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Chapter Text

He woke up a little unsettled.

It had become ordinary in these last years. Sleep struck him in ambushes now: sudden, heavy naps that stole hours without warning. He could be sitting at the shooting range with his rifle across his knees, or leaning against a crate after drills, and the darkness would close in. It wasn’t the light rest of a soldier keeping watch in shifts. It was the body’s betrayal, a reminder that the Kaminoans had never designed him to carry this many years. He called them “good naps” in jest, but he knew what they meant. His frame was failing.

The barracks around him were still quiet. Outside, the jungle of Yavin breathed in damp rhythm, unseen but ever-present, its chorus of insects muffled by durasteel walls. He rolled to his side with a grunt, bones creaking, armor scattered across the floor in pieces like the fragments of his life. Each plate was familiar, each scrape and faded scorch line a memory—but each one weighed more than it used to. He strapped them on carefully, as if donning ritual rather than equipment. The weight both grounded him and dragged him down.

At the basin, he splashed cold water on his face. It shocked him awake for a moment, until his knees gave a groan in protest as he leaned forward. He flexed his fingers, remembering what it was to grip a rifle all day without pain. Now, each movement carried a dull throb radiating from knuckles scarred long ago. He stared at his reflection in the water—hair thinner, scars deeper, one eye gone, the other ringed by fatigue. Wolffe was not just old. He was something worse: a clone who had outlived his purpose. We weren’t meant to live this long, he thought grimly. None of them were.

Gregor’s laugh came unbidden to his mind—brief, wild, cut short. Gregor was gone, and the wound remained open. After his brother’s death, Wolffe feared his own body as much as the enemy. Rex still fought, but even Rex’s victories were bought with aches and gray hair. None of them had been made for decades. The Kaminoans had crafted soldiers meant to burn bright and short, not to stagger on into old age, haunted and aching.

He stepped outside into Yavin’s humid dawn. Mist clung to the training range, curling around the jungle trees that pressed at the edge of the base. Birds he didn’t know by name screeched in the canopy. The air tasted of earth and metal, of new growth over old ruins. He slung his rifle into his hands, its weight steadying him. Two bolts cut through the mist. He raised his macrobinoculars, confirmed both strikes true. Good enough. Always good enough.

Rex’s boots approached with their familiar rhythm. Wolffe knew them before he saw him. “You’re up early, Wolffe.”

“Old habits die hard, Rex. Besides, can’t let these pups outshoot me.” His voice carried its usual dry rasp. “What about you?”

“You never change.” Rex came to stand beside him, raising the macrobinoculars to look at the targets. He gave a low whistle. “Not bad. Still better than half the recruits.”

Wolffe’s chest swelled with pride in spite of himself. He lined another shot, felt the weapon kick, saw the bolt hit close to center. “Experience counts for something.”

“Yeah, it does.” Rex’s expression shifted, warmth shading into weariness. “But don’t forget, vod—we’re not getting younger.”

Wolffe barked a short laugh. “Speak for yourself. I'm amazed they will let you go to Endor, as if you’ve got years to spare.”

Rex smirked, clapping him on the shoulder. “Got a little bit left, besides, someone has to go.”

Their banter rolled on as easily as it had during the Clone Wars, decades ago. For a moment, Wolffe felt the years fall away, as if they were still captains and commanders standing shoulder to shoulder against endless waves of clankers. They decided on a contest, like the old days. Shots cracked into the mist, echoing against the jungle. Rex pulled ahead, though Wolffe pressed him close. The final tally was 54 to 52. Close enough to make Wolffe grin despite his aching hands.

Laughter carried across the range, drawing glances from the few Rebels awake at that hour. Two young recruits paused near the fence, trays of breakfast forgotten in their hands.

“Are they really that old?” one whispered, disbelief in his voice.

“Legends,” the other answered, hushed and reverent. “Clone Wars veterans.”

Wolffe heard them. He kept his face neutral, but the words cut. Legends. No—we’re just old men who outlasted our war. He set his rifle down, flexing his fingers as pain flared again. His body begged for rest, but pride pushed him into one more shot. The bolt struck, a solid hit. Good enough.

They settled into silence as the sun crested the treetops, golden light washing the range. Wolffe leaned back on the bench, propping his head on one hand. His cybernetic eye stung against the brightness, but he refused to squint. For once, he let the calm seep in. Rex sat near him, comfortable in the quiet. For a few fleeting breaths, it felt like peace.

The recruits lingered, whispering again. “I thought clones didn’t last this long.”

“They weren’t meant to. That’s what makes it—” The rest trailed off, swallowed by the humid air.

Wolffe smirked bitterly. Right. We weren’t meant to.

His hand slackened against his rifle. His breathing slowed, each inhale shallower than the last. Rex, used to Wolffe’s naps, reached for the gray blanket he always kept nearby. But he stopped short. Something was different this time. The sag in Wolffe’s shoulders was heavier, his chest struggling for its next breath.

“You all right there, Wolffe?” Rex asked, voice suddenly sharp.

No reply. Wolffe’s gaze was distant, pupils unfocused, as if fixed on a horizon no one else could see. The light fractured before his eyes, colors breaking into shards. Memories came in a rush: Gregor’s laugh, broken apart in his mind by the image of blaster fire he had never seen, but could imagine too well. The Wolfpack’s voices in the barracks, warm and rowdy. Plo Koon’s calm presence on the bridge. Ventress’s blade flashing red, stealing his eye and leaving headaches that never ceased. The faces of brothers, too many to name, dead on fields across the galaxy.

We weren’t meant to live this long, he thought again, the phrase turning into surrender. His chest loosened with the thought. There was no anger now. Just release.

Rex’s hand gripped his shoulder, steady but urgent. “Stay with me, Wolffe. Don’t you karking dare.”

Wolffe blinked slowly, his lips parting. Words gathered but didn’t leave his tongue. The effort was too great. Instead, a faint smile ghosted across his face, brittle and tired. Calm spread through him like tidewater, pulling him out to sea.

One of the young Rebels near the fence whispered, horror and awe mixing in his tone. “Is he—?”

“Shut up,” the other hissed, eyes wide. They had never seen death this quiet, this intimate. To them, it was the ending of a myth. 

Rex shook him now, desperation cracking through his voice. “Vod, fight it! Not like this!” His grip tightened, but Wolffe was already slipping away. Vision dimming, sound fading, Wolffe felt himself falling toward something vast and dark. For once, it was not battle that claimed him. It was time.

His head bowed forward, weight collapsing into Rex’s arms. His last breath rattled softly, carried away by the morning breeze that rustled the jungle leaves and stirred the mist.

For a long moment, no one moved. The range lay in silence except for the calls of unseen birds and the rain beginning again in the canopy. Rex held him, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the still face of his brother. Around them, the recruits stood rooted, trays forgotten, their expressions a mirror of disbelief and reverence.

Commander Wolffe did not die in the Clone Wars, nor at Endor, nor on some grand stage of history. Instead, CT-3636 met his end as every clone might hope: weapon close, brother beside him, and the ghosts of a war that had never let him go.

Chapter Text

He woke up again, unsettled.

Wolffe’s first sensation was brightness—a clinical, unrelenting glare that seeped through his eyelids, dragging him toward wakefulness. It wasn’t the soft glow of a sunrise or the warm comfort of a campfire. For a brief second, he thought of the barracks at the Rebel base, then the medical camp, but no. This light was harsh, artificial, accompanied by the faint hum of machinery.

He stirred, his body heavy and uncooperative, as if moving through viscous water—like a coat of thick, unrelenting mud he couldn’t scrape off. His head lolled against the stiff pillow, and a faint groan escaped his throat, coarse and unfamiliar to his ears. For a moment, he didn’t open his eyes. He clung to the fog of sleep, to the dream he couldn’t quite remember but didn’t want to leave. There had been brothers—faces he hadn’t seen in years—and the kind of laughter that war, the Empire, had long ago stolen.

The sharp tap of boots on polished metal jolted him further from the haze. His brow furrowed. A hand twitched, instinctively moving to his side where his DC‑17 should have been, finding only empty space. The motion sent a dull ache rippling through his arm—not pain, but the ghost of something that didn’t belong in a well‑rested body.

His eyes cracked open, squinting against the oppressive brightness. The world around him was blurry at first, shapes and lines swimming in a sterile haze. He blinked hard—once, twice—until the room sharpened into focus. Rows of identical bunks stretched out on either side of him. The walls gleamed a pristine white, unmarred by time or battle. Above him, the smooth curve of the ceiling reflected the faint, rhythmic flicker of a light struggling to stay lit.

Kamino.

The thought settled heavily in his chest; it was the only thing that made sense. Years had passed since he had set foot on his birthworld, yet the memories did not stay buried.

He let his head fall back onto the pillow, the cool surface pressing against his skull. For a few blissful seconds, he let himself believe it was a dream—a cruel yet bittersweet trick of the mind as it sorted through memory. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to shatter the fragile illusion with confirmation of what he already knew. He had to be dead. He never dreamt this vividly—this clearly—of a time long past; and if he did, he knew he wouldn’t be choosing his homeworld. It was fitting, of course, to be reunited in the place all his brothers shared. So many memories…

The sound of soft breathing reached him—steady, rhythmic. Familiar. It was a sound he hadn’t realized he missed.

He turned his head toward the source, and there they were.

Brothers.

Not just any brothers. These were younger versions of them—bodies unmarked by scars, faces still carrying the raw innocence of a soldier not yet weathered by war; hell, barely old enough to be deployed. Across the aisle, he caught sight of Cody’s unmistakable profile, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. To Cody’s left, Rex was curled slightly, one arm draped protectively over the edge of his bunk as though guarding against some phantom threat.

Wolffe’s heart clenched.

His body moved before his mind could catch up, shifting to sit up in his bunk. The world tilted, his head spinning, and he had to grip the edge of the bed to steady himself. His breathing hitched. The chill of the polished metal beneath his palms brought him a moment of clarity, a cold, sobering confirmation of what he didn’t want to believe.

The barracks around him were too vivid, too real. The faint scent of antiseptic. The hum of Kamino’s perpetual storm beyond the walls. The quiet shuffle of a trooper turning over in his sleep. It was all there. Every detail.

"No…" he muttered, his voice cracking under the weight of the word. "No, this isn’t—"

"Wolffe?"

