shak-Ti, the Togruta demonstrating the various movements specific to a Jedi’s own education, but Crosshair had never before regretted not paying more attention as a youngling on the simulation field than he did in the Coruscanti undercity. Despite the annoyance with Teran prickling under Crosshair’s skin, a small piece of him remembered just how dangerous a Force-user could be as he watched her move.

“The Emperor can spare her. He can spare the clones. Let them go in peace!” Teran argued, and she stood her ground as Gi’ra began to circle; the woman was obviously certain Crosshair would be blocked if he took another shot. She dragged the tip of her lightsaber along the ground to leave a scorching swirl of sparks and smoke in her wake.

“Remember when we were just younglings at the Temple?” Gi’ra taunted, a slip of genuine nostalgia in her light snarl. “We dreamed when we’d become Masters. We’d have apprentices, teach them all we knew…”

“Gi’ra-”

“That girl cost me a padawan,” the woman continued, her cruel reminiscing twisting the sentiment. “The boy was almost ready. He might have passed his trials if not for the Stassian.”

Crosshair tensed.  

“I’ll take her instead,” Gi’ra said, continuing to circle Teran. “She’ll serve in his place.”

In no galaxy would Crosshair allow that to happen.

The sniper took another shot, half-expectant that the Jedi would let the blasterfire through to take out the cold, sneering Sith without bloodying her own hands, but Gi’ra herself darted forward. She deflected the shot towards Teran and the Jedi barely rolled out of the way. The bolt sparked off the edge of a metal doorway, temporarily lighting the gloom in brilliant orange. The blue and red lightsabers made the street glow in diffused purple haze. Gi’ra and Teran clashed again, faster and faster, each matching the other’s blows with strength and precision. Although Crosshair didn’t know exactly what it took to wield a lightsaber, he appreciated skill with any weapon, and Gi’ra was as equal to Teran in the deliberate footwork as they seemed to dance around each other.

That their battle looked effortless proved their mastery. 

Crosshair took one more attempt to shoot the Sith but Teran was faster, saving Gi’ra from yet another close call with death at the hands of the clone soldier. The dark-robed woman threw her lightsaber like a javelin, frustration boiling over at the continued distraction Crosshair proved himself to be, and the sniper was forced to jump from his wedged perch or be speared on a flaming sword. Gi’ra pulled her lightsaber back to her after a clever series of rolls and jumps to avoid Teran’s rush. The Jedi was forced to duck at the last possible moment to avoid being stabbed in the back by the Force-manipulated weapon.

Teran took the crouch as the opportunity to launch into the air like a tightly coiled spring, a maneuver that would have been impressive had Crosshair not almost cracked both ankles in an unusually awkward landing. He was still slightly stunned from being whipped into a building, not entirely capable of calling himself completely recovered from the physical endurance of surviving brutal conditions on Barton IV, and was acutely aware of the healing process after not just invasive surgery but escape from the Command Center.

Almost anyone but a genetically modified soldier from fabled Mandalorian bloodlines would have been dead a dozen times over. Crosshair simply snarled at himself for his weakness.

He locked his attention onto Gi’ra and the Sith stared back, almost seeming to taunt him as much as she had Teran. For the space of a searing heartbeat, Crosshair was flooded with terrible visions: clone soldiers reduced to limp rags and begging in filthy streets; Rashala missing, back in the Emperor’s clutches where he could never hope to retrieve her even with the paltry price of his own life; his brothers draped lifelessly in the wreckage of the Marauder finally shot down on some backwash planet so deep in the Outer Rim that Crosshair would never find their bodies.

For a horrifying second, Crosshair felt the phantom spark of the inhibitor chip against the inside of his skull. He moved beyond the fear and filled his lungs before holding his breath, shouldering the firepuncher for a shot the Jedi wouldn’t be able to block.

The blast bounced off the reflective corners of the buildings and girders lining the streets, a trick shot he might have made a thousand times before. Gi’ra grunted with the force of the impact, the energy bolt hitting her in her left flank with as much force as to send her tripping sideways. The wound wasn’t fatal but would give Teran the upper hand. The Jedi’s thankfulness for sparing the Gi’ra’s life flooded the spaces Crosshair couldn’t ever close off entirely no matter how much he tried. He didn’t want the Force to intrude, to seep into him the way the Kaminoans had tried to design him. The clone certainly didn’t want the Jedi’s gratitude he hadn’t managed to murder her childhood friend.

He shot Gi’ra again, breaking a personal rule not to play with his prey. There was never honor in anything but a clean shot but Crosshair couldn’t get through Teran’s insistence the former Jedi remain standing and the sniper had no more patience for respect. He chased Gi’ra with a line of tight, shepherding shots, herding the woman away from Teran and towards the perilous drop at the edge of the sprawling subcity level.

With an expression twisted more by disappointment than pain, Gi’ra jumped straight up with eerie, Force-assisted quickness, deactivating her lightsaber and hooking the hilt onto her narrow belt even as she twisted in the air. She grabbed the bottom scaffolding supports for the street level above their own and quickly swung from beam to beam in a gravity-defying combination of crawling and jumping, seeming to stick to the metal for how smoothly she moved. Crosshair was so disturbed by the disjointed creeping that he wasted the narrow window to try to shoot Gi’ra down before realizing she was headed for the level above. Gi’ra’s fluttering robes were a slippery flag over the edge of the level and Crosshair’s shot ripped the hem before even that, too, was gone.

“Go!” Teran shouted at him but Crosshair didn’t need to wait around to be told what to do like a reg. The sniper sprinted up the sloping street, knowing his strength was in the length of his stride and the sleek speed he made as a shadow in the undercity darkness. He glanced over his shoulder to see Teran take a risky step on the railing separating the metal street from a long fall through Coruscant’s hazy, hollow core. The Jedi sprang up and caught the upper level with the tips of her fingers, temporarily hanging as a silhouette before disappearing over the edge.

Crosshair ran faster, pushing himself farther than he ever had before, and forced himself to believe there was a chance he could get to the dock before Rashala’s pursuer did.

–--

76th level, 76th level…

Rashala panted into her restricting helmet, the familiar dislike for the confines of the bucket on her head second only to the comfort in knowing the protection it gave her as she ran for her life.

The skies above continued to rumble and the rain cutting through the milky mist in the vast transit core began to fall harder. Cold water hissed as rain pattered on the hot engines of ships bobbing through the fog. Clattering, racing, running rivulets became rippling streams in the metal streets and stormwater poured through labrynthine gutters to set the undercity in a chime-like daze. Grates were slick with neon wetness, a slimy algae of light smearing the edges of the world. Empty bazaar stalls littered the corners of the sloping streets, a level of buildings and apartments giving way to another level of shopping and entertainment all but abandoned; no one seemed to want to be out in the damp mist and soggy sidewalks. Rashala followed Meece, the little droid fighting the curtains of rain as its treads tried to keep contact with the ground. It had the same coordinates Crosshair had given Rashala and pinged the Stassian’s comm constantly, keeping her aware of where they were in proximity to Dock 432.

The dock was two levels above—far too far away for any sense of security—and the rain fell harder as Rashala sprinted up the incline of yet another street. The MSE hydroplaned, squealing in a blend of unexpected delight and uncomfortable awareness it had no control of its direction. With only a small break in her stride, Rashala scooped Meese up where the droid had drifted into the base of a streetlamp and it sparked in protest at being carried yet again. Rashala preferred the weight of her blaster compared to the heavier bulk of the droid but holding the MSE close against her armor was a strange comfort: at least she wasn’t alone in her dash for the dock.

She had to trust Crosshair was somewhere behind her or, even better, already making his own way to the hangar. The fantasy was simple but Rashala paced herself with one foot after another in heavy, steady strides at the idea Crosshair was waiting for her at Ola’s ship. His black armor and long rifle would be a welcome sight, his silver hair a glistening light against the darkness. He’d have a pick in the corner of his lip and the pleased glint in his brown eyes would be the only indication of a smile, obvious to no one but her. Meece would scamper up the ship’s ramp and Ola herself would be there, checking on her smuggling investments, and the Partisan would introduce them to the kindly, soft-spoken pilot who’d safely navigate everyone far away from Coruscant.

The dream was nothing but.

A red lightsaber cut through Rashala’s hopes and narrowly missed her neck.

The instinct to duck pulled Meese into her gut, all the air forced out in a strangled gasp as she tried to keep her feet in a low stumble. Rashala let the MSE whir out of her arms and hit the street in a running start, the droid’s treads barely gaining traction on the wet metal street; it whizzed away, taking a corner in a wide arc and bouncing off a lumpy pile of trash before disappearing up to the next level. The Stassian didn’t have time to let her hopes sink. She had to trust Meece wasn’t simply fleeing for the sake of its own circuits.

Gi’ra grasped for Rashala and the choking force returned under Rashala’s jaw. Rashala rasped while she clawed at the invisible hand pulling her forward by her neck. She exerted her own will and pushed back, sitting hard when her boots slipped in the wet street. Detritus swirled in the dust-thickened rainwater running rapids outside the banks of the gutters, Rashala’s grey cloak soaking through. She dug in her heels and refused to let her body be driven by a woman who wished her only ill, even as her scuffle splashed rainwater between them. Gi’ra’s selfish intent was frightening enough but that the woman was so much more skilled in the Force than Rashala could hope to imagine for herself was almost enough to make the Stassian’s knees go weak. She kept her mind steady even as her body quaked with the effort of resistance.

“I can make this harder,” Gi’ra threatened, her dark eyes flashing as Rashala fought. “I’d rather not drag you back but I will.”

“No!” Rashala croaked roughly, grasping for the threads of energy entangling her and ripping them away.

The bonds were like mining chains, impossible to move without complete focus, and Rashala broke each link with the smashing hammerfall of her focus. The chains were barbed ropes and every squeeze Gi’ra made drove the barbs deeper until Rashala cried out in agony. She pulled the thorns from her bleeding spirit, calling on all of her strength, and the ropes were thin leather: strong but not impossible to break. Rashala pulled Gi’ra’s Force-restraints off her with increasing capability, the bonds finally snapping as thin as cobwebs to leave a silky tickle on her bruising throat. Gi’ra tried to layer more and more around Rashala, spinning energy around them so intensely that eddies rippled in the dirty rainwater and splashed them both, but Rashala held her own. She tried to get to her feet but stepped on her own cloak, pushing backwards futility while Gi’ra advanced.

“You’ll join me either way,” Gi’ra said, and her voice was as flat and disinterested in Rashala’s welfare as Crennit’s was all those months in the Command Center. A chill ran down the Stassian’s spine that had nothing to do with the watery damp of the Coruscanti undercity.

She didn’t want to kill but she didn’t want to die.

The Couruscanti boy’s black-veined face crumbled in her mind’s eye, the ash of his flameless immolation drifting with the prickles of oxygen deprivation in the corners of her vision. She stared up at Gi’ra and the rainwater mingled with the salt of her tears from choking and panic and fear.

Guiding herself through the conflict, mentally leaning on Teran’s abbreviated lessons over tea, reminded of the beauty of choice even when the consequences seemed so dire either way, Rashala exhaled, lips trembling even as her stare hardened.

The Sith’s red lightsaber crackled in an upward swing. Rashala pulled her blaster from her hip, firing three shots in rapid succession. Gi’ra dismissed each shot with an easy twist of the wrist.

Hold on.

A familiar energy, a Force-signature that had become as well-known to Rashala as her own heartbeat, reached out through the weighty veil of distance and time seemed to slow.

She turned away from the horrid red blade pointed at her–so close she could feel the heat radiating from the tip of the weapon–and saw Crosshair appear at the bottom of the street. He was running as fast as he could, rifle set into his shoulder.

In the haze of what Router called battle blindness, when the mission became the reason for every breath and the warzone focused each sense into adrenaline-induced clarity, Rashala watched the clone run through her damaged lens of time and a pinch of confusion.

Crosshair didn’t need to run. He was a sniper: he could have taken a knee at the end of the block and blown up the entire level with a strategic shot. Why would he be running?

In a shift of pressure, the world around her seeming to tilt, Rashala listened and knew.

Hold on.

He couldn’t guarantee any shot he could take would save her.

He was running because Gi’ra would just block any move he could make at a distance.

He was afraid he couldn’t stop what was going to happen and Rashala only knew his fear because it was the same jarring, desperate, sharp-edged plea as when he was certain the malfunctioning chip was about to kill him.

She saw herself through his eyes, watched the pale water run mirror-like across the crescent of her helmet, saw the slim slope of her body braced in the fierce red glow of the lightsaber pointed at her neck.

Hold on.

Rashala understood and, in that knowledge, learned everything she needed about her future.

The Sith swung her arm back and threw the lightsaber. The flaming sword made a bright streak in the teal-tinted mist, heading straight for Crosshair.

The fractal patterns webbing across the dark breastplate from Crennit’s close-range attempt on his life seemed to glow like the opalescent shimmer of thorilide threading through the quartz mines on Stassa II. Rashala’s hesitation in the Command Center could have taken Crosshair away forever and only Dex’s skill in katarn-enforced armorcraft had saved the clone from the rear admiral’s advantage over Rashala’s hesitancy to decide who lived and who died.

The lightsaber bloomed a nova over Crosshair’s heart as the blade sailed through the darkness.

Straightening her arm and leveling her blaster with a steady hand, Rashala shot Gi’ra through the base of the neck.

With a metallic clatter, the lightsaber fell to the ground at Crosshair’s feet, blade sizzling in the slewing rush of the flooding street. Rashala watched the dark red blood trickle like sap from the hole at the bottom of Gi’ra’s throat, the wound’s round edges running with embers of burning skin, and the Sith’s eyes widened at the realization. Gi’ra tentatively touched the injury, pulling away and splaying her hands across her collarbones as she took a gasp, then another, air rattling horribly as breath traveled in and out of her body through a new passageway.

Soft boots splashed through puddles as a lone figure ran up the street and Rashala couldn’t turn away from the awful sight of Gi’ra struggling to stay standing. The Sith’s shoulders pulled in and her body sagged under the sudden realization the blasterbolt failed severed her spine through the back of her throat.

Ridiculously, the Stassian felt the need to apologize, to erase the bleeding hollow she made in another person with the sheer force of her vehement apology, but there was no other way she could have stopped the lightsaber from killing Crosshair: Rashala knew she wasn’t strong or quick enough in the Force to pull the weapon back or to move Crosshair out of the way.

As much as she wanted to despise herself for the choice, Rashala had learned her lesson in what hesitation could truly cost.

Gi’ra shied back when Rashala got to her feet, a momentary fear flitting across the Sith’s astonished expression as she continued to reconcile her statistically unlikely luck she wasn’t dead. Rashala, against her better judgement, reached out a helpless hand, offering to catch Gi’ra in her stumble despite the fact the Sith was more than willing to abduct, torture, and either break or kill her.

The dark-eyed woman staggered back, tapping the side of her belt. A little beep broke through the patter of rain, cutting through the stunned silence stretching through the wet street.

“Gi’ra!” Teran shouted, and the Sith gave one last withering stare at the brown-robed Jedi before stepping back to the edge of the street. She reached for her lightsaber through the long distance but Teran flung out an arm and the weapon stayed where it fried in the rainwater at Crosshair’s feet. Gi’ra dipped over the edge of the low railing and disappeared in a graceful dive, a hand still clutched at her bleeding neck, and Rashala couldn’t bear the idea of watching her fall even as she wanted to see how she escaped. Teran ran to the edge and looked down, darting back as a blasterbolt soared past her shoulder. The familiar sound of standard issue blasters rang through the rain, red streaks pushing up through the grey drizzle.

“She’s got backup,” Teran announced needlessly, tone riddled with exasperation and sadness. Through the impossibly thick energy swirling invisibly around them, Rashala felt Teran’s disappointment in her former friend’s choices, anger with the now-fallen Temple leaders, and the current of compassion flowing underneath the brittle crust of knowing Gi’ra was perhaps truly too far gone to pull back from the Empire’s influence. The melancholic blend of heartbreak and hope, of resentment and woe, pulsed from the Jedi as she opened herself further to Rashala’s innocent awe. Teran and Rashala stared at each other for a moment, Teran speaking without words.

Both live inside you, Teran said, taking Rashala’s curious reach and reeling her in with the assurance of a trusted teacher. The dark will always be there, underneath your light. In all things, the same struggle.

Rashala glanced at Crosshair as the clone picked up the lightsaber rolling in the streaming water. The firepuncher tucked under his arm in a casual intimacy, he held the lightsaber with an unfamiliar grip on the hilt, exploring the way it felt in his gloved palm, staring at the way the sanguine blade pulsed at the join. His deep grey armor pulled in the light, the dark red streak down his breastplate webbed over with the fractaled, opaline glow from Crennit’s blastershot. Crosshair stood absolutely still, resisting joining the silent conversation Teran and Rashala opened for him, and his deep-seated, lifelong resistance to the Force pulled him away after just a moment of consideration. In that moment, Teran nodded her approval and Crosshair thumbed the hilt, red blade pulling the light out of the street to leave them all in a monochrome wash after the brilliance of the weapon’s glow. He hooked the hilt onto his utility belt and the metal glinted off the pucks at his hip.

“We need to move,” Crosshair’s voice was a low rasp through his helmet filters.

Teran released her companionable embrace of Rashala’s spirit with the gentleness of a long goodbye and the Stassian felt as though she had received a hug from her mother one last time, a parental comfort years after Schilmer’s Disease took her elders and left a generation of brothers and their sister to sit vigil. The echo of a village passed between Teran and Rashala, a promise of a found family–bound by duty but bonded in fellowship–sitting behind the veil of scattered mourning in the wake of the Empire’s explosive reach across the galaxy. The faint signatures of other Force-users, knights and padawans and even younglings, hummed under Teran’s own distinct voice in the cosmic span between worlds. Thousands of species from hundreds of worlds all thrummed in the celestial swirl of existence, energy given and returned and given again in the grand weave Rashala recognized in herself.

The experience was overwhelming, soothing, a joining and parting as natural as a river flowing around rock, proof there was something bigger and more beautiful than anything Rashala had known on Stassa II.

You’re never truly alone in the Force.

With little more than a faint smile, Teran briefly saluted Crosshair with the respect of a former commander to a clone captain and, to Rashala’s vague surprise, Crosshair returned the gesture. At the top of the street, an MSE droid breeeeeped loudly, and Rashala’s conflicted heart leapt at the sound of the familiar voice.

BRAPPPPPP Meece blurted rudely, whipping a tight circle in frustrated urgency. Rashala’s attention split at the reappearance of her droid and Teran’s dash down the street, the Jedi’s lightsaber swinging in wide arcs to block the first line of stormtroopers herding up the level. Crosshair spun and leveled his rifle with smooth confidence, taking out the pointmen hiding behind the metal scaffolding holding up the undercity. Rashala set her blaster to stun and shot over Crosshair’s shoulder, easily avoiding the sniper and Teran while stunning the stormtroopers continuing to swarm at the bottom of the flooding street.

“Go!” Teran shouted behind her, holding her own against the wall of white plastoid.

Rashala and Crosshair ran backward, shooting as they went, and Rashala almost tripped over Meese as the droid herded her around the corner up to the next level. The Stassian took one last look at Teran before pulling herself around the metal railing with the reassurance she’d see the Jedi again, even if there was no telling when or how she’d reunite with her unexpected mentor. Crosshair’s hand at the small of her back as he steadied her stumble over the droid was so unexpected that reassurance flowed through her heart to bolster her spirit. Fear and doubt ebbed away, galvanizing Rashala’s renewed effort to run as fast as she could up to the next level.

Grappling hooks shot up over the edge of the railing as the sniper and the Stassian sprinted through the next rain-filled street. The few people out in the terrible weather pushed themselves flat against the dirt-streaked brick and rust-stained metal of the level, ducking back as two tall, lean soldiers in dark armor ran by in a blur. Stormtroopers pulled themselves up from the lower level, scrambling up to the street with their lines tied around their waists. In an inspired moment to test Teran’s teachings, Rashala pushed her hand out at the stormtroopers climbing over the narrow barricade between the street and the hollow center of the undercity, and couldn’t even feel like a fool for the absolute lack of result. She stunned them instead, running point for Crosshair as he had her back, and the sniper took care of the stormtroopers pushing their way through the already thin crowd. The street emptied rapidly and Rashala kept running, following Meese as the droid whirred through debris floating through the overfull gutters.

A stormtrooper with red markings on his armor braced himself against his tether at the edge of the street, wrangling a massive weapon Rashala couldn’t identify as anything but undoubtedly bad news for their escape up to the next and last level before they reached the dock. Rashala scrambled back as fire erupted from the end of the flame projector, the incinerator trooper guiding the weapon with both hands as he leaned out over the fathomless expanse of the undercity’s central artery, and the plume was an explosive force.

Crosshair twisted into Rashala, moving to shoot the trooper despite the blinding glare of his thermal filter, but Rashala trusted herself to try again. She braced against the drying heat of the erupting flame and closed her eyes despite herself, half-expecting to feel her armor melt around her bones. Instead, a cool eddy buffeted through her helmet filters, a waxy, ashen taste coating the air as Rashala diverted the flame around them.

The shield of air was thin but controlled.

Rashala squinted in the fierce brightness, a surge of bravery encouraging her to move her hands just a little to direct the air into a wider wall against the flame. To her absolute astonishment, the shield held.

With Crosshair at her back, Rashala shuffled sideways down the rest of the street until she felt the ridge of grating at the junction up to the next level, and the sniper crouched behind her. Rashala wrenched the connection away from the elements swirling through her–fire, water, air, even the dirt streaking her armor–and the undercity was suddenly cold and dark again as the flame projector ran out of propellant at the exact moment she had to let go of the esoteric power draining her in the effort to keep from being fatally burnt. The incinerator trooper had given them everything he had and was left helpless under Crosshair’s merciless aim. The sniper fired and the stormtrooper dropped to dangle from his tether.

Meece squealed and rushed backwards but the warning wasn’t enough to keep Rashala from stopping her momentum at the top of the turn to the next level. Her shoulder exploded into a blistering pain and she landed heavily on her side. A weak bolt punched her right in the sensitive scar tissue still thickening around the missing chunk from the tip of her shoulder, the severed and not entirely steady bicep tremoring under the blow; her armor had saved her but Rashala shook with the pain. Her neck hurt where her helmet bounced off the railing and rainwater found the gaps between her armor to soak her blacks. Panicking, she scrambled for her blaster even as she tried to catch a breath, and ducked as another shot sailed over her head.

The level was lined with hangars, each blue-tinged span of transport bays lined with guides for ships to sail in and out without damage. The hollows were set as nests into the walls of the undercity and dozens of multicolored lights flickered like birdwings, a flurry of color and motion in the busy shipping level. A sleek silver cruiser glided out of the rainy mist to settle in a small hangar, a bulky cargo ship with belching engines backing out of a tall loading bay to hover over a launchpad. Workers pushed dented carts through the open-edged streets, skirting the lack of railings as though a fall wouldn’t result in their guaranteed deaths, and droids controlled the traffic in and out of the cargo level with regulated precision.

Rashala took in the hustle as she searched for the stormtrooper who had fired on her, rolling out of the way and firing a stunner back when she found the pillar of plastoid taking cover behind a stack of wooden crates. They exchanged fire and Rashala reluctantly reset her blaster, recognizing she was getting nowhere while fully exposed at the edge of the street; her shot pierced the crates and the small explosion of wooden shards and pulverized fruit blotted out most of the stormtrooper’s high-pitched, startled scream as he flew into the air. Rashala looked for Crosshair, knowing her blaster hadn’t done all that damage on its own, and found the sniper crouched at the corner of the junction, perched at the edge of the street: the barrel of his rifle was pointed directly at the ruined stack of cargo.

A siren wailed, the level devolving into a horribly similar cacophony to that of the Command Center during their escape, and Rashala got to her feet as a group of security droids activated from insets between hangar doorways. Droidekas, smaller and differently equipped than the battle-ready disasters that took out most of Cody’s squad on Desix but droidekas all the same, rolled out into the street.

The droids advanced, insectile limbs scuttling, and Crosshair took out three before the rest raised their shields. Transport bots continued their work, dipping through the misty core and drifting to and from platforms jutting from the level, but most of the humanoids took shelter in the hangars as Crosshair and Rashala shot at the security units. Seven hangars down, Meece spun in excited circles under the rounded tip of a small freighter ship jutting from the bay.

A surveillance droid whirred down from an upper level to investigate the commotion and Rashala shot it out of air without hesitation, its likeness to an Imperial probe droid sparing it no pity from the Stassian’s barely tamped panic as the droidekas forced her to keep moving. The entire level broke out in a firefight as stormtroopers rushed in from all directions.

One of the droidekas spat out an electrically charged net intended for Rashala but she dashed out of the way, the weights clipping her boots as she narrowly missed getting caught in the net. The stormtroopers behind her at the level’s entrance fell under the cracklingly bright white mass zapping them into submission. Another incinerator trooper pulled themself up by a grappling hook thrown from the lower level and Crosshair shot through the rope with ease, the line snapping with the force of the blasterbolt. He searched for his pucks and found everything where he placed them the previous rotation; with a satisfied nod, he tapped his comm line to Rashala’s helmet.

“Get down,” he ordered calmly, and his complete control settled Rashala’s jangling nerves as she flattened herself behind a tumbled mountain of ruined cargo containers. The droidekas kept shooting and the sniper crouched, waiting for the droids to advance another yard. Crosshair sighted in the first puck set at the bottom of the level above and took the shot.

The blasterbolt ricocheted in a geometric weave, bouncing off a deflector and two placed pucks before slamming into the droideka preparing to roll forward to close the slim distance between it and the security threat. It exploded in a ball of hot orange flame, setting off a chain reaction with the droidekas around it when the spray of flaming propellant poured through the weak shields and shrapnel stuck in the scurrying limb joints. These droidekas weren’t Separatist war machines: they were stripped down, affordable security units sold well before tensions with the Republic ran too high to do above-board business, and failed easily under Crosshair’s honed strategies.

He made battle look easy, warfare effortless, and Rashala felt his subtle, fleeting pleasure when the explosions popped each droideka into oblivion. He was a man made to control chaos and he thrived in the scorching pressure of it all.

With a startling crack that shook the entire level and boomed louder than any thunder from the distant sky, the street under the ruined droidekas began to collapse.

Crosshair’s self-exasperated sigh was almost imperceptive in Rashala’s ear.

The Stassian might have spared a faint grin at his breach of severe focus had she not immediately clung to the realization they were left with no way across the divide. Peeking out from around the ruined cargo, a stench of pulverized fruits and sticky-sweet syrups seeping through her helmet filters, Rashala didn’t try to hide her shock at the enormous gap the explosion made in the smooth duracrete street.

At least three hangars wide, the distance between them and their transport was canyon-like, impossible to jump and improbable to span in the time they had; ships launched from their loading bays in a hurried effort to get as far away from the commotion as possible, others closing their hangar doors and locking themselves inside until the situation was remedied.

In the miniscule shipping port of the Coruscanti undercity, time was credits and attention was costly. Little cruisers and two-person transports shot out into the foggy, rainy core without waiting for the traffic droids and the airspace dissolved into chaos within seconds. Duracrete from the ruined hangar level continued to crunch and crumble as massive chunks of the street collapsed into lower levels and bounced off railings, colliding with ships and tumbling down through the rain-wet maw of darkness pierced only by flurrying pinpricks of electric light.

Across the gap, the MSE screeched. Rashala shouted uselessly as a weequay–the same consistent customer from Sniv’s Canteen–darted from the hangar and picked up the MSE in a seizing grasp. Meese zapped him and blatted indignantly at being dropped, spinning its treads to try to get back up. The weequay shouted something over his shoulder, obviously directed by someone in the hangar to take the droid, and reluctantly reached again before pulling back at the MSE’s crackling defensive measures. Rashala huffed her own indignance as the weequay kicked Meece like a ball, rolling him with the carelessness of a toy even as each inexpert tap of his boots against the casing gave the thief another zap. Inside the hangar, an engine-glow ramped up to brighten the edges of the doorway: the ship was preparing to leave without them.

“Not with my droid,” Rashala muttered, surprising Crosshair. The sniper smirked behind his helmet, assessing the situation around them and making a decision. She could handle what he had planned.

“Follow me,” Crosshair directed, smoothly holstering the firepuncher into the slot in the hardpack, “and keep up.”

Rashala’s stomach dropped when Crosshair took a running leap over the edge of the street. He dipped out of view before rising up on the top of one of the surveillance droids swarming the site. The lanky clone looked impossibly heavy for the droid but the unit whined underneath him as he stood and caught his balance before shooting down into the metal carapace. The droid’s engines died and Crosshair jumped to another before doing the same thing. He created a stepping-stone path of the droids making swirls through the mist, each one plummeting behind him.

Launching into a sprint, ripping off her water-logged cloak and checking her blaster, Rashala forced herself not to think, just act. She leapt over the edge of the street and the exhilarating rush of the act seemed to buoy her before she landed on top of one of the surveillance droids.

The unit tried to compensate for her weight, tilting hard. Rashala sought the nearest droid, her helmet helping calculate a path while warning her of the myriad risks of what she was doing. She shot into the unshielded surveillance droid and it dropped quicker than she expected; she almost missed the next droid, slipping on the slightly domed top. She tripped over the flexible antennae on the subsequent unit, falling over the edge even as she destroyed that one, too. The droids were equipped with weak transmitters, only capable of sending small packets of visual data at a short range and likely not very quickly at that, but any information they gathered and distributed would only help the Empire catch the escapees faster.

The traffic droid scolded when Rashala caught herself on the unit’s illuminated arms. It tried to shake her off, spinning so fast Rashala’s legs flung out behind her. She couldn’t hold on with both hands, clutching her blaster as she whirled dizzily, and her armor unhelpfully pinged her helmet to warn her of low visibility in the fog. The timing couldn’t have been more annoying and Rashala scanned the blur around her for any sign of a way off the traffic droid without flying into the side of a ship and sliding to her death.

The wing of a ship, though. She could make that work.

Rashala used her helmet’s visual scanners to identify one of the large moving objects flying nearby and trusted her instinct when her body and mind conjointly shouted for her to trust herself and jump a second too early against her helmet’s calculation for a successful landing. She let go of the spinning traffic droid and weightlessness sent her stomach into her throat even as her spirit leapt at the excitement. Rashala hit the J-type scriff with a sliding squeak of her armor against the wet chrome wingtop; she bounced and her ribs hurt despite her breastplate absorbing most of the impact. She caught the pilot’s open-mouthed stare before finding her feet and, wildly enough, she gave them an apologetic nod for the uninvited arrival on the wing of their ship.