"Another nightmare…?"

The voices were soft, tentative—and far too young.

A hand gripped his shoulder. Warm. Firm. Solid.

Wolffe froze, his body tensing instinctively as his heart slammed against his ribs. Slowly, he turned his head.

Rex stood beside him, his face unlined and curious, bright blue eyes clouded with sleep. "You all right, vod? You were muttering in your sleep."

Wolffe stared at him, his throat tightening as his gaze swept over Rex’s unscarred face, his hair still cropped in the standard cut they all shared during training. A face Wolffe hadn’t seen like this since… since they were cadets. But that was impossible. Rex had a gray beard. He was bald. He was about to be deployed with the Rebels…

"I—I’m fine," Wolffe rasped, his voice hollow and unfamiliar. He pulled away from Rex’s touch, his movements stiff and jerky, almost erratic. His mind raced to make sense of the impossible.

"You don’t look fine…" Rex replied, frowning. His gaze flicked to Cody, who was already up—though not fully awake yet. "Should I call the medics?"

"No!" Wolffe snapped, the sharpness of his tone making Rex—and Cody—flinch. He regretted it immediately, but didn’t have the presence of mind to apologize. His hands trembled as he dragged them down his face, desperate to feel the lines of his scars, the roughness of skin that no longer existed.

Reality hit him like a crashing wave.

His chest heaved, and for a moment, he thought he might be sick. Memories flooded his mind—battlefields drenched in blood; the sound of brothers dying; the betrayal that had torn the galaxy apart. He could feel every loss, every mistake, every scar that should have been there.

But none of it was.

His body was young. His scars erased.

He turned away from Rex, his gaze falling to the polished floor beneath him. It reflected a face he barely recognized.

This wasn’t a nightmare. It was real.

And he had no idea why.

Chapter Text

“Better now?” Cody asked, handing back the cup of water he’d given Wolffe seconds ago. Wolffe drained it in one gulp, his hand still trembling as he lowered the cup. His gaze never left the floor—or his two brothers. Around them, bunks hissed open, white steam rising as clones stirred into their morning routines.

“Feeling anxious about the test?” Cody pressed, trying for reassurance. “If it helps, we’re all a little nervous. I heard the Alphas did well, the Cuy’—”

“What test?” Wolffe interrupted, too sharp.

Rex gave him that look—protective, steady, almost patronizing. The same as always, even on a younger face. Cody’s brows drew tight, his voice faltering as if he’d stepped into a conversation out of order.

“Uh… you forgot? We’re going to the Citadel.”

For a moment Wolffe’s heart simply stopped. He clutched at his training like a drowning man grabs a rope. Panic attacks were common among the vode, he reminded himself. He knew how to breathe through them.

Breathe in.

The Citadel. Kamino’s training grounds.

Breathe out.

He was going to be watched. Everyone was always watched.

Breathe in.

The Kaminoans had no mercy. There was no room for error.

Breathe out.

He steadied. Barely. His brothers were still watching, expecting him to crack open, to fall apart. He forced himself into a quiet nod, a soldier’s nod, enough to keep their suspicions at bay.

“Sorry,” he muttered, forcing a laugh. “Weird dream.”

A lie. Too vivid, too real.

“You don’t say,” Cody said. “You looked like you were about to black out.”

Wolffe ignored it. He couldn’t let himself spiral into thoughts of what Cody would become—what he knew Cody would become. That was later. He crushed it down.

“Yeah. I’m fine. The Citadel, right.”

Rex and Cody exchanged a glance. Both unconvinced. Both unwilling to push.

“Brief me on it,” Wolffe said, voice rough. “Still dizzy from the sleep. Kriff, I slept like—” he cut himself short, the sentence breaking on his tongue. He didn’t even know what to compare it to anymore.

“Don’t worry, vod,” Rex said. “Standard procedure. We each get assigned cadets to lead. It’s supposed to give us some command experience.” He sounded confident, maybe even proud.

Cody leaned forward, eager to add, eyes bright. “Yeah. I talked with 99. He’s been cleaning the rooms all week, saw the layouts. Says it’s the biggest course we’ve had. Even the Alphas haven’t trained on it yet. Probably because they won’t end up in charge like us.”

For a second, Wolffe just stared at him. Cody. Naïve. Hopeful. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Cody like this. It unsettled him more than anything.

A new voice broke in: “Talking about today’s run?”

Wolffe’s head snapped up. Ponds was joining them, and with him came more figures Wolffe knew too well—faces from another lifetime. Gree, Bly, Neyo, Bacara. Commanders, all of them. And others Wolffe didn’t even recognize.

The sound of chatter swelled, a hundred voices bouncing off sterile walls. Wolffe’s stomach clenched. Nothing matched. The timelines were wrong. Commanders weren’t selected this way. Alphas were always first. And why were they all housed together in the same barracks, shoulder to shoulder? Kamino’s dormitories had never been this vast. Not in his memory. And there had never been these many candidates.

Something was wrong.

A voice like glass cutting through air silenced them:

“All candidates for commander designation, report to the Citadel. You will be guided by an instructor.”

A Kaminoan stood in the doorway, tall and pale, voice flat. Wolffe couldn’t place the face—not that it mattered. He hadn’t let himself think about that species in years.

Then the door at the far end of the hall hissed open. Wolffe’s body moved before his mind did, instincts dragging him upright, spine straightening as if the decades between had never existed. Conditioning never left. And none of the vode dared resist when a silhouette filled the threshold.

“From this moment, the test begins. Follow me.”

The figure was armored. Mandalorian. But not one Wolffe recognized. The paint meant nothing, the sigil less. For a heartbeat he expected Kal, maybe Mij, some face he knew from Kamino’s buried history—but no. This one was unknown. And that was worse.

The candidates formed ranks automatically. Wolffe found himself swept along, every muscle obeying a drill older than his will. They marched out, boots striking in practiced rhythm.

At the corridor’s end stretched a window. Beyond it, Kamino unfurled.

And Wolffe froze.

It was Kamino, yes—but grotesque, monstrously magnified. Pylons stretched impossibly far into storm and sea, vanishing into the gray until the rain itself erased them. Corridors wide enough for entire columns of armor and machines; arteries of some vast industrial organism. Too clean. Too pristine. Familiar in shape, but wrong in scale.

This isn’t Kamino. The thought tore through him like shrapnel. This is something wearing Kamino’s skin.

“Wolffe!” Cody’s voice cracked like a whip. Wolffe jerked forward, forcing his legs into step again.

The march stretched on. More clones joined, column after column feeding into the flow, each led by armored instructors. Rows upon rows, a tide of brothers swept toward a single looming entrance.

Wolffe’s pulse hammered. His mouth tasted of iron.

Something was very, very wrong.

The corridor spat them into a chamber so vast Wolffe’s first instinct was to look for a sky. There wasn’t one—only a ceiling drowned in white light, beams vanishing into a glare that bent perspective and made distances lie. Platforms, gantries, and false streets carved the floor into sectors like organs in some great machine. Steel pylons threw long, disciplined shadows across the training ground. At the far end, a hangar gate taller than any he had ever seen stood sealed, floodlights sleeping above it like the closed eyes of giants.

The Mandalorian instructor walked them to a circular dais. The man’s armor was worn but immaculate, plates swallowing the light rather than throwing it back. No colors. No sigils Wolffe could identify. Just a blank predator standing in the middle of Kamino’s cold perfection. His jaw clenched. Mercenaries pretending to raise brothers they could never understand—mercenaries who would never bleed for the men they ordered.

“Candidates,” the vocoder flattened his voice into iron. “This is Command Net.” He tapped the holopuck on the dais. A city-bloom of holographic grids and icons lifted into the air, blue on blue, rotating until it filled their vision with corridors and sectors of combat. “You will coordinate across teams to achieve multiple simultaneous objectives. Comms denial, assault on fortified positions, convoy defense, capture of high-value nodes. You will not succeed alone. Use each other, or you will fail.”

Around Wolffe, the other candidates muttered quietly into their mics, voices crackling through static. Ponds checked in with Gree. Bly with Neyo. He caught Bacara’s clipped bark. Across Gold Net, commanders speaking to commanders—the future generals of the Republic still young, still rough, but already thrown into the furnace. This wasn’t isolation. This was a trial of coordination. They were meant to lean, clash, and hold—or collapse together.

The Mandalorian’s visor drifted, pausing on Wolffe. “CT-3636. You are Blue Two. Block C assault.”

“Copy,” Wolffe said automatically. His throat scraped dry. “Blue Two copies.”

Cadets clustered at his side—five full squads, twenty-five men. Helmets tucked under arms, armor white and unpainted, rifles and carbines held awkwardly. Too tall, too short, still raw and uneven. Every plate gleamed like it had just come off the line. One cadet clutched a medic kit like a shield. Their eyes—too large, too green with nerves—scanned Wolffe and then the looming arena beyond. A murmur of unease moved through them, rattling the sterile air.

He studied them hard. “Helmets on.” The words cut through the chatter. Plastoid locked with sharp snaps, filling the silence with a chain of discipline. The room felt smaller now, twenty-five HUDs flickering to life. “Listen up. You don’t have to like my voice, but you will obey it. We sprint only to cover, we shoot only to move, and we move in bounds. You see a brother fall, you call it. Nobody disappears on my time.”

One cadet hesitated. His voice was high, too quick: “Sir, they’re just training droids—”

Wolffe cut him short, voice like a knife. “Call them training droids if you want. But the second you start thinking the fight doesn’t matter, you’ll get sloppy. And if you start thinking they’re expendable, you’ll realize too late that so are you.”

Silence pressed in. Even through visors, he felt their stares settle. The medic nodded faintly, mumbling almost to himself, “Copy that.” Another cadet whispered a nervous joke over comms—“Hope they’re worse shots than me”—drawing a hiss of laughter quickly silenced by Wolffe’s glare.

Wolffe stepped to the weapons rack. Rifles lined it, neat and orderly. He ignored them. His hands found what they wanted: two DC-17 pistols, locking into his holsters with a familiar weight. The cadets shifted uneasily at the sight—no rifles, just pistols. A bold one muttered, “Guess our CO’s got style,” and was shoved by his squadmate with a grunt of embarrassment. Wolffe didn’t explain. “Form up.”

The Mandalorian pressed the holopuck again. The grid bled red at multiple points, glowing like wounds. “Begin on my mark. Gold Net controls the flow. Use your channels. Commanders—talk to each other. Mark.”

Wolffe’s HUD pulsed. “Blue Two moving.”

The arena unfolded in brutal honesty. Gantries loomed overhead, streets lined with plastoid barricades. Turrets dormant, waiting. The first corner spat fire: blue stun-rings bursting from a turret as it snapped awake, droid plating clanking as servos hunted. The bolts carried enough power to drop a cadet limp. Wolffe recognized the rhythm before the second burst—two-beat, mechanical pause. He showed them the timing with his hand and body: *now, now, cut.*

They moved as he demanded. The first squad suppressed while the second flanked left. A wiry cadet—nervous but fast—slid under the fire and slapped a charge. The turret died in a fizz of static. Another cadet collapsed in the open, HUD flat. The medic sprinted forward, dragging him behind cover, scanner whining. “Unconscious, but stable—wake in ninety seconds.”

“Keep him covered,” Wolffe barked. “Nobody lies in the open.”

One cadet muttered, “Copy, Commander,” his voice shaking but proud. Another answered with a sharp, “We’ve got him.” Already, personalities surfaced—bravado, fear, loyalty tangled together.

His HUD streamed updates from adjacent zones, red traces bleeding in from other commanders’ sectors. Ghostly outlines of combat swam into his overlay. He caught one vector pulling thin—icons spread wide, comms cluttered with panic. His years of battle screamed the answer before the cadets even noticed. He keyed into Command Net.

“Blue Two clear of One-Two,” he reported up to Gold Net. Then across the commanders’ channel: “Blue Four, your flank is thin. Shift left or you’ll bleed it.”

“Copy, Blue Two,” came the ragged reply—A clone that Wolffe could swear it was Baccara’s tone, sharp and breathless. Already the network buzzed alive, commanders throwing lines of information like ropes across a storm. The trial was working.

Wolffe’s objectives flashed. A fortified block: shield emitters, heavy gunners, a perfect killbox. He tasted metal. “Right flank is soft,” he told his squads. “We ghost the street, climb the crates, drop in. Suppression here, here, here.” He marked the HUD with harsh, efficient strokes. “Medic, on me. We do not get separated.”

“Roger that,” the medic said firmly this time, steadier than before. A tall cadet added, “We’ll clear it.” Another, quieter, whispered, “Hope so.” Wolffe’s voice cut them short: “Not hope. Do.”

They climbed. Boots scuffed metal, rifles clanked, breath rasped. One cadet hummed nervously until Wolffe snapped, “Silence on ascent.” They obeyed. At the top, Wolffe peeked over—three heavies under a shield bubble, pickets spraying the street with fire. He pointed. Calm, steady. “Left side. Drop on my shot.”

They fell into the nest. One squad shredded pickets, another cracked the generator, and Wolffe tore into the heavy mount with his pistols, fire walking across plating until it collapsed. The cadets shouted in exhilaration before Wolffe cut them cold with: “Perimeter! Now!”

Two dragged brothers were checked, scanners chirping. “Both recovering.”

Then Command Net flared. “Blue Net, convoy route Delta failing, reinforcements simulated Vector Kappa. Request diversion.”

Static chewed the rest. Gold Net answered, flat as ice. “Negative. Hold objectives. Blue Two, stand by for reassignment.”

The far hangar exhaled light. Gates grinding, floodlights slashing awake, wind pushing into the chamber. Silhouettes lined the threshold.

“Blue Two, you are now Green Two,” Gold Net intoned. “Defend your position. Reinforcements inbound through you. Friend and foe both.”

“Stack crates two high for a screen,” Wolffe snapped. “Arcs here, here—no, not there, you’ll shoot your brother in the back—there. Medic, triage zone behind. Nobody stays down in the open.”

The cadets scrambled, clumsy but obedient. Wolffe’s corrections came fast, merciless, shaping their chaos into order. Some cursed under their breath, others repeated orders like mantras. One muttered, “We’ll hold, we’ll hold,” while another barked, “Covering right!” The perimeter solidified. He felt the itch in his jaw—the old readiness sliding back into place.

The hangar spewed blue icons—friendlies. At their point: a captain moving with precision Wolffe knew too well. The helmet turned, drawn by instinct. For an impossible moment, destiny set them side by side.

Rex.

They didn’t smile. Didn’t salute. Rex slid into the line as if it had been waiting for him, rifle firm. “Status.”

“Perimeter set, two down recovering, heavy mount destroyed. Pressure east stair,” Wolffe answered. “You’re late.”

“Traffic,” Rex said dry, gesturing his men into the gaps Wolffe had left open. Trusting a plan he hadn’t written. “I’ll take the stair.”

“Take it.”

The defense erupted. Stun fire poured from gantries. A feint right, a rush left. Crates toppled, cadets firing in rhythm taught moments ago. One fell; Wolffe dragged him by the harness, pistols spitting cover fire, shoved him to the medic. A cadet cried out, “Got your flank, Commander!” and another shouted, “Reloading!” Wolffe moved like he always had—first into the breach, showing them with his own body. His dual pistols sang arcs across choke points, precise and merciless.

Rex held the stair like he’d been born for it. Wolffe didn’t question it. He simply let it be.

The wave broke. Silence slammed down. HUD icons cooled. Breaths returned ragged, then steadied. Cadets blinked awake, alive, whole. One whispered hoarsely, “We did it.” Another thumped his chestplate in pride before Wolffe’s stare silenced him.

“Green Two,” Gold Net said. “Scenario concluded. Stand down.”

Wolffe holstered his pistols. The Mandalorian appeared, visor reflecting the broken perimeter and the cadets still steadying their hands. “CT-3636,” the vocoder grated. “Report to Medical. Nala Se is expecting you.”

Rex tilted his head. “He did well.”

“We observed,” the Mandalorian said. “Now.”

Corridors unfolded, cold and endless. Doors opened and closed like eyelids. Medical reeked of solvent and rain. The final door slid aside.

Inside: Mandalorians ringed a table. Nala Se at the far end, hands folded, her face unreadable. At the center sat the fact of them all—dark hair cut short, jaw like a decision, eyes like mirrors of every clone.

Jango Fett lifted his gaze.

The room froze, silent as a trigger before the break.

The door closed behind Wolffe.

The chamber smelled of solvent and cold steel, bright light glaring down until it erased shadow. Wolffe stood in the circle of it, helmet clipped to his belt, hands restless against his sides. Around the table: Mandalorians in silent rows, their visors blank and watching. At the far end Nala Se, hands folded, stylus ready, eyes flat and merciless. And at the center—Jango Fett, still and deliberate, the weight of the room bending toward him.

The silence cracked first under Nala Se. Her voice was calm, clinical.

“The perimeter you formed around your wounded—explain it. This protocol belongs to advanced training not yet introduced at this stage. Where did you learn it?”

Wolffe’s mouth dried. “They fell in the open. I pulled them back. That’s what you do.”

In his chest, unease tightened. Why is that a question? Isn’t that obvious?

Nala Se’s stylus ticked against her datapad, the sound sharp as rain on glass.

Another Mandalorian leaned forward slightly, vocoder rough.

“Why pistols, CT-3636? Rifles give range. Cadets are trained to rely on them. You discarded yours.”

Wolffe swallowed. “They fit. That’s what my hands knew. I thought faster with them.” He hated the sound of his own voice—uncertain, defensive. He had never needed to explain to anyone why his holsters felt natural.

Jango shifted, just enough to draw every gaze. His tone was steady, measured.

“And why did your cadets move with you? They should have hesitated. Yet they followed. What did you give them?”

“I—” Wolffe blinked, his throat tightening. “I moved first. If I didn’t, they wouldn’t. That’s all.”

Nothing more. Just instinct. Nothing I can name.

Nala Se’s voice sliced again.

“You shifted your entire flank rather than pushing forward. That maneuver belongs to Delta Cohort curriculum, months from now. Explain how you arrived at it.”

“I heard chaos in comms. Blue Four was stretched thin. If we didn’t cover, they’d break. I acted.” Wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t anyone else hear it? Her stylus scratched a harder note.

Another Mandalorian spoke, arms crossed, posture accusatory. “You stacked crates instead of collapsing the choke with charges. Why?”

Wolffe’s jaw locked. “Charges take time. Crates were there. My men needed cover now. It held.” He caught his own reflection in a visor: young face, old eyes. He looked away.

Jango’s voice cut through the air again, this time quieter.

“You give orders like you’ve bled for them. But you’re fresh from the tubes. Where does that come from?”

Silence spread. Wolffe’s lips parted, no words forming. His chest pulled tight. How do I answer that? I don’t know myself. He stood frozen, caught between wanting to speak and fearing what might spill out.

Nala Se filled the pause, cold as ever.

“The subject is ahead of schedule. This desynchronizes the curriculum. Only CT-3636 displayed this anomaly. It is not an asset, it is a flaw.”

Jango turned his head toward her, slowly, predator deliberate.

“A flaw? No. He adapted under pressure. That means the design works. If one can do it, more will. Advance the timetable.”

Nala Se’s tone sharpened, still clinical but edged with protest.

“Advancement outside controlled parameters leads to unpredictable outcomes. Discipline requires uniformity. Exceptional behavior distorts the product.”

Jango did not raise his voice.

“Uniformity breeds mediocrity. Soldiers don’t win wars by waiting for your schedule. They win by surviving. If CT-3636 broke pattern, then test him harder. Test them all harder.”

The Mandalorians around the chamber shifted just slightly, the sound of plates brushing like a pack stirring at scent. Nala Se’s stylus stilled, her expression unreadable. Wolffe stood trapped in the middle, the center of an argument that weighed his existence like a tool in a forge.

To him, it wasn’t praise. It was a sentence: more trials, more scrutiny, more to prove. He clenched his fists, confused, exhausted, and very aware that every word spoken about him was deciding his future as if he weren’t there at all.

The silence fell hard. Jango’s eyes lingered on Wolffe, unreadable. Nala Se looked back down to her notes. The Mandalorians waited, quiet and patient. The interrogation wasn’t over—it had only drawn blood.