Rain pounded on the space-scorched metal and matched the beat of her footsteps as Rashala dashed across the wing, jumped onto the nose, and launched herself towards the nearest surveillance droid. She found each jump easier, the height not so terrifying when she let her body follow her instincts instead of her racing thoughts. Elation and adrenaline sharpened every sense, an almost premonitory glimpse showing her where to put her feet even while she leapt through the air.

She caught the wide arc of the last droid with a satisfying snap of her arms around its slippery casing. The droid ballooned upward and Rashala waited until the unit was level with the hangars before flinging herself across the short distance between sky and ground, rolling to her feet and into Crosshair’s open arm. He steadied Rashala as she planted her boots securely on the wet duracrete platform and the bond was a magnetic pull into each other as they shared a climactic battle-rush. The Stassian wasted no time in aiming at the last surveillance droid and blowing it to pieces.

For a moment, they stood together, weapons drawn, staring through the pouring rain at the littered handiwork of shards of droids and a massive gap in the broken street that divided the level in a smoking haze. The satisfaction of success against all odds warmed in the unspoken connection between them.

“No, no, we’re not in a hurry at all!” an unfamiliar voice shouted behind them, an accented drawl punctuating the unsyncopated space between sirens and alarms. “Just stand there and enjoy yourselves! I insist!”

Crosshair, elbow cocked as he held his blaster at his shoulder, would have been an intimidating sight to anyone but the weequay, who only threw up his hands as though to frame the landscape as a thing of beauty rather than the polluted site of destruction it was. The captain–and he could only have been the captain based on the way the rest of the crew stared with a blend of amused respect palpably hanging by a thread–shook out the sleeves of his long blue coat with a comedic casualness, adjusting his slim goggles as though to see the view better. The sniper turned to fix the weequay with a glare so fierce he didn’t need to remove his helmet to prove his displeasure. Rashala glanced among the motley crew, panting with exertion, and couldn’t find who she was looking for.

“Where’s Ola?” she asked, jogging to the hanger if only to get out of range from the stormtroopers firing across the rain-shrouded span from one level to another. They were poor shots but Rashala wasn’t a stalwart soldier to take her chances when cover was available. “And where’s my droid?”

Meece beeped mournfully from inside the ship and Rashala’s protectiveness was fortified by knowing Dex trusted her to keep the MSE safe. The light freighter was the smallest cargo ship she had ever seen and she made for the open port on the side before the weequay from Sniv’s blocked her path.

“You can have one or the other,” the captain shrugged, and Rashala quickly realized she wouldn’t know when the weequay was joking unless he wanted her to know. “You can also pay up before you board my ship.”

“Isn’t this Ola’s ship?”

“Ola’s ship,” the captain conceded, as though the fact had slipped his mind. He held out his hand and Rashala stared at it dumbly.

“I’ve already paid,” the Stassian said calmly, hiding her growing worry Ola hadn’t mentioned the terms of the arrangement to her chartered pilot. “With information.”

The captain tilted his head, his locs laced with dyed leather, and small charms jingled like miniscule bells. Sirens continued to blare outside the hangar and the stormtroopers were no more accurate than they were before but blasterfire increased in the sporadic rain of bright bolts scarring the wet platform.

“Cap’n, uh, the boss said she was paid up,” one of the crew hesitantly interjected as Crosshair advanced in his menacing slink. “She’s good.”

“How do we know she’s the right one,” the captain countered, almost playfully but for the annoyed undertone. “And there’s two of them! One was the agreement.”

Rashala holstered her blaster–the crew were already wary enough with Crosshair’s advance–and took off her helmet. The scattered, salacious whistles were completely unnecessary when Rashala roughly ran a gloved hand through her sweat-soaked hair. The crew stammered apologies when Crosshair casually shot a single bolt into the ground at their feet for their impertinence. The blaster echoed terribly loud in the small space and Rashala flinched despite herself but the captain didn’t so much as blink. His shrewd stare hardened.

“That’s her,” one of the crewmates hurriedly confirmed. “The- ma’am, cap’n, she’s her– I mean, she’s she, sir-”

The captain pulled out his own blaster–a wooden-handled affair with a well-worn pistol trigger–and shot the man himself, barely glancing away from Rashala to take aim. Unconscious with a stunner to the gut, the crewman collapsed and the others shuffled aside to distance themselves from their leader’s mercurial sense of fairness.

“So she is,” the goggled weequay agreed reluctantly, and Rashala didn’t like his smile even as he replaced the weapon in his hand with a flask from his wide coat pocket. From the corner of her eye, she watched Crosshair slowly lower his blaster; his tension was a harsh discordance in the space between them. “Still, one too many passengers. Not what was agreed.”

“I can pay for him.”

Rashala tucked her fingers into the low pocket in the beltline of her blacks, awkwardly moving past her utility belt to get to the little chip hidden there. No one dared whistle this time and, when Rashala pulled out the tiny data card, all eyes were on Crosshair if only to prove they were attempting to be respectful. The captain squinted at the chip, taking a swig from the silver-tooled flask as he made his bet.

“There’s nothing on that,” he bluffed, and Rashala shook her head.

“I gave Ola the first one and she thought it was enough for me. This contains a different set of data,” Rashala stated, calming her nervousness by pretending she was explaining something to her team in the NATSIC M rather than staring down a captain flanked by a mean-looking crew. “This is enough for him.”

The captain scratched the hornlike protrusions under his jaws, rubbing his hand along his collar as though Rashala was bartering unfairly. She stared back with clear eyes and set lips, faking her confidence.

Rashala wasn’t bartering: she was insisting, but the seasoned trader saw her desperation.

“Information my broker already has,” the captain said dismissively, waving his hand at the chip. “You get a free ride and I look like a scugg-hugger. No deal.”

“Not for me, for him,” Rashala stated clearly, and the rain became hail pounding on the duracrete outside. “Both chips are from the Imperial Command Center. This could help her– You could help her with this!”

“I already help Ola!” the captain shouted with a forced grin, couching frustration in his false mirth. “I fly her ship, I deliver her contraband, I shuffle her friends back and forth and back and forth… The boss is meaner than a Zyggerian slave-driver! And I know a few of them, by the way.”

Rashala didn’t take the statement as a threat but Crosshair did. The sniper’s subtle shift towards Rashala was obviously protective without being invasive, dominant without domineering the Stassian. She appreciated the strength he lent her. Rashala watched the captain’s eyes widen behind his goggles unexpectedly.

“That.”

The weequay pointed to the lightsaber on Crosshair’s belt.

“I want that.”

“It isn’t on the table,” Crosshair hissed, his helmet a harsh shield, but Rashala considered the captain’s interest without hesitation.

“Deal,” she said, aware the sounds of stormtroopers were getting closer to the hanger even through the clamor of battering hail. Crosshair’s displeased surprise was obvious but Rashala simply stared up at him with the expectation he’d hand the weapon over. The sniper waited for the Stassian to change her mind and she didn’t, offering Crosshair the data chip in exchange.

With great reluctance, Crosshair unclipped the hilt from his hip and handed her the lightsaber.

A fleeting image passed between them when they touched, a vision the clone accidentally let slip through their bond. Rashala saw herself holding the hilt the way Teran did when the Jedi wielded the blade against Gi’ra, a practiced grip pulling the blade through the air with a graceful swing, and the blue was the same crystal waters of the river running through Rashala’s village on Stassa II. The speculation was fleeting, as rippled as wind on a frothy ocean, but strong.

Crosshair placed the chip in a small pocket of his utility belt and Rashala held the hilt out to the captain as though nothing had passed between the clone and the Stassian, but their silent communication spoke louder than any words could ever say. Crosshair was just as surprised as Rashala at the vision and far more unnerved.

“We need to go,” Rashala prompted, shaking the hilt at the weequay, who smiled broadly like they were all old friends. He took the saber and stuck it in his pocket to join the flask as though the most feared weapon in the galaxy was no more than a souvenir.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” he exclaimed, and the diffused tension amongst his crew was enough to jolt them into shuffling the last of the crates off the back of the ship. One of the crewmen grabbed the ankle of his unconscious crewmate and dragged him on board. The familiar weequay from the diner stepped off the ramp to let the MSE droid out. Meece ran over the top of the unconscious man in its hurry to get off the ship, chattering as it shot towards Rashala. The Stassian bent to pat the droid on the top of its case even as she hurried after the captain’s swaying stride lest they be left behind after all.

“You did good, Meece,” she reassured the droid, ignoring Crosshair’s vague annoyance with the MSE’s neediness. The droid spun back up the ramp, running between the captain’s tall boots, and the weequay gave Rashala an annoyed point.

“That’s extra,” he informed her, turning the point into an upturned palm to offer her his hand in assistance boarding the freighter. “Was going to sell it for scrap if you hadn’t turned up.”

“Thanks for the help,” Rashala said dryly, making him aware she absolutely knew neither captain nor crew assisted in any way. She ignored his hand but the captain seized her fingers, wrapping her arm over his in a grandiose display of control masking as chivalry. Within a second, Crosshair took the safety off his blaster and had the barrel pointed between the captain’s shoulder blades. The weequay paused before breaking into an uproarious laugh. After a hesitant moment, Rashala gracefully extracted herself and stepped into the ship to leave Crosshair to deal with the captain.

“I was wrong. I was wrong, okay, okay, okay” the weequay said, not contrite in the slightest and barely bothering to hide whatever amused him about a blaster pushed against his spine. Crosshair didn’t say anything at all when the weequay turned and put his hands up mockingly. “Can’t blame a ‘quay for trying.”

A squad of stormtroopers appeared around the open hangar door and spared no time in shooting, red bolts bouncing off the freighter to leave marks on the sand-tinted paint.

“Let’s touch some sky, captain!” one of the crewmen shouted from the cockpit, and the weequay sauntered into the freighter as though he wasn’t leaving one of the most dangerous riflemen in the galaxy standing with no one to intimidate.

Crosshair leveled the blaster at the stormtroopers and took out a dozen before the freighter engines fully whirred to speed. The ship wobbled as its landing equipment retracted into the bulky body and a concerning clatter of screws falling off the belly panel failed to inspire confidence. One of the troopers managed a decent shot and Crosshair ducked, the bolt sailing into a small metal jut from a service port and frying whatever the part was.

A small piece of who he used to be, a remnant of not just the soldier he was but the brother he might have been back when he took brotherhood for granted, rose up from the depths of his muscle memory. Crosshair had to stop himself from pinging the comms for a report to the cockpit. Tech would have known what was damaged and how to fix it before the device even hit the ground. He also would have run the calculations on how thick the duracrete street would have needed to be to fully withstand the explosive force of the security droidekas. Wrecker would have known that much, the sniper chided himself.

Balancing on the ramp as the ship slowly eased towards the hangar’s light-rimmed mouth, Crosshair easily shot into the stormtrooper’s skimmer, leveling a blasterbolt into the narrow engine vent and blowing the small transport to pieces; the debris skittered alongside thick chunks of hail and the fireball was a hissing spray of flaming oil under the force of torrential rain. The freighter picked up speed as it prepared to enter the fogged transit lanes and the sniper reluctantly stepped into the ship, hailstones bouncing off the groaning ramp.

“We’ve got company,” one of the crewmen–a Twi’lek missing half of one of his short blue lekku–said from his hunch over the navigation computer. Rashala stared over the crewman’s shoulder, turning to look for Crosshair. Her blue eyes were more vibrant than anything in the freighter, her pale gold hair a sleek gleam in the dark. For a moment, she was all the color in his world, and the clone ignored their improbable odds of escape even as nearly a dozen security units swooped into the display.

“Blast ‘em.”

The captain’s order was nothing but direct, no humor in his tone, and the weequay from the restaurant took the co-pilot’s seat not a moment too soon. Everyone standing was rocked off their feet as the captain slammed the controls into the panel and smashed the freighter through three of the security units. The hull scraped with a deafening screech. Between flame and thick rain, there was no visibility and the viewscreen was a muddy sheet rippled with hailstones. The MSE whined as it went tumbling through the gally. Rashala grabbed onto the back of the navigator’s seat, her helmet tumbling out from under her arm, and Crosshair staggered to keep himself upright.

“Weapons panel,” the clone hissed at the co-pilot, and the weequay pointed to a narrow row of controls near the comm bay. Crosshair tapped at the turret commands and tried to divert the auto-defense system but the freighter was poorly equipped for manual engagement with an enemy.

“We’re a cargo ship!” the co-pilot shouted over his shoulder, ignoring his captain’s delighted chuckle as the freighter careened through the transit lanes and smashed a pair of security units trying to apprehend the ship. The freighter’s shielding visibly crackled when one of the security units–a slim, gold-tinted planetary skiff–popped the freighter with a power interrupter.

“You’re pirates!” Rashala shouted back incredulously, still clinging to the back of the nav chair.

“Let ‘im play,” the captain ordered, never turning as he sent the freighter into a steep climb up through the middle of the undercity’s hollow core. “We need the help”

The weequay flipped a switch hidden underneath the front control console and the weapons panel flipped around to reveal a much more sophisticated weapons control unit, stolen out of an ambassador ship; the edges of the panel were scratched and the mounting screws were mismatched but the unit was well-wired into the rack, display bright and responsive. Obviously, the pirates were used to port checks and hangar inspections, hiding their most important aspects of running Ola’s business affairs. 

Crosshair wasted no time activating the controls and, after a test shot proved the display’s accuracy, a small explosion of a security skiff momentarily punched through the rattling cacophony. The sniper thought he heard a meowling hiss in the bulging cargo nets overhead but couldn’t spare his attention from the panel. The MSE whined where it was stuck between equipment racks at the back of the gally and Rashala held onto the navigation bay chair, watching as the Twi’lek handled the trickiest part of escaping Coruscant in a raging storm.

The radar lit up across the nav panel as the ship climbed nose-up through hail and rain, the freighter roaring like a battleship. Crosshair couldn’t easily differentiate between air traffic and security units on the weapons panel but he didn’t need the work to be easy: he needed to be accurate. He braced himself and balanced carefully to keep from tugging on the controls inadvertently, swinging the underbelly turret and stub-nosed rear gun at any ship without a passenger or transport signature. The security skiffs were faster than the light freighter but couldn’t bluntly push their way through the elements the way the captain forced the ship through the stormy deluge.

“We’re in the clear!” the co-pilot announced as he assisted the captain in directing fuel to the engines; the ship whined as hailstones melted in the already flooded intake vents.

“No, we’re not!” the Twi’lek shouted back. “We’re barely out of the undercity! Still a lotta air out there!”

Crosshair felt Rashala’s sudden chill, the Stassian staring at the screen over the Twi’lek’s shoulder and tightening her grip on the chair. The sniper spared a glance at the nav screen and saw the scrambling display, understood the interference they were encountering, and turned to the viewscreen. His helmet helped sharpen the image through the polarized front of the freighter, contrasting the enormous wedge skimming the stormclouds over Coruscant’s airspace.