The door hissed open. Wolffe was dismissed with a wave of Nala Se’s long fingers. No explanation, no praise. Just dismissal. He stepped out into the corridor, the sound of his boots echoing off steel walls. The Mandalorian escort followed him until the threshold, then vanished back inside like shadows snapping shut. Alone, Wolffe’s pace felt heavier than the walk to the chamber.

He moved through Kamino’s endless white arteries, rain beating against the transparisteel windows. Every sound magnified—distant drills, cadets shouting cadence, water thrumming like a second pulse. His head ached with the words thrown at him: flaw, anomaly, exceptional. None of it fit. He had only done what he thought was right.

The mess hall opened ahead, noisy and bright. Rows of cadets hunched over ration trays, laughter clashing with exhaustion. Conversations dipped as Wolffe entered. Dozens of identical faces turned to look, eyes narrowing with curiosity, whispers following him as he took a tray.

“Hey, that’s him. Blue Two.”

“What’d they want with you?”

“Did you screw up?”

“Or did you impress ’em?”

Wolffe sat down heavily at an open spot. A cluster of cadets leaned in, eager, hungry for answers. One broad-shouldered clone grinned, too brash for his own good.

“Come on, Commander, share. They don’t just pull anyone out mid-cycle.”

Wolffe stabbed at his ration bar with the fork. “I don’t know. Questions. About the run.”

A wiry cadet with sharp eyes frowned. “Questions? Like what?”

“Why pistols. Why flanking. Why cover the wounded.” Wolffe’s voice came out flat. The words sounded absurd when spoken aloud, like being interrogated for breathing.

A ripple of laughter moved through the table. “They don’t like you thinking for yourself, huh?” the broad one joked. Another chimed in, “Guess you should’ve let us die in the dirt, then.”

The medic from his squad—face pale but eyes steady—shook his head. “No. He did right. You don’t leave brothers behind.” His tone silenced the laughter. For a moment, they all chewed quietly.

A younger cadet broke it. “So… are they gonna make you an Alpha? Is that what this is?” His voice cracked with a mix of awe and fear.

Wolffe stared at him. “No. I’m just like you.”

At least that’s what I want to believe.

The chatter rose again, half-banter, half-nervous. Some teased, others pressed him with questions, but Wolffe deflected with short replies. He was too tired to invent stories, too unsettled to reassure them. The truth was simple: he didn’t know why he had been called, and that truth unnerved him more than their stares.

The brash cadet nudged him again. “So what’s it like? Having Fett himself look at you? Must’ve felt like being skinned alive.”

“Felt like nothing,” Wolffe muttered. “Like being measured.”

The wiry one frowned. “Measured for what?”

Wolffe shook his head. He had no answer.

Another clone across the table said softly, “Doesn’t matter. He walked out breathing. That’s enough.”

A murmur of agreement followed. For a few heartbeats, the noise of the mess hall seemed distant, only the pounding rain outside filling Wolffe’s ears.

He finished his tray in silence, stood, and left the mess with whispers following him down the corridor.

The barracks loomed large, bunks stacked in long rows, white light spilling down over dozens of identical bodies. Cadets lay sprawled, some still talking in low voices, others already snoring. The sound of breathing—dozens layered over dozens—filled the air like a tide. It was almost comforting, almost suffocating.

Cody looked up from his bunk, datapad still in hand. “You’re back. How bad was it?”

Wolffe shrugged, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Questions. Too many. I don’t know what they wanted.”

Rex, already half-curled on his side, pushed up on one elbow. “They don’t pull a vod out just to waste time. You did something.”

“Or everything wrong,” Wolffe muttered.

Cody gave a small grin. “Doesn’t look like punishment to me. You’re still breathing.”

“That’s all it feels like,” Wolffe said, rubbing his face with his hands. “Breathing. Waiting.”

The three sat in silence for a moment, listening to the low hum of the lights and the rainfall outside. A cadet across the aisle piped up nervously, “Hey, Blue Two, are we in trouble too? They’re not gonna drag us in, right?”

“No,” Wolffe said sharply. “They wanted me. Just me.” The words burned in his throat. And I don’t even know why.

The overhead speakers crackled, Kaminoan tones flat and without warmth.

“Lights out in five minutes. All cadets return to bunks. Rest cycle begins.”

Rex pulled his blanket tighter. “Guess that’s our cue.”

Cody slid his datapad under his pillow, murmuring, “Don’t let it get in your head, Wolffe. Tomorrow’s another run.”

Wolffe lay back, staring at the ceiling. His body was young—restless, strong—but his mind felt heavy, older than the Kaminoan storms. The words from the chamber echoed: flaw, anomaly, advance the timetable. He had lived this before, and yet not like this. He couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t tell anyone. All he could do was close his eyes and pretend that sleep would take him before the doubts did.

The rain hammered on the walls of Kamino. The sound folded over itself, endless and merciless, just like the war he knew was coming.

From the bunk beside him, Rex’s breathing slowed into steady rhythm. Cody turned once, muttered a line of procedure in his sleep. Somewhere further down, a cadet whispered a prayer learned from nowhere, passed like contraband among brothers. Each sound cut through Wolffe differently, reminders that they were all the same—and yet all already drifting apart in ways no one else could see.

Wolffe’s first night back was restless, haunted by the weight of a future he already carried in his bones.

Chapter Text

He woke before the lights, the room a long hush of sleeping lungs and soft clicks from the climate vents. The barracks smelled faintly of solvent and damp fabric—the Kaminoan wet creeping into everything, even sealed behind durasteel. Wolffe lay still and listened: the rain above, the ocean all around, the measured chorus of clone breathing that should have been comforting. It wasn’t. He felt odd here, in this past, if he could even call it that. There was also the fact that, unlike what seemed just mere hours ago, he wasn’t old anymore—joints that didn’t ache, hands that didn’t tremble, lungs that didn’t rasp—and the mismatch scraped like grit under a plate.

When the ceiling strips brightened to pale dawn, the first rows of bunks hissed open. Voices rose and died. Wolffe swung his legs down and sat for a moment with his palms on his thighs, waiting for the vertigo that had dogged him since waking in this life. None came. The body was steady. It was his mind that reeled.

“Medbay,” a Kaminoan voice droned over the overhead. “CT-3636. Report for evaluation.” No honorific, which would be fair, given their age. No explanation, Kaminoans never gave one. Just the number, dropped like a tool code.

He rose and joined the stream of identically dressed bodies into the corridor. None that he could name.

The medbay doors parted with a breath of cold air. Brightness erased shadow. Solvent bit the tongue. Nala Se stood at the far station, hands folded, a data-slate tucked under the crook of one elbow. Behind her, a half-wall of translucent screens glowed with graphs that looked like seismographs of the body—peaks and troughs marching in precise indifference.

“CT-3636,” she said, without looking up. “Sit.”

He followed orders and sat on the slab. The surface was colder than it needed to be. A Kaminoan technician drifted to his side and began attaching sensor nodes with long, deft fingers: temple, sternum, wrist, the base of the skull. Each contact sent a micro-shiver through skin that remembered scars which weren’t there. Yet.

“Do you experience headaches?” Nala Se asked.

“Yes.” The truth slid out before he could stop it.

“Frequency?”

“Daily.” He spoke quickly again. Sometimes twice. Sometimes not at all. Sometimes worse when he thought of Ventress. He kept that to himself. But that was before, wasn’t it?

“Location?”

He tapped above the empty-, no, his eye. “Here.”

Her stylus ticked three times. “Noted.”

The technician rolled a stand beside him. A flexible arm lowered a scanner toward his face; the blue light bloomed, soft and merciless. Wolffe gritted his teeth as the beam lapped at his pupils, a pressure blooming at the back of his skull. He kept his gaze fixed on the pale oval of Nala Se’s face beyond the light, the long unblinking eyes that had catalogued who knows many clones before him and would catalog many, many more.

“Follow the point,” the tech said. A green dot skittered across the ceiling and back. Wolffe tracked it without thinking. His body remembered drills. His body remembered everything.

“Reaction speed above candidate average.” the tech murmured for the record.

Nala Se approached, her presence as cool as the room. “Stand.”

He obeyed. The slab retreated into the floor with a whir. Another platform rose, gridded with foot markers. The screen behind her shifted to wireframe: a featureless man in armor, joints highlighted in white.

“Balance series,” she said. “Close your eyes.”

He did. The platform shifted under him without warning—tilt forward, tilt left, micro-tremors, a drop and catch like an elevator braking. His feet adjusted before he registered the movement. Ankles, knees, hips, the whole chain firing in sequence, neat as a drill team. His breathing never hitched. When the platform stilled, he opened his eye to the sound of stylus against slate.

“Procedural consolidation ahead of schedule,” Nala Se said. If there was admiration, he couldn’t hear it. “Begin motor recall.”

The technician placed a plastoid dummy rifle in his hands. It had the right weight, the right balance—Kaminoan sub-contractors and their fabrications never missed, the long-necks had high standards after all. “Show ready positions. Transition to sidearm. Left- and right-dominant.”

He did as ordered. Barrel up, barrel down, pivot on the outside foot, switch to the hip holster and back. The clicks and snaps sounded like old bones being set. He ran the sequence faster on the second set without meaning to. On the third, his elbows tucked, his shoulders aligned, and he slipped into a stance he hadn’t learned here, not like this—something taught by a war and a thousand repetitions in live fire.

“Pause,” Nala Se said. She stepped closer, the hem of her coat whispering. “Repeat the last transition.”

He did. Holster to draw to firing position—clean, efficient, predatory.

“That technique is not yet in your training queue,” she said. The words were neutral; the eyes were not. “Who taught it to you?”

Wolffe stared past her shoulder at the translucent partitions. A shape moved behind them—a darker smear of armor at the edge of the half-silvered glass. Observers. Mandalorians, most likely. He felt the urge to angle his body to cover, to deny them a clean line. He did not move.

“No one,” he said. “I just—did it.”

Her stylus wrote something longer this time. “Anomaly persists.”

The arm of the scanner came down again, bathing his face in blue. “We will complete neuroimaging,” Nala Se said. “Then bloodwork. You will report to Central Command for coordination drills at third bell.”

“Ma’am,” he said. He tasted metal on the back of his tongue.

The scanner hummed. The blue bled into white. He thought of the interrogation—the ring of Mandalorians, Jango’s stillness, her use of the word flaw. He was not a man in this room. He was a number on a screen, a curve that could be smoothed, an outlier to be corrected.