The Venator hovered over the soaked city-planet like a haunting. The hail-threaded rain became the memory of a rushing, ravenous, churning ocean, the attack cruiser a remembrance of what Crosshair had tried to claw back from the merciless Empire even as he gave himself up to the Imperial Army. Kamino flooded him, threatened to immobilize him.

Crosshair flattened his brow and reminded himself who he was.

As the freighter shot up into the steel, oval-bellied clouds, Crosshair took every weapon the freighter had and leveled the barrels at the Imperial squadron swooping in. Four Torrents followed a TIE in a tight formation, swinging in a steep arc from the Command Center to intercept the freighter. Attack drones peppered Crosshair’s screen. The captain and the co-pilot forced every bit of fuel the ship had into the engines and the ship careened when a jagged lightning bolt lit up the rain-clogged sky. The strike electrified the air and galvanized Crosshair’s determination.

Crosshair didn’t wait for the fighters to fire on the freighter. He shot the Torrents out of the sky, one after the other, before they could break formation. The clone was limited to the latency of the weapons panel but his aim was precise; he perfectly anticipated the flight paths and felt the freighter rock under the explosive impact of three Imperial attack ships ricocheting off each other. The Twi’lek cheered, his excitement a rowdy and unnecessary addition to the noise. The freighter was nothing like the Maurader and the captain piloted as poorly as Wrecker: no one should be cheering, not with the crew they had.

“They’re still chasing us,” Rashala warned the Twi’lek, pointing to the radar blip that was the TIE and single remaining Torrent diverting around the aerial blowup. The freighter rocked and an alarm sounded as the shields shuddered under the TIE’s first round of fire. The ship swayed as the weequays fought the elements and zigzagged through the blinding storm, and Crosshair ordered them to fly straight.

“We’re shaking them off!” the co-pilot shouted, and Crosshair softened his hands on the controls.

“You’re making a mistake,” the sniper said, the remnants of a commander in his harsh tone. “Fly straight!”

The co-pilot looked silently to the captain, who shrugged and course-corrected to make the freighter a straight streak through the fiercest part of the storm.

“We’re gonna die,” the co-pilot moaned, letting go of his controls and flipping every switch on his shielding bus. The rows lit up and the engines rushed with an overload of energy to make the freighter the fastest of its kind anywhere in the galaxy at the extreme risk of exploding. Regaining the speed lost in careening back and forth proved Crosshair’s order was sound.

The sniper waited for the right moment to fire, the Torrent swinging directly behind the light freighter in a deadly mistake, and Crosshair took it out with a single blast. The TIE and a speckling of attack drones evaded the debris.

“They’re locking on us!” the Twi’lek shouted wildly, smacking his long-nailed hands on the navigation display. “They’re gonna fire!”

“Counting on it.”

Crosshair’s rasping whisper was confident, so absolutely certain of himself, that Rashala’s swell of faith lit through him with the electric luminance of lightning. He tempered his arrogance and ego into resoluteness and waited for the TIE to swing around the port side of the freighter.

Breathing in and holding the air in a lungful of heady expectation, Crosshair fired into the TIE’s wingtip just as the attack ship locked in on the light freighter. The margin of error left Crosshair with millimeters to spare. The TIE twisted into a wild fall, pulling the drones with it as the pilot was forced to temporarily abandon the attack to keep from careening through the air in a dizzyingly fast spin.

Bouncing in his seat, the Twi’lek cheered madly, Rashala silent and astonished even as she continued to keep her feet under the ship’s severe pitch. Crosshair exhaled and straightened his shoulders, taking a defiant shot at the Venator as the freighter punched through the last of the stormclouds. The green flare would never land on the Imperial cruiser, would dissipate in the rainy, hail-riddled distance without so much as brushing the Venator’s shield, but he wasn’t above a parting shot. Crosshair removed his helmet, the weight of Imperial armor lifting from his head, and thumbed a pick from his belt.

The viewfinder erupted into brilliant blue, the crystalline air thin and clean above the storm smothering Coruscant into non-existence, and then the captain punched the ship into a whirlwind of stars.

Chapter Text

Rashala accepted the ration bar reluctantly, knowing the flavorless grit of chalky nutrients would do little to sate hunger, but there was nothing else to eat without breaking into the cargo crates. The sniper stood over her for a moment, a dark blot against the mottled light pouring through heavy-bellied cargo nets looping through the ship truss. Rashala didn’t have the energy or interest to squint up at him. 

Smoothly, Crosshair sat next to her on the grated floor, joining her stare at the tiny metal washer resting at Rashala’s toes. What she had been trying to do was obvious–he could feel her accidentally punch miniscule holes through the already permeable and fallible shield between them in the Force–but the washer hadn’t budged. With her knees tucked into her chest as much as her armor allowed, Rashala curled in on herself despite the heat of the engines under the cargo hold; her muscles hurt and every part of her was exhausted. 

Their companionable silence held no expectation to speak.

Of the people she had ever met in her lifetime, there were few with whom she could simply sit and be present with. Crosshair’s tension, an entire ocean raging and rolling inside him, slowly calmed despite his best efforts to maintain a hardened facade. At Rashala’s side, he didn’t have to hold up his guard, didn’t need to expend the energy of carrying expectations. Crosshair rolled his neck, stretching his stiff shoulders.

Dim light made soft shadows in the corners around pallets of mismatched containers, a soothing dark adding to the pleasant smell of dust from a dozen systems and pollen from a dozen more. Crates of tea and spices scented the air. Lumpy nets sagging with strange vegetables swayed with the rhythmic beat of the ship’s steadily churning engines. After the metallic brightness of the Command Center and looming, noisy presence of billions of travelers passing through the Coruscanti undercity, the light freighter’s cargo space was a calm nook slipping through the hyperlanes, a liminal space where all that needed to be done was to simply exist. 

Rashala leaned her head back to rest against the wide stack of crates strapped to the sides of the walls, closing her eyes with a tired sigh.

“Where are we headed?” she asked softly, and Crosshair let his shoulders drop.

“Uniré.”

Crosshair’s single-word answer gave the Stassian no information whatsoever.

“I’ve been three places in my life,” Rashala said without opening her eyes, counting on her fingers. “Coruscant. Desix. Metalorn.”

Her context was simple, unencumbered by bitterness or accusation, but Crosshair held the enormity of the information with the respect she deserved. A single mission for Clone Force 99 might involve a few planets, a moon, and an evasive maneuver around a sun. Before the Republic fell, the Batch had put eleven missions behind them in under a standard year, fourteen missions the year before that. Crosshair could chart a map and read a starchron as well as any seasoned galactic traveler but, glancing at Rashala, realized he took that information–and ability–for granted. The woman next to him might never have left Stassa II had it not been for her violent conscription. Her ignorance of the galaxy was in sharp contrast to Crosshair’s life of constant movement from one star system to the next.

“Uniré is a planet in the Scalwik system,” he explained, resting an elbow on his knee and unwrapping his own ration bar in no great hurry. “We’ll get off there.”

“Is the planet nice?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Ola said the ship could take us as far as Lothal.”

“Do you want to go to Lothal?”

Crosshair’s hesitancy would have gone unrecognized had Rashala not known the tone of his voice as well as she did. She glanced at him and he avoided staring back, taking a forced bite from the ration bar instead.

“We could go anywhere from there.”

The sniper snorted.

“There’s nothing on Lothal,” he said dismissively, but Rashala’s relief slipped through her voice.

“Then there’s nothing there to find us.”

Rashala felt the shift between them and stared at the little metal washer at her feet instead, understanding the offer she accidentally made so flippantly, the assumed expectation she unexpectedly placed on them to stay together. 

But nothing else felt right.

“There aren’t many starports with a direct transit to the Risedelian system,” Crosshair eventually said, and he spoke as carefully as he would step through a minefield. “We’ll need to find a ship. Likely more than one–”

“What if-”

Her hesitation cut across Crosshair’s unusual wordiness and the sniper fell silent in immediate awareness whatever Rashala had to say was going to take a certain amount of bravery she struggled to muster.

Even as they had shared space in their bodies, navigated each other’s minds and emotions through unfathomable strain, and followed one another through battle and grief, some things weren’t easy to place between them. He waited but she didn’t speak again and then he knew what conflict warred in her heart.

“What if you didn’t go back to your moon?” Crosshair asked after a long pause, prompting her even as he understood there was no way she could choke through the filters of her restraint.

Rashala slipped her fingertips over his arm, unable to speak, unsure what she’d say if she could find the words. Tears welled–embarrassing, hot–and she swallowed hard. There was so much more than she could pull together and tie into a tidy package of clearly defined wants, doubts, and hopes...

After a heartbeat, he placed his hand over hers.

--–

“They’re headed right for you.”

Rex’s holo rippled and Tech boosted the Marauder's receiver with a quick tap on his datapad. The hem of the captain’s poncho fluttered damply and the myriad lights of Coruscanti undercity spun in mottled aberrations behind him. Echo’s voice was a calm addition to the background noise, a young woman’s unimpressed banter proving the clones were reporting safely from the Martez shop deep in the underground.

“And you’re sure he’s on that ship?” Hunter asked, emotion running high under the mask he kept in place for Omega. Wrecker and Tech glanced at each other over their sister’s head, the girl leaning forward to see the holo better, but she knew as well as they did how even the mention of Crosshair sent Hunter’s medstats soaring. That Hunter was willing to even acknowledge a reference to Crosshair, much less ask specifically about him, was noted by everyone in the Marauder.

“Never saw pirates shoot down a TIE before.”

Rex sent a video clip through the line. Pulled from a security feed, Coruscant’s jagged skyline pushed up against the thinned grid of air traffic. The spinning fighter ship was an obvious speck in the stormy sky, trailing dark smoke while a battered 690 Ghetroc light freighter disappeared through the lightning-laced clouds.

“He took down a TIE?” Wrecker exclaimed, clapping Tech on the back of the pilot’s chair with unnecessary excitement. “In THAT?”

“Took out some of an undercity level, too,” Rex added, and the rainy remains of what used to be a shipping hangar lit up the holo. “Security units or not, droidekas still pack a punch.”

“Crosshair’s precision in calculating the fuel payload in consumer-grade units was always lacking,” Tech observed, studying the damage before Rex pulled the data back. The captain crossed his arms thoughtfully.

“They barely made it,” he explained, “and Coruscant is in chaos. The command— Fulcrum is tracking a threat with the help of a Temple survivor. Trace had to pull their topside lines. We’re pinned down until the Empire sorts out the Command Center and sends the Venator away.”

“They’re scaring people,” Omega said in a hushed voice and Rex nodded.

“The Senate won’t stand for it much longer.”

“Not a good look,” Hunter pondered, glancing at Omega. “This makes everything more difficult.”

“We’re gonna have an even harder time getting vode off the planet, that’s for sure,” Rex agreed, shaking his head. His expression softened ever so slightly. “Listen. Hunter. When you see him-”

“Thanks for the report, Rex.”

Hunter killed the line and dropped the connection without pomp, pushing down the communication system powerload and diverting energy to the engines; overriding Tech’s datapad from the master console betrayed his poorly hidden edginess, his nerves grating on everyone in the cockpit. No one spoke. From the co-pilot’s position, Hunter prepped the ship to set off from the asteroid hide. He moved with edged efficiency. Tech docked the datapad and obeyed without retort when Hunter directed the pilot to take them planetside.

“Uh, Hunter-”

“Can it wait, Wrecker?”

The big clone thought about Hunter’s question and shrugged, guiding Omega away from her curious stare between the brothers.

“Just wanted to know the rest of what Rex was gonna say, that’s all,” he said, and Omega took his hand. Hunter glanced over his shoulder to watch the girl–wise beyond her years–help Wrecker pack away the open cases from their inventory check. Crosshair’s weapons kit was among the mess. Seeing the slim black case out of its rack felt no differently a year later than when Omega first tried to help search for something else and found the sniper’s tools instead.

“I’d remind you not to take out your emotions on your team,” Tech said tactfully, his hands on the controls softer than his clipped tone, “but you already know not to do that.”

Hunter pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, leaning back in his seat.

“What are we even doing?”

“We’re scouting the trade post known to harbor Captain Ohnaka’s crew in advance of-”

“No, Tech. What are we expecting from this?”

Hunter waved his arm at the viewshield, the stars shining among the cloudlike shapes of astroids drifting in a dusty ring around the marbled planet. Omega’s laughter behind them was short, child-like, and Wrecker’s booming guffaw made a home of a ship that was never meant to be more than a transport.

“He’s our brother.”

Hunter glanced incredulously at the pilot and didn’t speak. Tech guided the ship through space with as much ease as breathing, weaving a little wider than necessary around a particularly large, speckled asteroid simply for the sake of soaring. Hunter thought about the simple truth in Tech’s statement, felt the way his stomach twisted with the thought of trying and failing yet again to convince Crosshair his place was at their side.

“What you’re expecting and what might occur could be one and the same,” the pilot continued thoughtfully, and Hunter focused on the planet widening in front of them. “Or, in the more likely scenario, Crosshair will continue to rebuff our attempts at reconciliation. We should be prepared either way.”

Well aware Tech only spoke to his emotions under duress and with great prompting when it came to anyone but Hunter, the tracker did his best to ignore the cues obvious only from his heightened perceptions. Tech’s tension was apparent in his hands before he relaxed his grip to his usual controlled touch/ The pilot was aware Hunter was watching him. Too casually, Tech prepared the Marauder for atmosphere, switching the pressure banks and activating the control bus for air exchange. Others were quick to dismiss Tech, including his own squad, but Hunter–despite being the first to remind Tech no one wanted a detailed report on anything unless specifically asked–knew to overlook Tech’s advice was foolish.

“Do you believe him?” Hunter asked, watching the amber spread threaded through soft blue become a spackled spray of color as the planet filled the viewscreen.

“I believed him then,” Tech answered, “and I also believe him now.”

“Based on a single security clip of him riding a krynka out of the Command Center,” Hunter exhaled, shaking his head for the ridiculousness of what he just said.

“I saw a soldier help a fellow soldier when he had no other reason to do so besides loyalty.”

“We saw two different things.”

Tech skimmed the skies, setting the Marauder’s scanners to ping on the coastline of the easternmost and most populated continent of the small, largely arboreal planet. Various transmitters from camps and villages pinged back, their protocols populating in a short, rolling list on Tech’s display.

“You see what you want to see, Hunter.”

“Some sort of Jedi now?” the leader taunted as only brothers could. The conversation had gotten too heavy and Hunter shed some of the tension. “See much, can you, young padawan?”

“Although your impersonation of Master Yoda needs much improvement, I see your point.” 

The Marauder skimmed the coastline, wingtips brushing fresh salty currents and whipping the edges of clouds into swizzled peaks. The air exchange pulled in the faint organic musk of dried leaves and old bark, a smoky mineral scent layering underneath the strangely comforting smell of a planet settling in for a season of rest. Chalky cliffsides tumbled as the Marauder soared by and a flock of white seabirds with red wingtips took to the skies in the ship’s wake.

“We look at the same security clip,” Tech eventually said, “and, although we watch the same objective occurrence, we recognize two different actions from the same man. You see Crosshair leaving the Empire and worry he is lying. You are rightfully concerned he is still dedicated to the Imperial Army.”

“What do you see?”

Tech guided the Marauder past several open groves before circling back to hover over a hole in the canopy large enough to camouflage the battle-scarred Omicron. Dead leaves flurried in the engine’s tornadic rush before Tech settled the ship on firm ground. He stared contemplatively at the console before answering Hunter, avoiding looking at him by busying himself with cross-checking control panels.

“I see Crosshair assisting a battlemate and recognize his sincerity has shifted.”

Hunter sat quietly, scanning the landscape. Heavy boughs jutted from thick brown trunks, leaves golden in the midday light. Rich green needles latticed the tall, ladderlike pine. Granite boulders, moss-capped and hunchbacked, rolled out of the otherwise flat span of forest floor and the ground was blanketed in dead leaves and pinecones as large as Wrecker’s fists. The Marauder was a visitor, not a settler, and drab brown birds chirped in an impromptu meeting to discuss the strange, loud newcomer with metal wings and harshly tipped beak. 

Tech powered down the engines and started the recycling process, reclaiming water from clean condensation on the coils and filling the cistern; he moved through the life controls checklists as though second nature and Hunter studied the map. They were 15 klicks from the nearest small village, the open grove settled in a long strip of woods running between a freshwater lake and the seaside. The village was little more than a trading post and an annotation to the map outlined the outpost was a suspected pirate court. An unpaved port for small ships to land and refuel spilled out to the south. Hunter skimmed the topography, waiting for Tech to conclude his line of thought.

“We’d do well to listen to what Crosshair has to say.”

“Tech?”

“Yes?”

“You’ve made your point.”

Hunter’s forced smile was subtle, little more than a break in the grim visage perpetually hardening his jaw, but Tech’s hesitant nod was accepting enough.

“Now we wait,” the tracker said, and Tech nodded once more.

–--

“And that’s my family,” Rashala finished, setting the last of her meal aside. 

The gnawed rind of the bright pink fruit dripped juice and she wiped her fingers on the ration bar wrapper. The person she was before her conscription would have protested when Crosshair briefly explored the perishable cargo before pulling the melon from a netted transport basket. The person she was now understood the need to conserve their shelf-stable food as long as possible and knew they’d have to supplement their meager meals where they could. Either way, the fruit was one of the most delicious things she had ever eaten.

“Brothers,” Crosshair muttered, arm slung over his bent knee. The sniper’s repose met his response, a lanky lean soaking up the warmth of the spice-laced air, and he was the most relaxed Rashala had ever seen him. At the mention of the tentative awareness all clones were his brothers in some way, Rashala knew he spoke of the rest of Clone Force 99, and he tensed defensively in preparation for the questioning that never came.

“I don’t have quite as many siblings as you do,” Rashala smiled, and Crosshair’s subtle smirk shifted the pick from the corner of his mouth. He flicked it away and watched Rashala speak, drifting on an undercurrent of contentment so rare he couldn’t easily identify it. He had enjoyed watching how her eyes lit up when she told him about her home, how the juice from their meal lightly stained her lips, how her hands became more and more animated as she wove one story into another. Her joy was his peaceful pleasure.

Sitting across from each other, moving the metal washer a forgotten goal, Rashala’s heart healed as she spoke of her village. Crosshair’s simple question had been innocuous but genuine and Rashala had leapt at the opportunity to open up the deepest, most meaningful part of her life to her companion. While she told him about the river where she fished and the NATSIC M and the forests she grew up shooting in, he watched her and they ate together. Only once, when his stare was so intensely focused on her as she spoke, did she hesitate to continue for fear of speaking too much, and Crosshair had assured her she couldn’t simply by the way he listened.

“Your brothers mean well, I’m sure,” Rashala said carefully, draping her wrists over her knees to let her fingers dry. “Mine always do.”

Crosshair’s expression hardened and his smirk became a sneer. Something shifted in him, obvious by his expression but running deeper than the surface of his ramping, uneasy tension. For a fleeting moment, he was her commander again, the Imperial soldier returned by way of bitterness and conflict. He glanced at her under his dark brows, tipping in his chin, and avoided returning her concerned gaze. There was a wound running through him as a chasm, a splitting force dividing him from the rest of the galaxy, and Rashala didn’t consider pushing him to explain to her what exactly had happened to keep him apart from the rest of Clone Force 99.

Neither spoke and the silence eventually resumed an easy comfort. They watched the metal washer as Rashala tried again to move the slim bit of scrap discovered between crates. She had managed to move a bit of crumbled tea leaves in Teran’s room above Sniv’s Canteen but doubted the result of her efforts was anything more than a draft spinning under the door. 

Crosshair’s curiosity covered his discomfort speaking about brothers and family and he watched Rashala as she gave the Force-push one more chance. She shook her head with a light smile. The washer didn’t budge and, after a sly moment, Rashala flicked her fingers at it dismissively. 

“Yrisadael take it, then,” she said, only a little frustrated. Her disappointment to do anything like replicate the wall of air that had kept the incinerator trooper from ending their escape on Coruscant was padded by the comfort of being warm, fed, and resting in the memories of her family. Openly reminiscing about her neighbors, the land she knew like her own limbs, and the songs of her people wrapped around her heart like a shield, insulating and protecting her from the all too real awareness she was temporarily holed away in the back of a pirate ship masquerading as a legitimate transport service.

She was still surrounded by war, in a way.

One of the crates held weapons for the Partisans, grenades and signal jammers nestled carefully in the soft spaces between round, spongy fruit; in his explorations, Crosshair had pulled out a stack of ammunition wrapped in the rustling husks of an unfamiliar vegetable. He took enough to restock their blasters and left the rest. The firepuncher rested nearby and its presence was Crosshair’s own reassurance. He pulled it into his lap and took a compact cleaning kit from his belt. The pucks on his belt flashed in the shift of his hip. The absence of the Sith’s stolen weapon was a noted loss at Crosshair’s side.

“How worried are we about giving the lightsaber to the captain?” Rashala asked, and Crosshair chewed the end of his pick.

“He doesn’t know how it works.”

“He knows what it is.”

“So do you,” Crosshair countered, unbothered as he began to wipe away the patina of dirty water spots from the undercity deluge. “But do you know how it works?”

Rashala acknowledged his point.

“How does a lightsaber work?” she asked quietly after a time, watching Crosshair in his practiced movements. The part of her that had been forced to fit into the role of a soldier–no matter how reluctantly and dependent her survival had been on following orders–felt as though she should be cleaning her blaster, too, but she couldn’t bring herself to unholster her weapon. The image of the hole through the Sith’s throat was a vivid, disturbing reminder of her actions, of what could have happened to Crosshair had she not stopped the lightsaber’s controlled path straight towards his heart. Despite the necessity, she didn’t want to think about what she had done with that blaster.

“They’re not standard issue, that’s for sure,” Crosshair said, winding the cleaning cloth around the barrel. “I respect what any weapon can do in the right hands.”

“I didn’t know they existed until-”

Rashala stopped herself, a harder and heavier reminder slamming into her that she had killed a boy in the Command Center, and that she had only barely saved her own life by taking his was little reassurance. Rashala wrapped herself quickly in Teran’s meditative teachings, reminding herself she couldn’t have any better than she knew how in the moment, but Crosshair’s keen eye caught the way she hid her suddenly trembling hands. He flicked away his pick.

“Tell me.”

His request was a soft, sibilant whisper. Rashala didn’t feel pressured, knew she wasn’t trapped, but worked hard to steady her voice despite her sudden shaking.

“There’s no way to describe what happened.”

“You told the Jedi you killed a man.”

“You listened?”

“Only a moment.”

Rashala’s surge of protectiveness over one of the most vulnerable conversations of her life was a weak and rapid thing, a flutter compared to the steady heartbeat of the trust between her and the man staring back at her. His unspoken apology was obvious and Rashala accepted without hesitation, watching him resume his focus on the firepuncher. 

“I don’t want you to see,” she said nervously. “I don’t want you to carry what I’ve done.”

Something unsettled amplified under his skin, a tension pulling his hands back from the weapon and pocketing the cloth, and Crosshair made a decision.

In a smooth kneel, he crossed the divide over the small washer and braced his hands on his thighs, looking Rashala in the eye to lose himself in the crisp blue of her stare instead of losing his nerve entirely.

“I’ve done a thousand times worse than anything you ever could do.”

Looking up at him, she knew Crosshair was telling the truth whether or not she wanted to believe him.

“That doesn’t absolve me–”

“You’ve read my file,” Crosshair said quietly. “You know–”

He stopped when Rashala shook her head, her hair drifting around her neck.

“No?”

“No,” she admitted, and her soft vehemence was the truth. “I only pulled it. It’s on this chip.”

She touched the pocket in her blacks at her hip but Crosshair didn’t break his focus on her eyes.

“Why not?”

“I- I was going to,” Rashala said quickly, “but only because I was afraid of you. We were all terrified. No one was coming to help, I didn’t know how to get out–”

“—and you explored all options.”

“I used your training. I thought I would learn about my enemy in advance of a mission.”

Crosshair’s miniscule twitch of his lip might have been an echo of an arrogant grin but for his shame. He remained unperturbed while Rashala’s anxieties increased.

“I pulled it in the medbay, when I flung Viz into the wall and the fire broke out–”

“I remember.”

“—and I had to overpower the AZ for access to the databanks,” Rashala continued, speaking very fast and picking at her nails without looking at her hands. “I pulled everything I could and I didn’t know what to do with half of it and, rakka tarsji, Cross, I tried to find a way out for weeks before I even thought of hurting anyone after what I did to Viz–”

Crosshair’s hand on her knee stopped her stammering and he grazed the bottom of her chin to pull her attention back to him. She took a shuddering breath and sighed slowly, returning to the present instead of falling into the trap of the all too recent past.

“If you had read the file,” Crosshair said slowly, “then you would know what the Kaminoans were trying to do when they created me. I wasn’t the first. I wasn’t the last.”

“The Kaminoans,” Rashala repeated, and Crosshair nodded.

“Our makers,” he continued. “We were only numbers to them. Inventory. Assets to a contract and nothing more.”

Something tightly wound snapped inside him to flood with grief and guilt despite his creation was no fault of his own. Rashala didn’t move to touch him, pulling her own air in and out in a controlled diminishing of panic and pain. 

She knew she would only learn this once and he’d never speak of it again.

“There were others–” and Crosshair paused for a moment, finding courage in Rashala’s ocean-deep stare “—but Hunter, Wrecker, and Tech and I… we survived. We were different from the regs. They despised us, and we them. But we all feared the Kaminoans.”

The steady rush of the ship’s engines threatened to become waves crashing into the swaying stilts of Tipoca City, the sounds of Crosshair’s impossibly short youth flooding his mouth like the salt spray on the landing pad that would have served as his grave had the Empire waited much longer to scan the ruins of their genocide. The sniper couldn’t feel pity for the Kaminoans or mourn the loss in any way. The destruction of Tipoca City meant the labs where he was grown, mutilated, and constantly tested were finally buried in the planet’s watery depths, unable to continue the exploration of how far the body could go before shutting down.

“The Kaminoans were not kind,” Crosshair said simply. He made sure he wasn’t touching Rashala in order to keep from accidentally sharing any of the half-tattered memories of life on Kamino.

“You were children.”

“We were soldiers from the moment we were decanted. We were never children.”

Rashala and Crosshair stared at each other. The sniper looked away when Rashala’s watering eyes hinted at tears for him instead of herself and he momentarily hated what he could never take away. His despair for not just what the chip did to him but for what he did to others crossed his face in a wave. Crosshair closed his eyes to remember turning his back on Rashala in the testing room, following Rampart and giving no more thought to the scared, desperate woman under Crennit’s control and his own command.

“We didn’t know,” she whispered, knowing where he was, and he reluctantly agreed without speaking a word. For a moment, he bowed his head as he knelt in front of her, and Rashala accepted the temporary altar he made of her, reaching out to touch his cheek.

Despite knowing better, he let her.

In her touch, he let go of the severe hold he kept on the few positive memories he had of Kamino. The lack of familiarity with what he was intentionally trying to do fragmented his thoughts worse than if he had accidentally slipped.

battle games with Tech; wrestling with Hunter, neither of them tattooed but one already tagged for leadership; a rare smile behind Wrecker’s back as he avoided the big man’s playful shake of a hug; silence and sunshine as rainclouds parted and the ocean quieted to a mirror sheen–

Other memories tangled with the rest.

the unexpectedly pleasant taste of a hot drink forced on him by a jolly ambassador in Erratou; side-aching laughter when Tech almost inadvertently caused a diplomatic scandal; a climax gasped under the open stars of a forgotten planet with a forgotten lover remembered only as one of the few who ever treated him as anything besides a comparison to the regs; an unfairly beautiful day on Katau, the sun warm on his armor and the firepuncher a reassuring weight in his hands as he sat watch over the Marauder on a rare uncomplicated mission; how his muscles felt in the fleeting moments his body forgot its battle scars and innumerable aching injuries to just be; the satisfaction of a perfect shot–

But Crosshair wasn’t a man built for pleasure or peace. 

the numbing panic before his first real battle; how Hunter had patted him too hard on the back after a particularly gory mission and he vomited on the shuttle in front of the regs; failing to throw the first punch, or the second, or the third as a group of boys cornered him in the armory; the shaming teasing from the others until his black eye healed; learning his screaming would do nothing, wouldn’t stop the Kaminoans from snapping his finger bones, wouldn’t keep them from forcing him out onto the training range to observe how he handled a rifle with broken hands; his certainty he was going to drown on the landing platform before anyone found him; his certainty that was the blast that killed Wrecker; his frustration Wrecker’s permanent head trauma slowed them all down; all the planets where he almost froze to death; all the planets where he almost drowned; all the planets where he was ever tortured after capture or stroked out under blazing suns or fell from terrible heights–

He didn’t know how to pull away.

disorientation when the chip first sparked; a lightsaber swinging at him as he tried to shoot a padawan without understanding his own actions; the impulsion to obey orders despite knowing he condemned the refugees to death; watching the Marauder leave him behind again and again; the realization he succeeded in pushing away the only people he might have ever loved; hope fading that they’d come back; pushing his starved body through recovery to regain lost muscle; the certainty Rampart wouldn’t spare a third chance should he fail with the conscripts; the gut-wrenching certainty the malfunctioning chip would kill him if he didn’t find help; the brief consideration of accepting death in the solitude of his cell; Mayday collapsing on the salt-encrusted tarmack of Barton IV; Rashala sitting in the flooded street under the glow of the Sith’s lightsaber–

“Stop,” Rashala gasped, and he reeled everything back into himself with a wrenching tug the moment she tried to pull away. 

Embarrassed, exhausted, Crosshair put his head in his hand. He knew what would happen and gave himself anyway, delivering every dark secret and hopeful plea directly into the hands of a woman who saved his life. It was one of the most terrifying things he had ever done. He fought back a new swell of shame that he had taken Rashala’s vulnerability and made everything about himself.

They recovered, panting, and this time Rashala did cry, pushing her hands against her mouth as she fought back a sob. Each memory had come with a sensation–scent, touch, sound–and the overwhelming experience of living in another’s mind flooded her. Crosshair slumped and made to move away but Rashala reached out for him with trembling, tear-wet fingers. He stared at them before daring to look at her, and she nodded. 

Carefully, he took her fingertips with his and let her show him what happened in the testing room. 

She shook and he understood and he pulled her into him in as tight of an embrace as their armor allowed.