She gestured. The tech drew vials, slid a pressure cuff around his arm and took measurements that marched in precise columns across the screens. He watched the numbers pull themselves into order: pulse, respiration, O2 saturation, spikes when the platform moved, a baseline that would now be his baseline, whether it fit him or not.

“Your autonomic responses are elevated,” Nala Se said. “Not abnormal, given cohort stressors. Nevertheless, you will report to rest cycle on command.” A beat. “And you will submit to additional scans after coordination drills.”

“How many?” The question left him flat, not defiant, not pleading. He simply needed to know what the day would take.

“As many as required,” she said.

The phrase slotted into him like a cold instrument. As many as required. It had always been the answer on Kamino. How many brothers? How many years? How many lives?

She dismissed him with a small tilt of the chin. “Return at fourth bell.”

He slid off the platform. The tech peeled sensors from his skin, each small pull leaving a sting, as if the room were taking pieces to keep. He walked out into the corridor.

The hallway beyond was brighter than when he’d come, the city fully awake. Cadets moved in orderly currents, boots striking in perfect cadence. The rain outside hammered the transparisteel like static. As he turned toward the training levels, he caught his reflection in the long window: training clothes, young face, both eyes steady and clear. He looked like every other trooper in the line. He had never felt less like them.

Third bell would come fast, and before the drills he needed armor. No phase-one plates waited for him yet; cadets wore the plastoid shells issued from the armory. He turned down a quieter passage, the air thicker with oil and scorched metal, until the racks appeared: row upon row of training armor, standing like hollow men under the sterile light.

Moving between them was a hunched figure Wolffe knew at once—though by rights he should not, not yet. 99. His gait was uneven, his frame bent, but his hands worked with tireless care over a chest plate, polishing until the plastoid shone.

“Need gear?” 99 rasped, setting the plate aside.

Wolffe hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. For drills.”

99 smiled, the scars tugging at his face. “They always forget the sizes. Here.” He moved down the rack with practiced ease, selecting greaves, gauntlets, and a chest plate. He stacked them neatly at Wolffe’s feet. “Try these. Solid pieces, no cracks.”

Wolffe crouched and ran a hand across the plastoid. Plain. Unpainted. Impersonal. But every seam carried 99’s touch, each scrape cleaned smooth. The weight of it pressed heavier than expected. “You do this for all of us?”

99 shrugged, almost shy. “Somebody has to. Can’t fight but I can keep the brothers ready.”

For the first time that day, Wolffe felt something ease in his chest. Not numbers on a chart, not an anomaly under a scanner—just clones, gear, and a brother making sure the pieces fit.

“Thanks,” Wolffe said, fastening the chest plate. It clicked into place with finality.

“Don’t thank me,” 99 said, waving a hand. “Just make it count.”

The plastoid sat cool against Wolffe’s undersuit as he adjusted the straps. He looked once more at 99, wanting to say more but settling for a sharp nod. 99 returned it, satisfied.

When Wolffe stepped back into the corridor, the sound of cadets in motion had swelled—voices, boots, the hum of anticipation. He merged with the flow, plastoid gleaming under the lights. For once, the reflection staring back from the transparisteel looked like it belonged: another soldier in the line.

He took the ramp down toward Cohort Command, the hum of the simulators growing louder with each level and told his hands to stop shaking even though they weren’t.

The drill hall stretched wider than memory, its ceiling lost in light, its walls lined with racks of rifles and plastoid barricades. Wolffe stepped into the current of cadets pouring from the corridors, boots striking in unison. The heavy with the hum of waiting machinery was ever present. His chest tightened. He had walked into countless hangars before, but here, in Kamino’s sterile white belly, he felt younger and older all at once.

Mandalorians stood along the edges like carved idols, helmets unblinking. Their silence was louder than any command. At the far end, an instructor barked through his vocoder, words flat but hard enough to carry: “Cohorts, into units. Pair by rank, rotate every bell. Objective: coordination, initiative, and response under pressure.”

Rows broke and reformed. Wolffe found himself shouldered between Rex and Bly, both fresh-faced, eyes hidden behind their visors but bodies restless with nerves. Bly’s rifle tapped against his thigh in rhythm. Rex gave a sharp nod, that steadying confidence already showing.

The whistle shrieked. Simulated droids snapped awake, blue streaks of stun bolts crisscrossing the open floor. Cadets scattered for cover, shouts rising over comms. Wolffe dropped low, the plastoid rifle warm in his hands, its grip alien but familiar. He angled toward the flank, words leaving his mouth before thought could stop them.

“Rex, cut right—Bly, hold the line, cover us.”

They moved without question. Too smooth. Too practiced. As if they’d done this dance a hundred times. The droid unit collapsed under their fire, circuits sizzling, bodies clattering against the polished floor. A whistle cut again.

“Reset. Rotate.”

Wolffe’s breath hitched. He hadn’t meant to lead. The words had jumped free, muscle memory in command form. He bit down on it and swapped positions, this time beside Bacara. The taller clone shifted his grip with clipped precision; visor angled down at Wolffe like judgment.

The whistle shrieked. The next wave rolled out—more droids, more bolts. Bacara pressed forward, steady and brutal, but Wolffe saw the pattern before it unfolded. He called it out. “Two on your left, break the choke!” Bacara obeyed without pause. Again, too smooth. Too knowing. Another whistle.

Hours blurred. Cadets and Commander alike rotated—Gree, Neyo, Ponds, Cody. Each time, Wolffe’s instincts betrayed him. He slipped into old habits, movements honed by wars these boys hadn’t fought yet. His stances were too sharp, his voice too steady. He caught looks through visors, hesitation in the pauses between drills.

By the time the bell rang dismissal, sweat ran down his spine, his undersuit clinging. The hall reeked of scorched plastoid and bodies driven to edge. Cadets peeled off toward the mess, chatter rising like static. Wolffe pulled his helmet free, his skin damp, breath harsh in his throat. He felt their eyes even without seeing them—whispers already starting. The anomaly walked among them, and they knew it.

Rex fell into step beside him, helmet tucked under his arm. “You lead like you’ve done this before.” His tone was light, but there was weight under it.

Wolffe forced a grunt that might pass for humor. “Lucky calls. That’s all.”

Bacara brushed past, his shoulder clipping Wolffe’s. The mutter that followed was meant to be heard: “Doesn’t look like luck to me.”

It was a roar of trays and voices, a tide of uniforms and armors under sterile lights. Wolffe took his seat with Rex and Cody, the taste of metal still lingering in his mouth. He forced himself to eat, but the room never stopped watching. Eyes tracked him, whispers darted like gnats. It was only a matter of time before one of them broke the silence.

Bacara stood from the next table, helmet clipped at his belt, sweat still plastered across his close-cropped hair. His voice carried, cutting through the din. “Orders are one thing, vod. But you’ve been calling shots like you’ve drilled them for years. That’s not luck.”

The noise dulled. Dozens of heads turned. Some cadets froze mid-bite, others leaned in. Wolffe kept his eyes on his tray, jaw tight. “I called what I saw.”

Bacara snorted. “If you’ve got a trick we don’t, you share it. Otherwise, you’re leaving brothers behind. Commanders don’t hoard. Commanders lead.”

A murmur of agreement rippled down the benches. Gree’s head dipped in a nod. Neyo muttered, “He’s right.” Even Cody’s datapad lowered, gaze narrowing in silent question.

Rex shifted beside Wolffe, his tone low, warning. “Don’t rise to it.”

But Wolffe felt the weight of every stare pressing in. He set his fork down, met Bacara’s eyes, and spoke evenly. “You think flanking is a trick? It isn’t. It’s discipline. Cover your vod’s blind side every time—no droid line holds. That’s it.”

The hall hushed, waiting for more. Wolffe leaned forward, his voice like gravel. “You want another? Never let your squad bunch up. Droids fire for volume. Spread out, and half their shots are wasted. Simple.”

Bacara’s jaw worked, but he said nothing. The challenge in his eyes flickered into something else—reluctant acknowledgement. Around the tables, cadets shifted, whispering, absorbing the words. Not satisfied, not convinced, but listening.

Wolffe sat back, the plastoid of his chest plate creaking. “That’s all I’ve got. You don’t like it, prove me wrong on the field.”

For a long moment, no one moved. Then the noise of the hall returned in uneven waves—murmurs, clattering trays, half-hidden glances. Bacara dropped back onto his bench with a grunt. The tension lingered, but so did something else: the seed of respect, begrudging and fragile.

Rex exhaled beside him, shaking his head. “You’ve got a way of making friends, Wolffe.”

Wolffe picked up his fork again, stabbing at the gray ration slab. “Better they hate me and learn, than die thinking it’s all luck.”

The words carried further than he intended. Cadets down the line straightened, their eyes sharper, as if filing the lesson away. The mess roared on, but Wolffe knew he had shifted something. For better or worse, they would remember.

Chapter Text

Wolffe woke in the dormitory with the low hum of circulation vents above and the steady rhythm of clone breathing all around him. Instinct carried him through the morning routine, though each motion still felt half-stolen from a life that wasn’t this one. He rotated toward the familiar faces—Cody, Rex—finding solace in their presence. They were younger, unscarred, yet the bond pulled at him the same as ever.

Rex’s eyes struck him first. Blue as Kamino’s pale light, bright and unmarked. It jarred Wolffe like a stun bolt, dragging him into the weight of memories that didn’t belong here. He marched beside Rex without daring to meet that gaze directly, afraid the fragile illusion might collapse.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Rex said, pitched low so the corridor’s echo wouldn’t carry. “Headaches?”

“Not anymore. Just thinking.” Wolffe adjusted the strap of the borrowed chest plate, hiding the twist in his chest.

Rex gave a searching glance, steady and calm in a way only the young could manage. “You do that a lot nowadays.” The tone stung Wolffe. The Rex he remembered had earned that certainty through war and funerals. This Rex wore it like it came in the kit.

They split at the junction. Rex turned toward the briefing tier, Wolffe toward the armory. The air inside was colder, thick with solvent and oil over the salt tang of the sea. Between stacked crates moved 99, bent but tireless, handling armor with the care of a craftsman.

“You’re early,” 99 rasped without looking up. “Most wait until the whistle.”

“Whistle’s for those who like surprises.” Wolffe set his helmet on the bench, checking the seal on his gauntlet. “I don’t.”