“I’m so sorry–” Rashala choked out, and Crosshair froze.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“For what you’ve been through–”

He couldn’t have been more surprised if his heart had stopped.

“Look at me,” he told her, and she wiped her face with the back of her hand.

Cupping her jaw, he stared into her eyes and couldn’t recognize the reflection of the man in her dark pupils.

“Never apologize for what you’ve done to live.”

Rashala sought answers in his sharp expression, vehemence turning him as harsh as any look she’d seen on him during their time in the Command Center. 

“Ever,” he reinforced as she was about to speak, and her lips trembled even as she smiled weakly.

“This has just been so much,” Rashala floundered, embarrassed and still wiping away tears as her knowledge of Crosshair reconciled with the wildest guesses and most horrific dreams she couldn’t begin to imagine. She thought about what horrors her conscription meant to haunt her with for the rest of her life. “And then to know, to see you as a boy– to see what they did–”

“Don’t pity me. You’ve seen what I’ve done,” Crosshair reminded her, and his tone turned hard. “I ordered the execution of innocents. I commanded my soldiers to kill refugees.”

“It was the chip–”

“It was me.”

Crosshair felt Rashala go still in his arms and he looked down at her with a fierce, defensive glare. 

“This is how the Kaminoans made us. We were meant for war. We were meant to be killers. I was made to be one of the best.”

This is where he’d lose her, this is where she’d leave him, and rightfully so.

“It was always easier to do as I was told,” Crosshair said, biting down a self-loathing snarl. Rashala didn’t move away but simply stared at him as though he had become a different person entirely, someone she didn’t know as intimately as she knew the version of him that would have done anything to keep Rampart satisfied.

“The chip, Cross, I saw the chip–”

“Don’t make my excuses.”

He thought about standing and walking away, leaving her if she wouldn’t leave him, but the hope in her stare and the warmth in her teary eyes despite everything she knew him to be froze him. He owed her more than his explosive fear, more than his reactionary anger. He had done wrong by his brothers–and his sister–without the opportunity to ever explain himself, to ever reconcile the dark of who he was with the dark deeds he did in the Empire’s name. Rashala deserved better than his worst mistakes.

Rashala took his hand and he let her even as he glared at the sight of their hands pressed palm to palm. She curled her fingers around his and stared at their join. He felt her thinking, knew the way her skin seemed to hum under his touch when she was being deliberate. Her cheeks were pink and she was so entirely lovely that he hated himself all the more for being anywhere near her after all he had done.

“Only you know how much was truly you and how much was because you followed orders,” Rashala began, and Crosshair deepend his glare. “You’ve- Crosshair…”

“I’ve committed war crimes,” he announced icily, bluntly. “I’ve murdered women, and children, and those I was once sworn to protect–”

“Cross–”

“You’ve felt what I’ve felt when I take a life.”

Rashala stopped trying to argue with him and let his statement resonate. She recognized the truth in what he said and, for the briefest of moments, her blood chilled. 

He was right. 

She stared at their hands and, even as she tried to hide her questioning from him, she knew he felt everything she did.

“You don’t enjoy killing,” Rashala stated, never loosening her fingers from between his. “You love the thrill of battle. You don’t know anything else but how it feels to be useful and the power that comes from what you do.”

“More excuses–”

“Listen to me.”

Crosshair stared down his nose at her, narrowing his eyes, but she held her own with firm confidence and never let go of his hand.

“I don’t know what clones believe in, but Stassians know to listen to what our gods have to say,” Rashala said, staring at the fractal patterns in Crosshair’s breastplate as though to find meaning in the constellations scarring his armor. “We listen. Sometimes we don’t like what they share. Sometimes we don’t understand.”

Rashala took a deep breath and Crosshair knew she would never speak so openly about herself again.

“I sang every rotation in that awful place. For comfort. Out of boredom. For a reminder who I was. The testing, the training… I didn’t know what was happening. But each song was a prayer. I didn’t know if Yrisadael could hear me but she did, and she answered in ways I didn’t understand. You heard me, too. And once I began to understand who I was and what powers moved through me, we found each other.”

Memories slipped through their touch and Rashala intentionally shared fleeting moments of shivering in her cold cell, of crying and pleading to be released every time she was forced into the testing room, of the taste of medicines in her meager meals served in isolation. The chill and hunger merged with aching muscles from vigorous physical training, the way she fought a cringe every time she feared Viz or another trooper would hurt her or the other conscripts, the shame when she couldn’t risk defending the Coruscanti boy before they took him away and made him what he became in the hands of the Sith. Crosshair felt her shrink into herself every time he walked into a room, the anxiety of training with him at the shooting range, the fear he instilled in everyone around him by his disdainful glances and hissing commands. 

“I didn’t know then,” Rashala whispered. “Just like you said. I didn’t know what you’d become to me.”

With the stuttering progress she gained over her control of energies around her, Rashala showed Crosshair the desperation in her foolish attempt to escape on Desix, the fear that kept her from running on Metalorn, the spark between them that grew into a flame as she stayed with him under the rubble of the collapsed buildings. She shared–with a hint of a blush–how she balked at the injustice of the denial of a bacta tank for his injuries, how she curled into him for warmth and held onto him for comfort, how she doubted her own body when she craved him–

“I don’t know how else to show you,” Rashala said softly, and unlinked her hand from his. She placed her hand on the center of his breastplate. “I think I would have died on Desix if you hadn’t stopped me. Even if you were only trying to salvage your place in the Empire, you still saved a life.”

Crosshair looked down at the hand resting so carefully on his armor, felt her adamance in her belief, and didn’t dare argue with her faith. He took a deep breath, his chest moving under her fingertips. She thought she felt his heart pound even through his armor.

Suffering was not a singular experience. Neither was love. 

As confident as he was about anything in his short, violent life, Crosshair leaned forward until his forehead rested against Rashala’s. He felt her breath tighten and he wiped away a brimming tear, tracing her cheek.

“I don’t believe in gods,” Crosshair eventually said, “and I don’t believe in destiny.”

He guided her hand across his breastplate and to the release on the armor, curling her fingers with his.

“Some of us–” and Crosshair paused as though hesitant to admit his acceptance of what he knew when he tried and failed to save Mayday “–believe in Mando’a traditions.”

He took a deep breath and anchored himself.

“Our genetic template was a Mandalorian mercenary,” the sniper explained. “It was easier for some to pretend he was an honorable man. But he wasn’t. He was arrogant, abrasive. Cunning. We were modified to be more malleable, less independent than he was. But the Kaminoans saw the benefit of training us in the echoes of a culture renowned for warfare, especially those who could fight alongside–and against–the Jedi. We learned Mandalorian history as though it were our own.”

“Our armor is our life,” Crosshair continued. “In every sense. Who we allow to handle our armor–”

Rashala began to realize what Dex meant.

“Only a close clanmate should ever be allowed to remove another’s armor unless their life is at stake,” Crosshair said quietly, almost defeated by his own inability to find a reason why he shouldn’t go back on everything he was saying. More frightening still, he didn’t want to do anything but plunge ahead.

“A child, or a brother,” he explained slowly before meeting Rashala’s stare with direct certainty. “Or a lifemate.”

Rashala’s eyes widened and she momentarily wondered at the way the universe wove impossibilities into reality. 

A brutally sharp clatter pierced through the peaceful drone of the engines warming the cargo hold, startling Rashala. She jumped with a slight gasp even as she kept a firm grip on the edge of Crosshair’s breastplate. The sniper snarled at the interruption as the galley door slid open to unleash a rabid tangle of fur and metal. 

A stubby-legged calico tooka screeched as it swept its large clawed paws at the MSE droid struggling underneath it. Meese swept its scomp into the tooka’s plush stomach and the droid scooted away with a rude string of whirring chatter as the fluffy creature reoriented itself. The tooka wiped its cream-tufted ears, bending the long triangles down to its bowed whiskers with an indigent reclaim on normalcy, and then launched into a chase as the MSE spun out in its dash for Rashala.

“Skiff jaar, Meese!” the Stassian exclaimed, the droid toppling into her thigh before brrrrrring at the tooka. Rashala put a hand on the MSE’s case, feeling how overheated the droid was. 

“That’s all there is on Lothal,” Crosshair said, obviously displeased at the interruption. “Those.”

“Really?” Rashala laughed shakily, aware there was no going back to the moment stolen from them by a sassy droid and a stranger’s pet. “It- it looks sweet.”

The tooka grinned at them with a wide mouth, its beady eyes sparkling.

“Take it with you!” the captain boomed in the doorway, and the tooka hissed and scampered so fast it momentarily ran in place. “Doesn’t keep rodents out of the goods, anyway! Doesn’t warm your lap, anyway! No manners! Only hiss and furballs.”

Crosshair stood and Rashala took his hand to get to her own feet, finding her knees were shaking. The weequay captain looked them up and down and crossed his arms with a grin.

“Ahhhh, l love love,” he crooned before throwing his arms in the air. “I also love you getting off my ship!”

“Ola’s ship,” Rashala corrected him, the captain waving dismissively.

“We’re here, either way.”

“There’s a ship in our usual spot, captain,” the Twi’lek called from the navigation bay behind the cockpit seats. “Sensors didn’t pick it up. Whatdya want us to do?”

“Is that why we’re circling around like wrigets at a harusa? Open a line and tell them to move!”

“They’ve got a scan blocker.”

“And we’ve got cargo to move,” the captain continued to shout over his shoulder. “What do I pay you for?”

“Uh, capt’n, sir, since you brought it up–”

Rashala felt Crosshair tense beside her, straightening his shoulders with a dark frown. The lines on his face hardened when he clenched his jaw.

“Cross?”

“Run a sampling scan,” Crosshair directed the captain without looking at him, stooping to gather his helmet and the firepuncher. “Check the polar return.”

“I give the orders here,” the captain smarmed, shaking his head before he swayed out of the doorway and back to the cockpit. They heard him directing the Twi’lek to run the scan and the tooka sauntered out of the cargo hold. It jumped up into the cargo netting above the galley and took a swipe at the captain’s hard-shelled hat.

“The Empire?” Rashala asked, accepting her helmet without a word and checking her blaster was firmly set at her hip. She was wary, weary as she tugged on her gloves. “They tracked us?”

“Not the Empire,” Crosshair answered, setting the rifle into the hardcase and shouldering the burden in a swift, well-practiced swing over his shoulder. Rashala followed him into the galley and to the cockpit, Meese trailing at her heels. 

“What do you mean it's unknown?” the captain exclaimed over the Twi’lek’s shoulder, the rest of the crew gathering in the cramped space so that Crosshair and Rashala had to make a path to the navigation panel. “We have the best scanners this side of the galaxy!”

“It’s unknown!” the Twi’lek said with just as much aggravation as the captain himself. 

“Nothing blocks our scans. Run it again.”

“Gotta land soon, capt’n,” the co-pilot called back. “Tank is almost dry.”

“How are we out of fuel already?”

“We didn’t exactly drag our tul-tutts gettin’ off Coruscant, capt’n.”

The captain tugged his locs and bared his teeth before seizing the flask from his jacket pocket. The long coat hid the lightsaber at his side but Rashala and Crosshair looked at where it formed a small lump under the dirty fabric. Crosshair put on his helmet and, knowing he was up to something, Rashala followed along.

“The polarization return,” Crosshair prompted the Twi’lek. “What is it.”

His request was an order, no question whatsoever in his tone. The Twi’lek was only slightly intimidated by the tall clone and too lost in his own heated frustration to see Crosshair as a direct threat.

“Doesn’t matter,” the navigator shrugged. “Now we’ve gotta go to port, pay docking fees we don’t have, it’s gonna be my fault, and–”

Crosshair reached over the Twi’lek’s shoulder and activated the scan he was looking for. The Twi’lek made to grab Crosshair’s hand to toss it away but the clone simply stared down at the navigator and the crewman thought twice. The ship hovered in the low atmosphere and Rashala couldn’t help but take a glimpse between the crew’s shuffling shoulders to see the bright blue of oxygen-rich sky through the viewfinder. A panel chimed and the oscillation monitoring hummed, a new tone mirrored in the blurry green waves weaving across the gridded screen.

“So what?” the Twi’lek said, his tone far from respectful, and he was obviously tired and–from the sounds of his stomach–hungry. “Probably other pirates.”

“Curious…” the captain trailed off, and his seriousness sobered the crew from their muttering. The weequay squinted at the screen, adjusting his goggles, and straightened with a frown. “That’s military.”

“Let’s trade.”

Crosshair’s voice silenced the cabin, his raspy tenor harsh behind his helmet. Everyone but the captain and co-pilot stared at him and he stared at the captain, watching the weequay consider his statement. 

“I tell you what that ship is, what it carries, and how to disable its shielding,” Crosshair said as the captain stroked the protrusions on his jaw. “You give me the weapon.”

“Ahhhh, the laser sword,” the captain breathed with a chuckle before taking another long drink from his flask. “Worth far more than that.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

The clone and the weequay stared at each other for a long moment before the captain tossed up his arms, accidentally splashing the pungent liquor from his flask onto the Twi’lek. The navigator pushed away from Crosshair in miniscule increments, cooling off and aware he was in the thick of the tension. 

“You pay and we’ll talk over a drink,” the captain announced, and the crew halfheartedly cheered in a less than rousing attempt to buy into their leader’s insinuation Crosshair would get them a drink, too. Crosshair didn’t so much as shake his head.

“This port,” Rashala asked. “Is it here? On this planet?”

The captain laughed at her.

“You haven’t been off the moisture farm much, have you? Of course it’s on-planet! Only the best traders allowed in. Flowing with bodies and drink and halfway decent food. You walk into the Court of Smugglers with me and they’ll treat you like a queen!”

“Yeah, and you’ll be the jester, boss, if we don’t land soon!” the co-pilot called back, a low-fuel alert beginning to ding incessantly. The crew knew better than to laugh at the captain’s expense because they were on the same struggling ship. 

“You walk into that pit with a stolen lightsaber and you won’t walk out,” Crosshair stated, and the captain raised a scaly eyebrow at the thinly veiled warning. Rashala saw her opportunity.

“I took it from a Sith,” she said, and knew she had done well to speak up when the crew stepped back from her as much as the cramped space allowed. “They’ll be looking for it, if they aren’t already.”

“Sith are less forgiving than Jedi,” Crosshair added, pressing the captain from the other side.

Crosshair pulled a single slim silver bar from his utility belt, never turning his helmeted stare from the captain, who smiled boldly as he recognized his back was against a wall. The sniper tossed the credit–the only one he had–at the weequay, who caught it without fumbling.

“For the port fee. You give me the lightsaber, we never see each other again.”

The captain began to laugh as the engines stuttered.

“And the ship?”

“A modified Omicron class shuttle. Republic. Piloted by rogue clones. There’s a weak spot in the shield under the starboard wing.”

The captain laughed again. Rashala didn’t know if Crosshair was lying or telling the truth but he seemed certain either way.  

“Now give me the lightsaber.”

“You think Captain Hondo Ohnaka wouldn’t keep his word?” the weequay asked facetiously, his hand hesitating at the edge of his jacket. Rashala remembered the wooden-handled, antiquated blaster he stunned his crewman with on Coruscant and, although she doubted the captain would do such a foolish thing as to fire so much as a stunner in close quarters during an airborne flight, there was little to prove he wouldn’t. 

To her relief, almost as though Hondo was hoping to make her believe he’d pull out the wrong weapon, the weequay handed the dark metal hilt to Crosshair. The sniper hooked the lightsaber onto his utility belt and nodded once. 

“You get off here.”

With an unexpectedly snappy gesture from the weequay, a crewman tapped the control panel at the door and fresh air roared in. The engines were a deafening hiccup, the absence of their noise worse than the rushing grumble as they sucked on the last of the fuel. The Twi’lek pushed at Crosshair and the sniper staggered slightly, grabbing onto the edge of the door even as he threw his armored elbow directly into a crewman’s nose. Blood gushed and the crew began to shout, the overarching noise drowning out whatever they were saying; only the low fuel alarm was remotely audible through Rashala’s helmet and the audio filters popped with compression. 

Rashala ducked to avoid a grasping hand and was thrown off balance when the co-pilot tipped the entire ship to slide them out. A crewmember pushed at Crosshair and the sniper had no chance to keep his feet, dragging Hondo’s hired help out with him as he fell. Rashala shouted, hearing her own voice as though she was far away from herself. She blindly tried to scoop Meece under her arm. Above, clinging to the cargo nets, the tooka was a rage of puffed fur and silent, toothy hissing.

Rough hands grabbed her under her arms and tried to throw her out of the ship and she was powerless to stop them, kicking and thrashing but ultimately overpowered. Rashala was strong but there were more of them than there were of her. She tried to bite before remembering she had her helmet on and headbutted one of the crewmen instead. Meece slipped from her grasp and the droid tumbled out of the ship, angry brapppps fading as it fell away. 

Rashala’s boot hit the edge of the open door and the grand blue sky opened up above her. She readied herself to fall before her wrist was yanked. The captain held onto the base of her hand, air gusts flapping his dirty jacket hems around his knees, and his smile mimicked the tooka swinging in the nets over his head. 

“We never would have worked out,” Hondo said in mock heartache, breaking into another laugh as he released her hand. Over his shoulder, the Twi’lek navigator waved a sarcastic goodbye. 

The angry indignity of being tossed out of a ship was cut short by the realization she was falling without a plan, and her stomach swooped into the bottom of her throat and her muscles clenched and Rashala looked down just in time to see water rushing up at her and then she hit the rippling surface with a hard smack. 

Freshwater flooded into her helmet and the sensors in her screen warned her she had 32 seconds to remove her armor from full submersion or risk circuitry malfunction. 31, 30, 29, 28…

Kicking as hard as she could, Rashala clawed and swam her way through the murky water, spiny pillars of lake weed swaying in her wake. She surfaced with a gasp as her helmet filters started to fill and the air in her helmet took on a fishy, muddy smell. She treaded water as she got her bearings and watched the light freighter fly off beyond the treeline. Rashala’s armor kept her insulated enough against the cold but her blacks were soaked. A light breeze rustled the water’s surface in the absence of the low-flying ship dumping travelers into the mud-bottomed, grass-banked mess. 

Dozens of yards away, splashing accompanied an angry shout, and Rashala started to paddle to where Hondo’s abandoned crewman tried to fight with Crosshair. The sniper was a dark pillar jutting from the water as he made his way to the shallows and, when the Rodian continued to advance on Crosshair despite the squelching muck slowing him down, Crosshair simply seized the barrel of the crewman’s blaster and diverted the shot into the water. The Rodian choked when Crosshair took him by the neck and the clone delivered an efficient, sharp blow into the Rodian’s upper chest. He flipped the crewman to float and shoved him off, the Rodian unconscious but alive as his green bulk drifted into the center of the lake. 

Seeing he more than handled the situation, Rashala turned around and swam towards a flat patch of lily pads. She heard Meece among the scattered white blooms but couldn’t see the droid; she could only guess how water-resistant an MSE unit might be. Half-submerged and tangled in the tattered rags of the lily pads that broke its fall from the ship, Meece squealed when Rashala freed it. She couldn’t hold the droid and swim at the same time so Rashala worked out a rhythm of several long strokes then a push up under the MSE’s spinning treads, over and over again until they reached the shore. 

The thin beach was coated in algae and tracks from small animals scratched the muddy span separating reeds and bramble from long grass lining the woodline. Meece spun up dirt and sprayed Rashala’s armor with thick globs of mud as it finally found solid enough ground to make it up onto the grass on its own. Rashala bent back the low branches on a thorny bush Meece immediately caught itself on and she swore in Stassian as the droid fussed. 

“Worse than a child,” she muttered, wiping her hands across her black katarn thigh plates and shaking the muck into the frothy rim of the lake. Meece ran patterns to clean its treads and charge itself, visible only by the bending and swaying of the long grass, and its battery was a droning whine.

“We need to go. Now.”

Crosshair gave her a direct order the way he would as her commander but Rashala didn’t immediately obey. She frowned at him as she took off her helmet, lake water dripping out of the soaked padding, and his frustration with her delay was obvious.

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here.”

“Then we may as well have stayed on the ship!” Rashala retorted with uncharacteristic bite. She took a deep breath and found her usual calm, reasonable center of focus. “We can go to the–”

“We aren’t walking into a pirate’s den,” Crosshair interrupted, and he checked that both his blaster and the lightsaber were still at his side. The firepuncher’s barrel dripped from its hardcase holster and a dangling weed completed the pitifully disjointed sight of the lanky clone pretending not to be miserable in his wet armor. 

Despite herself, Rashala unsuccessfully fought back a small smile. Her broader grin quickly devolved into an unexpected chuckle. Crosshair removed his helmet to glare at her. She sank to her knees in the long grass and had to hold her sides, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. A sliver of her mind wondered if she was hysterical or just overwhelmed. The smell of the lake, the autumn twist of leaves and grass raked by a fresh breeze, the afternoon sky blue and sunswept as long-billed birds soared in loose formations overhead... She was absolutely surrounded by the antithesis of the Empire, finally touching rich black dirt unclaimed by the Imperial Army. Rashala began to cry.

“It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?”

Rashala’s tear-riddled laughter became a startled gasp when she looked up to find a young woman–little more than a girl–with blonde hair and brown eyes staring back at her. The girl knelt in front of Rashala and the Stassian resisted the primal urge to shuffle away from the unexpected company. She looked for Crosshair and found him in a tense standoff with a man wearing a red bandana wrapped around his forehead. The man’s armor was painted, pieced together from incomplete sets of katarn-woven plate and civilian clothing that demonstrated his muscular frame. He was shorter than Crosshair but an obvious clone despite the skull tattoo covering half his face. Crosshair was a flinch away from pulling out his blaster and the stranger seemed just as close to shooting the sniper. They were at an obvious impasse. 

Rashala tensed and the strange girl reached out her hand to offer Rashala a hand up as she stood. The Stassian ignored the offer, getting slowly to her feet and wondering if she should draw her blaster before the two men did.

“Hunter won’t hurt him,” the girl said, and turned her offer into an open invitation for a handshake. “I’m Omega.”

Stunned, uncertain, Rashala gently shook Omega’s fingertips with her own, glancing back and forth between the girl and the standoff in front of her. Crosshair didn’t so much as glance at Rashala, focused entirely on the man in front of him, and Omega’s worried expression betrayed her lie. The two men very much wanted to hurt each other–badly–and the amount of hurt between them was palpable. Rashala kept her control over the energies ebbing and flowing like choppy ocean waves but Crosshair’s fury was as strong as an aftertaste at the back of her tongue. The Force was a raging slew and the crisp air went humid with the weight of invisible motion. 

Rashala had never seen Crosshair so contorted with hatred, his snarled arrogance in the Command Center barely a mask for what truly seethed inside him. Underneath everything, pain. Blame. Guilt. Disgust. Rashala could hardly breathe for fear of what he’d do to the man in front of him should the other clone so much as flinch.

“It’s been awhile,” Hunter said, and Rashala caught her gasp when he took a step forward. Crosshair did nothing–the most surprising thing of all–and Hunter took another step. “Didn’t know if we’d see you again.”

“You did leave me to die,” Crosshair hissed, and Hunter’s frown softened almost imperceptibly.

“You made the choice to stay.”

Rashala felt a memory–a surge of panic, a deep despair, certainty of death–rush up from Crosshair’s very soul and she thought about what Router told her while the clone was comatose after Metalorn’s disastrous mission. So much hatred from a place that once held so much love… 

This man–Hunter–was one of the Bad Batch, one of Crosshair’s genetically modified brothers. 

One of the men who left their own behind.

“It was your choice,” Hunter said firmly, as though to remind Crosshair of something the sniper wouldn’t know otherwise. The sniper twisted his lip.

“Still can’t see the bigger picture,” Crosshair sneered mockingly. His tone was dangerous, aloof.

Hunter stared at the slim slice of pale scar in Crosshair’s silver hairline, lingering over the mottled red patch of severe burns from the Empire’s torture.

“You had your chip removed.”

“What does it matter?”

“You weren’t lying? Back on Kamino?”

Hunter’s obvious hope, couched in a hint of pity, only infuriated Crosshair more.

“Of course I was!” the sniper snarled. “I was programmed!”

“And you didn’t fight it!”

The tattooed clone walked up to Crosshair and roughly pushed his finger into the sniper’s armored shoulder.

“You didn’t fight,” Hunter repeated accusingly, and his disdainful glance proved he believed entirely that Crosshair was lying. “You didn’t even try.”

Rashala didn’t know who threw the first punch. The men were quickly a flurry of fists and shouts, brutally efficient blows landing despite the skillful blocks. Crosshair had the vertical advantage despite sinking deeper into the muddy bank with each step. Hunter wrapped himself around Crosshair’s chest, twisting and pulling the sniper down to the ground. They splashed at the lake’s edge and the hardpack went rolling, Crosshair’s bone-jolting smash into the weeds miring the rifle and meager supplies. 

Crosshair landed a hard punch on Hunter’s jaw that sent the clone rolling. Hunter immediately stood back up as though he had never went down, straddling Crosshair and raining blows on the sniper. Crosshair wasn’t as skilled as Hunter in direct combat and he struggled to throw Hunter off him. Someone was bleeding, a red smear sweeping Hunter’s cheek.

“Stop!” Omega shouted, and her voice was that of a scared child. Her concern sent her hands up to cover her chin even as she stared wide-eyed at the fight. 

Rashala didn’t know what to do, understanding only that Crosshair would never forgive her if she fought his fights for him, but she wouldn’t let him be killed. She put her hand on her blaster and watched, gasping, when Crosshair took a particularly vicious blow to the jaw. Rashala prepared to draw her weapon but Omega shook her head.

“Don’t! I’ll be right back!”

The girl ran off into the woods, sprinting as fast as she could, and Rashala couldn’t even watch her go because of the intensity of the battle in front of her.  

“You didn’t fight!” Hunter accused, and Crosshair’s knee caught the clone at the edge of his ribs to end his shout with a grunt. The sniper fumbled for his blaster and Rashala seized her own when Hunter knocked Crosshair’s hand away from his hip. 

Crosshair rolled again, leveraging his position to push Hunter into the mud and he punched Hunter directly in the nose. A sickening crack proved he had more than broken the cartilage and the tattooed clone’s short, guttural cry was startlingly loud. Hunter was more of a brawler than his brother and a series of rapid swipes and blocks pushed Crosshair back with a stagger the moment he got to his feet. The sniper reached for his blaster again but Rashala saw the hesitation, knew Crosshair could have taken the shot if he truly wanted to stun or even kill Hunter. He only paused a second but a second was all Hunter needed. 

Hunter launched himself at Crosshair once more and their armor colliding reminded Rashala of Desix, of Metalorn, of the training exercises she and the other conscripts had to do in their armor to understand how to move with new restrictions. The Stassian bit the inside of her cheek to keep from shouting. She wasn’t strong enough to pull them apart and she wasn’t foolish enough to get between two men willing to hurt each other so badly in an almost blind rage. Helplessness similar to being trapped in the cold little cell in the Command Center made Rashala shake.

An electrical flash gilded the blade Hunter pulled on Crosshair. With a heart-jolting swing, Crosshair seized the lightsaber at his side and activated it, a long red streak blocking the knifepoint from reaching his chin. Both men panted, glaring inches away from each other’s faces, and Hunter’s broken nose dripped blood on Crosshair’s armor. The edge of the knife crackled against the lightsaber’s bold hum.

“No!” Omega shouted from a distance, running for Rashala as the Stassian leveled her blaster at Hunter. The weapon was set to stun but Rashala’s finger was ready at the trigger, poised to shoot if Hunter so much as flinched. Energy flowed through her and she was acutely aware of the birdsong in the trees, the way the water lapped at the lakeside, how hard Crosshair was fighting to keep everything inside of him from exploding outward. Rashala refused to lower the blaster, even as the two men following Omega seemed ready to draw their own weapons.

“You tried to kill us,” Hunter growled at Crosshair, never letting up on the pressure of the blade against the lightsaber.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“They’re using you–”

“You think I didn’t know?”

Crosshair pushed up on Hunter’s knife and the vibroblade skittered across the pillar of harsh light. Hunter threw himself backwards, getting to his feet with a wary lean away from the lightsaber’s reach should Crosshair step forward with a swing, but the sniper stood and his shoulders sagged even as he held the lightsaber steady.

“I lost!”

Crosshair’s embittered declaration rang through the landscape, a harsh and accusatory shout. The two men behind Omega–one in googles and the other sporting a ruined eye–didn’t lower their weapons but Rashala let her blaster fall to her side. She willed herself not to fall to her knees with relief, even as her heart hammered in her chest. 

Crosshair fell apart and Rashala wanted to go to him, to pull him upright and shake all the pieces back into place until her arrogant, clever, complex Crosshair was able to stand on his own again. The man he was–underestimated, cold, stubborn–was finally forced to reconcile with the man he could be if he only had the bravery to cut away a dead part of himself.

“I fought it! I lost and you left me!”

His voice cracked and a forsaken, haunted stare stole him. The look was the same Rashala saw in his most vulnerable moments in the Command Center, hinted at the sharp edges of his mean features whenever he thought no one was looking, worsened after the mission on Barton IV he had yet to share except in the dark nightmares he tried to hide. 

Hunter’s eyes widened. The girl took a tentative step forward but the big man put his hand on her shoulder to keep her back. A breathlessness stole the air from the lakeside, took the birdsong away into a vacuum and dimmed the sunshine, the world listening as though the galaxy itself rested on the truth.

The arm holding the lightsaber went limp. Crosshair deactivated the blade with a weary press of his thumb on the hilt. His dark brows crumpled and his expression fell to the absolute helplessness Rashala had only seen once before: when the chip was short-circuiting in his brain.

“We didn’t have a choice–” Hunter began but Crosshair’s distraught glare silenced him.

“The Empire’s conditioning of clones in addition to the implementation of inhibitor chips is now a documented fact,” the goggled clone offered in the desperate silence, tapping at a datapad and assessing the screen as though to lose himself in the device and not be pulled too far into the moment at hand. “The scan I just ran proves he’s telling the truth. The chip is gone. Brain activity is significantly altered, however, indicative of–

“Shut upppp!” the big man ordered with a shove that betrayed just how much strength he held back.