A dry chuckle. “No. You don’t.” 99 turned, sharp eyes catching every detail. “Straps holding?”

“Good enough. The fit’s right. Thanks.”

99 waved it off. “Brothers help brothers. Even when the long-necks forget what that means.” He tapped a plate back into shape with a mallet, each thud resonating in Wolffe’s bones. “You eat?”

“Later.”

“Eat.” The order softened into advice. “Storms are easier on a full belly.”

Wolffe nearly smiled. “Since when did you start giving orders?”

“Since I watched too many of you forget the simple things.” 99 tilted his head, scars pulling at his mouth. “I’ve seen you in the cams. Always planning, always looking far ahead. Careful you don’t miss what’s right in front of you.”

Wolffe’s stomach betrayed him then, rumbling loud enough to make the point. His hand froze on the clasp. “Do I.”

99 didn’t press. Instead he slipped a spare power pack into Wolffe’s palm and closed his fingers around it. “For luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“Then believe in redundancy. Redundancy keeps brothers breathing.”

Wolffe pocketed it with a nod. “That it does.” He studied 99, older in wear if not in years, carrying the burden of the entire line in his shoulders. Before the thought soured, Wolffe said, “If you ever need anything from the drill floors, say it. I’ll see it done.”

“Need?” 99 shook his head. “Only need you to remember them—when it counts.” He tapped the stacked plates. “Each one is a brother.”

“I will,” Wolffe swore quietly.

The whistle screamed down the corridor, rattling the racks. 99’s gaze fell to the helmet. “Time.”

Wolffe took it, paused. “I’ll bring them back.”

99 held his eyes, unblinking. “Bring back as many as you can.”

The bucket sealed. The world shrank to HUD glyphs, to the rasp of his own breath. The door sighed open and Kamino’s storm swallowed him.

At the ramp he rejoined Rex, their steps falling into rhythm without words. For a few meters it was as if they had done this a thousand times before. The hum of simulators thickened ahead, holo-sirens bleeding through walls, each one heralding a different controlled disaster.

“Blue briefing?” Rex asked.

“Gold first, then I’ll shift.” Wolffe kept it neutral.

Rex accepted it with a nod. “See you in there.” He peeled away at the mezzanine, easy stride unburdened by history.

Wolffe turned into the main hall.

The place consumed him: a stadium of white light and ordered chaos. Balconies rose three tiers high, observation panes glittering like cold eyes. Thousands of cadets arranged in shifting grids, breaking and reforming under shouted commands. Above, the scenario board flickered with missions: Bridges, Armor Breakthrough, Urban Holds, Convoy Defense, Comms Denial. Kaminoan glyphs streamed parameters and failure states. The air shook with generators and the percussion of boots.

Wolffe rolled his shoulders, mapping distances, echoes, places where cover would matter, where lines would fail, where fear would spread the moment cadets fell.

Eat, 99 had said. Storms are easier on a full belly. Too late now. He steadied his pulse, drew a breath, and stepped into the square where his unit assembled, plastoid pressing down on him like the hand of a ghost.

The whistle shrieked and the first scenario unfurled. Holoprojectors bloomed around the cadet squares, walls and alleys of a burning city rising from nothing, their edges humming with static. The smell of ozone filled the chamber as stun-round droids powered up, rifles sparking.

“Form line!” barked a cadet officer, voice too thin to command the cavernous space. Troopers stumbled into formation, rifles coming up a half-beat late.

Wolffe didn’t speak. He forced himself into the rhythm of the line, into the shuffle of boots and the awkward cadence of cadets still learning which way to turn their muzzles. His instincts screamed for angles, for cover, for spacing—but he bit them back. Too soon and they’d notice.

The droids advanced, fire raining blue streaks. A cadet on Wolffe’s left went down with a grunt, his armor sizzling where the bolt had hit, non-lethal, still hurt, still knocked out. The line wavered, then steadied.

Through comms, a clipped voice: “Blue Net, cover the breach. Red Net, rotate on three.” Multiple channels collided, voices stacked, no order threading them together. Confusion bled across the floor as units misstepped.

Wolffe’s jaw locked. This was chaos masquerading as training. His body knew how to fix it—but his cover demanded silence. He fired instead, squeezing off precise bursts, his bolts snapping droid limbs and plating. The cadet on his right flinched at the accuracy.

“Nice shot,” the boy stammered, nerves audible even through the filter.

Wolffe gave no reply. He saw the gap widening down the line, the inevitable collapse. He knew what came next. His lungs filled, and before he could stop himself the words tore free:

“Shift left! Anchor the corner—keep the droids funneling!”

The unit reacted. Too smoothly, too quickly. They obeyed with the sharpness of drilled soldiers, not cadets. The droid wave broke against the sudden wall of fire, circuits crackling as they fell. The line reformed. Silence followed, heavy and watchful.

Wolffe’s breath rasped loudly in his helmet. He hadn’t meant to lead. Not yet.

A whistle cut through the air. The city walls shimmered and collapsed into static. A new board lit above them: Convoy Defense. Crates and vehicles rose from the floor, shield towers humming to life.

“Rotate!” came the order. Units peeled, new cadets taking places. Wolffe felt the shift like a tide. Across the floor, eyes lingered on him too long. He braced himself. The storm had only begun.

The observation decks darkened. Kaminoan silhouettes moved behind the glass, long fingers sweeping across control panels. Then the Mandalorian instructor stepped forward, his vocoder rough as gravel.

“From this point, all drills will run with live rounds. No more stuns. No more play. You are Jango’s blood—better act like it.”

The words hit harder than the sirens. A ripple of unease spread through the cadets, boots shifting, grips tightening on rifles. No one spoke. The sound of rain against the dome filled the silence, a storm inside and out.

Wolffe’s heart clenched. He knew this was the turn—Kamino pushing too far, too fast. He swallowed hard, locking the reaction behind the visor. He couldn’t betray what he knew: that some of them wouldn’t walk back from this.

The boards above flickered again. New parameters scrolled. Armor Breakthrough. Urban Holds. Convoy Defense. Linked Engagements. Thousands of units connected, each scenario feeding into the next, like a war scaled down but no less brutal.

The Mandalorian raised a hand. “Begin.”

Live rounds snapped to life. The sound was different—no hiss and crackle of stuns, but the sharp, lethal thunder of blaster bolts biting through the air. The floor erupted in chaos as the first cadets went down hard, screams cutting through comms before instructors silenced them. The scent of scorched plastoid hit immediately, acrid and real.

Wolffe moved without thinking. “Shields forward! Anchor the line!” His voice cut through the panic, cadets jerking into formation even as their hands shook. He pushed them toward cover, snapping bursts into advancing droids. Metal shattered; the hiss of coolant and sparking limbs filled the air.

To the flank, another unit broke. Bolts poured into their line and clones crumpled. Wolffe’s heart seized as he heard a voice over comms, sharp with pain—Cody. “Hit—left side—!”

Something inside Wolffe snapped. The commander’s mask cracked; what surged out was the survivor. His instincts flared, older than this body. “Blue Net, reinforce the breach! Red Net, collapse the center and rotate! Keep the pressure on their flanks!”

He drove forward, DC pistols spitting fire, each shot placed with brutal precision. Cadets who seconds ago had faltered now followed his lead, rallying around his fury. “No one stays down! Drag them clear, now!”

He tore through a droid wave, vaulting a barricade to cut down the unit threatening Cody’s sector. The younger clone was on one knee surrounded by others, most in awe, others shooting back. The once Commander of the 212^th was clutching a hand on his face; a blaster hit his face on a bad angle, but the helmet took most of the impact. It broke through it part of it was on his cheek. Wolffe hauled him up with one arm, covering them with the other. “Stay breathing, vod. You’re not done yet.”

Cody’s reply was ragged, but his eyes burned. “Yes, sir.”

The hall became a warzone, the scale dizzying—hundreds of engagements feeding into one another, units screaming for reinforcement, commanders bleeding orders into overlapping nets. Wolffe heard them all, felt the rhythm, and snapped commands like a conductor pulling chaos into grim order. “Convoy nets, push your shield towers forward! Urban holds, collapse the alleys and funnel them! Armor breakthrough, split fire, drive their heavies to sector four!”

The cadets obeyed, their scattered training hardening into something more. The Mandalorians along the balconies leaned forward, helmets unreadable, as if recognizing the shape of a true commander in the chaos below.

Still, Wolffe knew the cost. Too many lay groaning, armor scorched, lives at risk. This wasn’t training anymore. This was culling.

He fought harder, teeth bared behind the visor. Every order carried the weight of survival. Every shot was a promise kept to 99: bring back as many as you can.

By the time the klaxon wailed for ceasefire, the drill floor looked like a battlefield. Smoke coiled off ruined droids, cadets limped or crawled toward med teams, and the smell of burned plastoid clung to every breath. Wolffe stood in the middle of it, chest heaving, pistols cooling in his hands.

Around him, the other commander-candidates gathered their units. Bacara’s scowl was hidden behind his visor, but the tension in his stance spoke volumes. Neyo muttered under his breath, Gree’s helmet shook with disbelief, Bly simply stared. They had fought hard—but Wolffe had held them together, and they knew it. He saw the tremor in Bacara’s gauntlets, the stiff set of Neyo’s shoulders, the way Gree kept glancing as if replaying the fight. Their pride was wounded. Their envy was palpable.

Rex and Cody reached him last, both leaning into each other’s weight. Cody’s armor was scorched, his side freshly bandaged by a medic, but his chin was high. “You didn’t leave me,” he said quietly, more gratitude than accusation.

Wolffe only grunted. The words wouldn’t come. He had nearly broken when he saw Cody fall, nearly shattered under the terror of losing him all over again, of not knowing how he was. The veteran in him wanted to explain; the commander in him kept silent. He tightened his grip on Cody’s arm for a second longer than necessary, then let go.

Instead, he raised his voice to the others, sharing what he should have kept close. “When you falter, you collapse the line. When you collapse the line, brothers die. Anchor your corners, drag your wounded, and keep fire moving. That’s how you live through this. You want to live like commanders? Then carry them all, even the ones who slow you down.”

The cadets listened. Even Bacara’s silence was an admission. For a moment, Wolffe wasn’t just another candidate. He was a commander. He saw it in their stares: resentment, but also recognition.