The goggled clone stopped speaking but studied his screen with an intent search for additional information. He glanced at Rashala and she was acutely aware he was running scans without her permission, gathering just as much information about her as he was about Crosshair. She flattened her stare and raised her chin, paying him an insult by simply dismissing him from her awareness; there was no ruder statement a Stassian could make without words. 

Omega looked close to tears and the big man patted her on the shoulder, his hand enveloping her comfortingly. The girl pulled away after a moment and walked slowly to Crosshair. Rashala studied the young woman and the knowledge this was indeed a sister–an impossible clone made real by Kaminoan experiments–clicked gently into place. Omega’s brown eyes were warm, not a hint of cruelty or malice in her open expression, and her guarded hesitancy to touch Crosshair was from a place of genuine respect for Crosshair’s boundaries even as her brother hurt. The sniper stared at her, ashen and worn down under the weight of every wound he had both borne and inflicted since the Empire’s rise. 

Omega stood in front of Crosshair and something impassable exchanged between them, something Rashala could only brush with her fingertips as it flowed through the Force and wrapped each word in forgiveness.

“You’re still our brother,” the girl said, and softly touched his cheek.

Something broke in Crosshair, an unrepairable severance as Omega looked up at him. He sank to his knees and the lightsaber rolled from his hand. His sister put her hand on the side of his bowed head, over the mottled lavafield of scar tissue where no silver hair would ever grow again, and her thumb lightly traced the fresh shine of the surgical incision where his chip was removed. Omega crouched but Crosshair wouldn’t meet her stare, couldn’t look up and diminish his stoicism to the point of openly crying, but Omega didn’t press him. The girl looked back at Rashala and her brothers.

“Cross,” Rashala whispered, and went to him, leaving Meece to guard her blaster where she dropped the weapon in the long grass. The MSE whirred and Rashala crossed the distance between her and the sniper in a few quick strides, passing Hunter as the tattooed clone stood motionless and staring. Omega made room for her and the Stassian knelt, feeling Crosshair’s emotions swell and surge. She held him without holding him, anchored who she knew he was at his core, and acknowledged his grief for all its complexity.

“Get in here!”

“Wrecker, I don’t–”

Crosshair was jostled when the big man pulled the goggled clone into a rough side hug and half-marched them both into Rashala’s peripheral, Wrecker giving Crosshair a good-natured clap on the back. The sniper could barely breathe and a large tear dripped from his sharp chin. Omega laughed a little, a small giggle that warmed Rashala’s thawing spirit; it has been such a long time since she had heard a genuine laugh that wasn’t the boisterous guffaw of a soldier. Rashala smiled even as Crosshair continued to fight wave after wave of emotion.

A large, scarred hand pressed onto Crosshair’s shoulder and the disbelief on Crosshair’s exhausted face was obvious when he looked up at Hunter. 

The clones didn’t speak but a lifetime of warfare, of loyalty and valor, of missions and resilience and fraternal love wrapped around them and Crosshair took a deep, shaking breath.

Rashala began to stand, to step back and let the brothers and their sister have the reunion they deserved without an audience of a conscript and her droid, but Crosshair reached out faster than she could move away, palm up and searching for her before he drowned.

She took his hand and they didn’t let go.

–--

Sunrise was a soft gradient, mauve blending into pale yellow as the sun hinted at the horizon. Crosshair opened his eyes slowly, licking the salt from his weather-chapped lips. Frowning stretched his sore skin and his limbs were leaden, muscles aching, so he rested without moving, watching the sun come up. The calm ocean waters reflected a cloudless sky slowly parting under the last gauzy veils of night, shimmering and still all at once. The world was a mirror and the sky was finally clear of smoke.

He hadn’t expected to survive the night.

–--

Although she had always felt tethered to the stars–as much as she did the rivers, forests, and mountains of her homeland–Rashala never felt the urge to join them in the overwhelming galactic expanse.

Fine powder, scattered in swaths by an enormous, ancient hand, spun as a belt around and around the tundra moon. Some fables explained the celestial motions as specks of pulverized bone from the skeletons of ill-fated lovers, their love shimmering in an all-encompassing embrace. Other stories described an enormous river gar that lept so high to escape a fisherman's net that it got caught in the invisible streams and currents far above the twin moons, the milky wash simply sparkling scales of its underbelly. Constellations of mythic Stassians and their gods and distant nebulas gleamed in opalescent hues through the mist of magnetic storms.

Rashala had never seen Stassa II with her own eyes, had never approached the moon for a landing because she had never been away from home before. Her moon was a speck, a little blue dot wrapped in starlight, protected by a fenceline of asteroids and glimmering in Risedel’s amber shadows. Her nerves jostled when the ship dropped out of the hyperlane but she couldn’t take her eyes from the viewscreen.

Meese spun in a delighted circle, anticipatory and unnecessarily loud as it chattered to itself, and Rashala smiled despite her anxiety. She knew she was doing a terrible job keeping her emotions to herself but she wasn’t skilled enough yet to keep as controlled a grasp on the Force as Teran showed her. Across the ship, she felt Crosshair’s subtle acknowledgement she was trying; his aggravation wasn’t with her and not all that severe to begin with but even the few rotations they had spent on the Maurader were getting to be too much. Rashala understood, even as she had already grown to respect and admire Wrecker, Tech, Hunter, and Omega Each clone had their own distinct and uncompromising personalities–just like Crosshair–and the ship was far too small for all of them. Tensions were rising and Rashala was grateful Stassa II was the last stop before Takodana, even as she both yearned for and hesitated on the path she was set upon.

“I’m excited to see your planet,” Omega offered politely, gripping the back of the pilot’s chair in excitement to watch Tech fly, and everyone ignored Tech’s correction that they were approaching a moon. He seemed poised to offer details on Risedel and Stassa I but restrained himself. Rashala’s small, stoic smile hid her inner trembling, covered her jumping emotions, and Omega smiled back.

“We’re just dropping off the data,” Hunter reminded the girl unnecessarily. He was uneasy in the co-pilot’s seat, scanning the viewscreen for anything the ship’s sensors might not react as quickly to as his own keen senses. Rashala had learned about his enhanced skills but wasn’t sure if she should mention the Force-assisted boost in his senses was obvious to anyone listening to the space between spaces; she was less certain about Hunter than she was about the others, Crosshair’s emotions blending with her own when she wasn’t careful enough to keep a firm barrier between his reactions and hers.

“Just a meal?” Wrecker asked, almost petulantly. “I’m starving!”

“You’re always starving.”

Crosshair’s rasping whisper was harsh but not entirely cold, a hint in his tone paying respect to old times without being respectful at all. He slunk from the back of the ship and stood at the door, leaning against the frame so he could keep his distance from the others crowding the cockpit. He stared at the moon growing bigger as the ship took a cautionary approach to let the sensors run a thorough sweep.

Wrecker’s unchecked groan was dismissive of anything but his stomach. Rashala had picked up on the sense that Clone Force 99 didn’t stand on ceremony or manners, a band of brothers doing their best to survive despite the improbable circumstances that kept them alive even through the worst missions.

Everything they had been through still wasn’t enough to keep them bound together forever, not after everything that happened in the year they’d been apart. 

“Yeah, but she told us about all that good food–”

“We’re not landing,” Hunter stated firmly. He glanced at Rashala and she appreciated his opening were she to change her mind. Rashala’s single nod affirmed her decision.

If they landed, she might not be brave enough to get back on the ship.

“Rashala, are these coordinates accurate?”

Tech’s question was clear but he tapped one of the console monitors with a gloved finger, directing her to look. Rashala skimmed the information and nodded again.

“That’s the Lepsha mine entrance, in the valley near the NATSIC M.”

“The communications facility?” 

“Yes.”

“A significant technological advancement for Mid Rim interconnectivity,” Tech recited knowledgeably, as close to a compliment as Rashala was learning the clone could give. “You’ll be an asset to the operational needs of the Resistance–”

“—if Maz is to be trusted,” Hunter interrupted, acknowledging the returns on the sensor scans and giving Tech the cue to proceed into atmosphere. “We know nothing about them.”

“Phee is reliable,” Tech countered, “and I believe her assessment, including soundness of character.”

The look Hunter exchanged with Omega was fleeting but Rashala enjoyed Omega’s little grin. Obviously, there was more than to be directly addressed when it came to Tech and his contact.

Feeling the implication through their bond, Rashala turned in time to give Crosshair a silent request not to cynically interject and the sniper, recognizing his hypocrisy, chewed his pick with a slightly softened stare. Besides Wrecker’s shameless teasing the first half-rotation, no one had made light of the obvious partnership Crosshair and Rashala had made of their connection. Omega’s curious stare kept Rashala from lingering too long on Crosshair’s tense expression before he relaxed his shoulders or the sniper from doing anything more than brushing her hand as they passed by. With the girl, the clones, and two vocal droids–Gonky and Meece–there was little opportunity to even speak privately.

“Will we get to eat on Taka- Tikk-”

“Takodana,” Tech helped as Wrecker stammered, even as the pilot’s terseness was notable. “Perhaps. We’ll only land long enough for Crosshair and Rashala to disembark, ideally.”

“Let’s fly clean, boys,” Hunter said firmly, and even the MSE quieted as Tech guided the Marauder into Stassa II’s atmosphere.

Rashala went still and stared at the beauty of her home moon, awe overfilling her heart to spill between the cracks of absence. Grief, guilt, and the pain of loss temporarily ebbed away to let pure, unadulterated wonder flood her spirit. 

Snowcapped and partially shrouded in flurried clouds, the Sahaslia Mountains greeted the ship with a rocky embrace, quartz-streaked crevices shadowed by the granite slopes jutting up from alpine forests. Krennis Peak was shrouded in snowy bluster and snowflakes as large as an outstretched hand swirled past the Marauder's viewscreen as Tech sailed through the fleecy layer. The ship dipped with sudden windsheer and Tech rode the tailwind, engines tuning lower and quieter as Stassa II’s landscape became a spectacle of shape and color. 

A perfect evening opened up with a panoramic view, painted in purples, pinks, and golds. The Folijada Falls fed mineral-caked hot springs with rippling water and mist partially veiled a pack of arctic coyote emerging from their den in the mountainous foothills. Steam from the hot springs smoked over plush waves of fresh, glittering snow. Vulptices scattered a diamond path with petite footprints, their lope an opalescent dash through the titanium-tinted valley. A motmot snorted into the crisp, cold air. The village was a welcoming, warm glow at the edge of the old-growth woods laden with snow, and Rashala caught a glimpse of her tiny house–little more than a cabin–at the base of the trail leading up to the NATSIC M. 

“A commendable facility,” Tech offered as the communications tower loomed, a gunmetal arm grazing the first hints of auroras snaking across the deepening sky. Rashala smiled wider, thinking of Scopsen and Malivde and her crew. For a moment, she wanted to transmit a message, to tell them in real-time she was okay and so, so close to being home for good. Her heart ached to be close enough to reach out and yet so far that her reach still couldn’t touch those she loved. Her brothers must be at the tavern by this time in the rotation, resting with good company and a drink in their hand.

She had cried when Tech shared the open transmission he skimmed out of the sector’s public communication feeds just the prior rotation: her brothers had declared her stolen from her village, missing and missed, and the funds offered to anyone willing to bring her back were pitifully low to anyone who didn’t understand the amount was a fortune to the village. Her oldest brother had placed an advertisement seeking a used ship capable of hyperspace, as well as an experienced pilot: he offered everything the Affinesonn family had and yet no one had responded in the months since his transmitted request.

Rashala knew they would be disappointed to know she had come so close to coming home for good. The messages she had for them—as well as Malivde and Scopsen—would explain everything. They’d understand and, even if they didn’t accept her reasons, she knew they’d still love her no matter what their temporary emotions might be.

She had to keep others from being taken by the Empire, to keep the Imperial Army from growing ranks of those snatched from their homes and forced into unspeakable horrors, and even a hint of an organized resistance that could prevent such a thing was where Rashala knew she needed to be.

“Prepare for offloading,” Tech directed, poised to land for just a few moments, and Meece began to spin excitedly. Rashala took a shaky breath and guided the droid toward Crosshair. The sniper stared at her and she almost shook with her own excitement; he flicked his pick away and opened the door.

An icy blast of air stole the breath from their lungs but Rashala inhaled deeply, sighing and breathing and sighing again to pull as much of Stassa II’s familiar cold into her. The air was tinged with ozone, laced with a hint of thorilide from the mine entrance, and smelled deeply of snow and pine. It smelled like home, all of it, and Rashala knew she’d jump out of the ship and run to the NATSIC M if she hadn’t shed her ignorance of what the galaxy contained. There were horrors—terrible things she could only prevent with the help of many, many others—but beauty beyond reason. There were planets to visit, people to meet, experiences that could only come to her if she wasn’t moonbound and content in her own attempts to return to a life that could never be picked back up the way she left it.

“Ready, Meece?”

Brrrapppp BAP

“Okay,” Rashala said with a genuine smile as she moved to pick up the droid. “Be good and—”

The MSE launched itself off the ramp and into the snow, falling through the thin crust of ice and becoming a plush bump under the snowbank. It gleefully zigzagged through the frozen landscape, heading for the mine entrance where it would be safe from the elements until it got someone’s attention at a shift change. It would share Rashala’s message and the data it contained, and Stassa II would understand why the Trade Union was no longer dealing in thorilide from the Risedelian moon. Tech had helped her find information on unregistered traders and cargo smugglers who could keep the moon’s economy afloat with smaller but more frequent transactions of the precious resource. Stassa II would understand it was listed as a junkyard at capacity, why no clone patrols would come to the villages anymore, why it was imperative the Stassians continue to keep their home a forgotten corner of a galaxy now in absolute turmoil. The NATSIC M would become the moon’s most valuable resource: a relay for information, a communications hub for the important task of media transmission that could help those fighting back against the Empire, an ally for democracy.

“The droid’ll be fine,” Crosshair said, his reassurance a rare and unexpected kindness for anyone but the woman who knew how much the clone cared for her. Rashala took a deep breath through her nose, closing her eyes and letting the twilight breeze pour into the ship. The engines droned and the Marauder rose into the sky as slowly as it could be piloted, giving Rashala an opportunity for one last look.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” she whispered, voice catching. Crosshair stared at her, taking in every single detail of the impossibly beautiful soul that had bent but refused to be broken under the same weight that crushed him. “I hope—”

Crosshair hadn’t understood what he had seen while he was sedated in the Command Center’s surgical unit, thought his mind had been shorting out at the fringes of death when the droid pulled the chip from his brain and his body was ready to drift into the perpetual dark, and had wondered more than once if he wasn’t right. The edge of existence was as unpredictable and slippery as the Force, as overwhelming as battle, and Crosshair didn’t like believing in anything but concrete certainty of order and obedience. But, as he watched Rashala look over the valley from the Marauder, watching her blue gaze take in everything she loved and everything she was willing to postpone for a chance of doing better by others than what had been done to her, he realized what he had experienced was a vision.

The thought of her proudly bearing a traditional tattoo of her people, of returning to Stassa II as a hero who only ever asked for a life surrounded by love, of greeting him in the star-laced snowfall and holding each other in the space they had made from the chaos around them… Crosshair let his thoughts flow between them, returning Rashala’s soft gaze with his own.

“I know we’ll be back,” Crosshair said, tucking her hair behind her ear, letting his touch linger. “Sooner than you think.”

The End