The drill floor emptied under Kaminoan orders, cadets herded toward debrief. Wolffe was pulled aside instead. Two Mandalorians waited, armor painted in muted, weathered hues, their presence like stone at the corridor’s mouth. Between them, Nala Se walked with hands folded, her expression unreadable. Medics moved behind her, logging casualty numbers with clinical detachment.

“This one,” she said, tilting her head toward Wolffe. “Remove him from the commander cohort. His methods disrupt the schedule. He is… ahead.”

“Too far ahead,” one of the aides echoed.

The Mandalorian on the right gave a low snort through his vocoder. “Ahead means alive. That’s what matters. Jango’s blood runs true in him.”

Nala Se’s gaze chilled. “He will ruin the calibration of the others. Discipline must be preserved.”

The Mandalorian stepped closer, visor level with Wolffe’s. “Then we’ll take him. If he doesn’t fit your neat rows, he’ll fit ours.”

Wolffe held still, the storm of Kamino rattling against the transparisteel at his back. He knew nothing of what came next, only that his path was being pulled further from the brothers he meant to protect. He caught a glimpse of Rex and Cody being ushered away with the others, Cody limping but upright. It twisted in his chest.

“Transfer him,” Nala Se ordered at last. “Alpha program. ARC protocols.”

The Mandalorian’s silence was approval enough. A gloved hand fell heavy on Wolffe’s shoulder, steering him down a new corridor where the lights burned colder and the air tasted of iron.

Wolffe went without protest. If this was the path, then he would survive it—like every storm before. But as the door sealed behind him, he thought only of Rex and Cody, and the promise he had made to 99: bring back as many as you can.

Chapter Text

The corridor to the ARC wing felt colder by design. No banners, no unit glyphs, no numbers stenciled on bulkheads—just white and steel and the steady, damp pulse of Kamino behind the walls. Wolffe’s reflection ghosted in every panel he passed: regulation gray fatigues, no rank tabs, no color. A body reduced to measurements.

At the threshold, a Kaminoan held a slate like a scalpel. “CT-3636. Proceed.”

Another voice drifted from above, threaded through the hidden speakers, smooth:

“Parameters initializing. Variance within tolerance. Completion: priority.”The words slid into him like cold water. Variance within tolerance. That was all he was to them—a fluctuation, a number they could erase without consequence. Noted. Filed. Ignored.

He stepped into the prep bay. Lights were unforgiving here, the standard clinical glare that erased shadow and hesitation both. A Mandalorian instructor waited to his left, armor charcoal and scar-scratched, T-visored stare fixed and patient. Beside him, three more stood along the wall at exact intervals: sentinels carved from iron. One was broader in the shoulders, the posture unmistakable even at rest. Fett didn’t move. He didn’t need to. Presence radiated.

“Stand on the marks,” the Kaminoan said without looking up.

He set boot soles to the white crosses on the deck. The scanner arm hissed down. Cool gel pads kissed temples, throat, wrist. A cuff bit his biceps and filled with pressure. On the far wall, a wireframe sketched itself into a figure with his dimensions, joints glowing. Numbers began to cascade: temperature, pulse, blood oxygen, reaction latency.

“Baseline acquired,” the Kaminoan murmured. “Muscle fiber density exceeds cohort median. Reflex latency above candidate average.” Her stylus tapped, tapped, tapped. “Behavioral profile: pending.”

A Mandalorian voice—flat through the vocoder—cut in. “He’s here to move, long-neck. Not to be admired, plus, little bastard moves like an enraged rancor, makes sense he is building more than the others.”

No reply. The scanner retracted. A rack slid out of the deck with a soft thump: harness, plates, a pair of training pistols, a carbine, three fresh power packs, two frag dummies, a belt of utility pouches stripped of anything extra. No legion paint. No wolf sigil. Just plastoid and the expectation of obedience.

Wolffe palmed the carbine. Balance true, center-line stable. He lifted, racked, checked the sight, rolled his wrists once to settle tendon and memory. The pistols felt better: lighter, honest, fast. He clipped them at his hips. The belt cinched down with a click. The room smelled of solvent and oil and the faint copper of disinfectant. The storm outside scratched at the dome like fingernails.

“Think he’s ready for war already.” A Mandalorian mocked, some laughed, others followed the banter, all feel quiet to another one speaking.

“Cadet.” From the balcony, Fett’s voice—amplified just enough to be heard—dropped like a weight.

Wolffe looked up. He didn’t snap to attention. He didn’t let himself. He simply met the black slit of that visor and held it.

“Not bad” Fett said. No praise, no challenge. A calibration. “Floor two. Door three.”

The prep bay’s far bulkhead split along a seam and drew aside. Cold air spilled out, carrying the taste of ozone and carbon scoring. Wolffe crossed the line.

The city-room hummed awake in a single breath. Holo-emitters threw a lattice across the space and skins of urban texture poured over it: stacked hab-blocks, mag-rails, scaffold spines that climbed into a bleached sky. Droids waited inside the architecture like an infection held in stasis—countless B1s, their silhouettes thin as bones against shuttered windows and catwalk guardrails. No briefing, no map. Just a green icon blinking at the far end of the grid: Objective.

“Comm check,” a Mandalorian intoned. “Channel seven. You will call your position. You will move on cadence. You will not talk unless the talk means time saved or blood spared.”

Wolffe thumbed the selector. “Seven, live.” His voice sounded younger than it felt.

“Begin.”

The first bolts came as if the word itself had triggered them—clean shots raked the entry lane, hot and bright and very real. He pivoted behind a support column as the plastoid chipped near his cheek. The air tasted like burned dust instantly, a film over his teeth. Move.

He went low and fast, the carbine tight against his shoulder, crossing the first open slice of street in three strides. A droid’s head popped up from a service hatch. He sent a two-round burst that shattered it back down the ladder. Another B1 leaned out too far from a balcony, clattering through its rote report—“Roger, ro—” and folded as Wolffe cut the voice in half.

He kept the rifle quiet between shots. No spray, no panic. Short, purposeful. Walls were not walls; they were air to be treated as meat if it meant cover. He shouldered through a door that resisted and found a stairwell built to funnel the careless into a long killshot from above. He didn’t give it that. He skipped the first landing, went straight to the rail, and vaulted to the next, taking the pain in his knees as the fair price of not being a silhouette on a stair stringer.

“Cadet,” the Mandalorian voice chimed, neutral but measuring. “Position.”

“South spindle, mid-level,” he answered, eyes already checking angles. A droid rose on the landing opposite, joints whining. He put a round through its photoreceptors, another through its neck post when it didn’t drop fast enough. Steel scent thickened in the back of his throat—ionized air, hot plastic, a ghost of old blood his mind supplied on its own.

The Objective glyph pulsed ahead, behind a skin of apartments whose windows were all wrong—too dark, too still. He palmed a frag dummy, thumbed the arming stud, and rolled it into a corridor, catching it with the side of his boot to angle the bounce. The concussive thump bullied the air without shrapnel. Three B1s stumbled out of their doorway in the wake, logic stacks half-stunned; he cut them down across the chest, hip, throat in a downward saw of fire that left his muzzle steaming.

He reached the door, spiked the lock with the practice blade from his belt, and pushed through into the room. Empty, except for a tower terminal with a pulsing green edge and the hiss of static from an open comm.

“Objective,” he said across seven.

On the balcony, someone scribbled with a stylus. Fett: nothing. The board above the city-room shifted; the Objective blinked to gray.

Fett’s voice cut in, flat and final: “Again.”

The city peeled itself back to wireframe, then skeleton, then bare floor. Wolffe stood with smoke rising from the carbine’s muzzle and felt none of the old thrill—only the calculation of breath, the check of cartridge count, the bookkeeping of his own body. He swapped the mag, locked it, rolled his shoulder until the click-pop settled.

The bay lights flickered. The second door opened.

The room reconfigured before he crossed the threshold. Barricades blossomed like hard-grown coral. Freight crates stacked themselves into imperfect walls. A square of cover massed at the room’s center with a hollow in its heart like a battery emplacement without the battery.

“Defend,” the vocoder said. “Waves until relieved.”

He moved without answer. Center wasn’t smart—too much fire from too many angles, nowhere to go if they rushed. The far right had a jut of scaffolding that made a shadow a droid’s sensor might miss; the left, a spine of venting he could use to disrupt bolt paths.

He pulled two crates off the central cluster and dragged them in a broken L toward the right, opening a diagonal that gave him lanes and options both. He shoved a half-height pallet until it sat where his knee would be if he needed it to be a knee later. He set a frag dummy at the corner he didn’t want them to choose because they always chose what you wanted if you told them not to with the right lie of furniture.

The first wave hit like practice—stupid, steady, firing as they walked. He let them. He tipped the carbine up and low, taking ankles and hips, knocking lines into lines so they blocked those behind. When the choke thickened, he transitioned to the pistol with the shorter barrel and worked edges: a head here, a shoulder there, breaking their ability to focus. Energy crackled off the vent spine and splashed back in a haze. He blinked sweat out of his eye and tasted salt through recycled air.

“Cadet. Position,” the Mandalorian called.

“Hold One. Right of center.”

“Duration: sixty.”

A minute under pressure was a season. The second wave came smarter, a scatter-and-flank pattern that would have eaten a standard square. He had already cut the square. He shifted two steps right, then back, never where the last bolt had landed. The carbine kicked empty; he dropped it and felt the tether yank it safe. Pistols now, twin lines of fire chasing muzzle flash like reins.

He used the scaffolding as intended and not intended: ducked behind a rung to foil a bolt, then wore the steel, pressing his shoulder into it so the next hit bit metal and not him. When they forced the angle left, he risked the line, slid to the pallet-knee and braced, a breath only, to fire three clean shots that broke the rhythm of their advance.

Above, the Kaminoan voice clipped off notes. “Exhibits perimeter conservation behavior.” Stylus ticks. “Unnecessary retention of contested ground.”

A Mandalorian replied, bored and interested at once. “He’s keeping his routes open. This isn’t a parade.”

The third wave boiled in with a pair of droidekas that snapped open like hateful flowers, shields humming. The sound threw his teeth an ache. He holstered one pistol, ripped the carbine back into hand, thumbed the selector to stagger, and walked rounds along the edge of the nearest shield until a sliver bled and the bolt bit through. The deka screeched; he fed two more into its guts as it curled. The second rolled hard-left. He let it, then used the vent spine again—angled a shot that ricocheted once, twice, and tagged a foot under the shimmer. As the shield flickered, he tossed the frag dummy he’d left as a lie and made it the truth.

Concussion bloomed. He moved through the aftermath while his ears rang high and wrong. The room smelled of cooked dust and burned lubricant, a scent like old memory. He exhaled slow until the tremor in his hands hit something calm and stopped there.

“Duration: one-twenty,” the vocoder said. “Relief: denied.”

Of course.

He rolled a shoulder and rewired his perimeter in three motions, nudging a crate with his boot, resetting his own sightlines. Low battery warning flickered on one of the pistols HUD. He holstered it rather than swapping packs—kept it as weight and promise—and broke down to a single pistol, slower now, more deliberate. His breath counted beats he didn’t let his mind name. The storm against the dome ate the seconds for him.

Above, a pause that felt like judgment.

Then Fett again, voice rough as stone: “Push harder. Reset.”

The third door opened without ceremony. Cold light bled into the chamber, and Wolffe moved forward before the order could be given. His legs felt weighted, his chest still tight from the last hold, but his mind catalogued the space in an instant: long corridor, overhead gantries, bulkheads studded with false cover. A red glyph blinked at the far end—evacuation point.

“Scenario: retreat under pursuit,” the Kaminoan voice announced from above, clinical as rain.

 “Attrition acceptable. Completion: priority.”

Wolffe’s jaw clenched. He toggled comms. “Seven, live. Moving.”

The first volley screamed from behind before he cleared the threshold. He broke into a sprint, carbine held close, boots striking the deck in metronome rhythm. Bolts clawed at the walls around him, searing arcs that painted the corridor in violent light. He dipped under a gantry, planted a shot into its support, and sent the whole frame crashing down to buy seconds of cover. Sparks showered. He didn’t stop.

Breath roared in his ears. The HUD blinked warnings—pulse elevated, O₂ saturation dropping—but he ran harder. A doorway yawned to his left; two B1s spilled through it, rifles lifting in jerky unison. He fired before his brain framed the picture—two bursts, two collapses. Their plastoid skulls cracked against the deck. He was already moving, already past.

The evacuation glyph pulsed brighter ahead, ten meters, five. Then shutters dropped like guillotine teeth. He skidded, boots sparking, momentum nearly throwing him against steel. Trapped.

“Reroute,” the Mandalorian’s vocoder instructed. “Find another line.”

Wolffe snarled under his breath. He cut left into a service crawl, low ceiling scraping the ridge of his bucket. The corridor bent sharp; pursuit clattered behind him, the skeletal chorus of droids giving chase. He tossed a frag dummy without looking back. The thump jarred the walls, bought silence for three heartbeats. He crawled faster, palms raw against durasteel, pistol drawn for the inevitable face that would meet him at the bend.

It came—B1 photoreceptors glowing in the gloom. He shot point-blank, muzzle flash painting the crawl orange. The droid folded in on itself. Wolffe shoved it aside, kept moving, lungs heaving. Every meter was endurance, every breath fire. His armor weighed twice what it should, or maybe he was carrying ghosts.

The crawl spat him out near the evac marker, shutters half-raised as if mocking him. He slid under, chest scraping, and rolled into the zone. The glyph turned green. Scenario: complete.

“Time: suboptimal,” the Kaminoan voice noted. “Efficiency lacking.”

Fett’s voice cut across it, iron on stone. “You move well. Show us more. Reset.” 

The city-room reassembled itself faster this time, like the machines were impatient. Wolffe wiped his visor clear with the back of his glove and tasted metal in the air even through the filters. The HUD blinked fatigue metrics he ignored. A fresh objective lit—another assault. No pause, no debrief. Straight into the storm.

He moved. Legs heavy, shoulders hot, every joint throbbing with the promise of failure. But failure was something he’d already survived a hundred times over, and he would not give it to them here.

Assault. Defense. Retreat. Again. Each flowed into the next like links in a chain that wanted to drag him under. Droids swarmed, blasters shrieked, concussion charges rattled the teeth in his skull. He fought until his fingers ached from squeezing triggers, until he could taste blood where he’d bitten his tongue raw.

Kaminoan voices ticked off notes above him, detached: “Subject expends energy inefficiently.” “Non-standard behavior continues.” “Endurance higher than required parameters.” “Conservation behavior persists.”. Their words became noise, drowned in the thunder of his own pulse.

Jango’s comments were rarer, but they landed like hammers: “Again.” “Faster.” “Cleaner.”

Wolffe obeyed, because there was no other choice. Not for him. Not for any brother he’d left behind or any he might see again. He drove himself harder, past the ache, past the blur in his vision, past the fire in his lungs. Until nothing existed but the next shot, the next breath, the next heartbeat.

The final drill hit like a wall. Droids by the dozens, droidekas uncoiling, E-web emplacements spitting arcs of blue. He staggered forward anyway, twin pistols bucking in his hands, the world narrowing to muzzle flash and silhouettes. One pistol clicked empty; he slammed it back into the holster and poured everything into the other. His aim wavered, then steadied. He was too tired to miss.

At the end, he stood alone in the silence, pistols cooling, armor scorched with powder burns. His knees bent and he went down, not surrendering—simply landing where gravity and exhaustion demanded. He knelt among the wreckage, chest heaving, visor fogged with sweat.

The Kaminoan voice noted it without inflection. “Subject exceeds baseline. Behavioral anomalies remain.”

Bootsteps echoed. Fett approached, broad shadow cutting across Wolffe’s vision. The T-visored mask looked down on him like judgment incarnate.

“Not bad,” Fett said. The slightest pause, then: “You’ll last.”

Wolffe said nothing. His breath was all he had left.

The lights dimmed as the scenario collapsed back into wireframe and then into nothing at all. The silence pressed heavier than the blasterfire had. Wolffe knelt there, helmet tipped forward, sweat sliding down his temples beneath the bucket. His arms felt carved from stone, every tendon humming from overuse. His chest rose and fell like a piston about to seize.

“Cease exercise,” the Kaminoan intoned, voice smooth and unbothered. “Subject to be retrieved.”

Heavy boots clanged against the deck. Mandalorians moved with the weight of inevitability—two of them stopping at either side of Wolffe, gauntlets closing around his arms. They hauled him to his feet, steady and firm, but not cruel. His boots scraped the scorched floor, leaving lines among the blackened scorch marks.

Fett followed at his own pace. No rush. No visible exertion. The T-shaped visor never wavered from Wolffe’s faceplate. When he spoke, the words carried without effort: “He’ll do.”

The Kaminoans did not nod, but styluses ticked across slates. “Endurance capacity recorded. Tactical patterns remain irregular. Conservation behaviors unsuitable for mass production.”

The Mandalorian to Wolffe’s left gave a low, mechanical chuckle. “Mass production isn’t the point. You wanted an ARC.”

His words cut through the chamber like blasterfire. ARCs weren’t bred to march in lines or vanish into ranks — they were made to break patterns, to see what droids and regs could not. Independence wasn’t a flaw; it was the weapon. The Nulls had shown it in excess, volatile and unshackled, but the design remained. Trimmed, refined, but alive. Wolffe knew from the past that every true ARC carried fragments of that defiance, and those fragments were exactly what made them survive where the rest would fail.

Hell, he remembered it from the time before waking up here—most of those who outlasted the Republic had been ARCs. These Kaminoans knew it too, though they loathed admitting it: discipline forged a soldier, but initiative won wars.

They escorted him through the doors and into the narrow corridor beyond. The transition from the simulation’s scorched air to Kamino’s recycled chill stabbed through the seams of his armor. The hall stretched long and pale, lined with observation panes where other cadets might have watched, but here the glass was opaque. Nothing of him would be shown.

They reached a junction. A Kaminoan technician walked past, ignoring him entirely, already murmuring into a recorder about calibration variances. Wolffe felt like a ghost in his own skin—visible only to those who chose to look.

The Mandalorians steered him toward a smaller chamber. Inside waited a bench, a rack of fresh fatigues, and a pitcher of water beading cold on the surface. The chamber was lit low, no ceremony. Just enough.

“Strip,” one of them ordered, voice iron under the vocoder. “Reset your gear. Report back at first bell.”

Wolffe stood in the doorway a moment longer, swaying on legs that still wanted to fight. He pulled off the helmet, set it on the bench, and drew in a long breath of unfiltered air. It smelled of oil, damp fabric, and the faint copper tang of his own blood from where he’d bitten the inside of his cheek.

He looked at the water but didn’t drink yet. Instead, he braced his palms against the cool metal wall and closed his eyes. The storm outside thrummed through the structure, steady and endless. For a moment he let it drown out the Kaminoan voices in his memory: variance within tolerance, efficiency prioritized.

He opened his eyes, and in the reflection of the wall he saw not just the cadet’s body, not just the gray fatigues or the sweat-slicked hair. He saw every brother he had left behind, every ghost that Kamino would never account for. They called it calibration. He called it survival.

He straightened, pulled the chest plate off with a grunt, and set it down beside the helmet. Tomorrow would come, and with it another storm. For now, he would last.

Chapter Text

He woke up with expectation.

Surviving the training was no simple task; yet Wolffe had to admit that one of the hardest aspects was the mental strain it demanded. That sensation—doubt, the way exhaustion made his own body feel foreign, detached. Kamino’s regimens pushed past muscle and bone, clawing into the mind until it blurred the line between self and order.

Days bled together, sleep reduced to fragments, thoughts fraying at the edges. Hallucinations hovered like shadows at the periphery; memories slipped away as if drowned. The body could endure—always more than the mind believed. But here, the mind was broken first, reshaped, until hesitation itself felt like treason. All of it designed to forge not just the soldier, but the weapon.

Wolffe had lived through it once already.

Deep down, he knew he already met the requirements. He only needed to let this body catch up.

Looking into the mirror after the shower, he saw what he had seen a thousand times in himself and his brothers. He had never truly understood the question of age and time—after all, the isolation with Rex and Gregor after escaping the Empire gave him no other reference points, and by the time they joined the Rebellion, there had been far more pressing matters to worry about. And yet, there it was. Fifteen years, perhaps? He was certain he was closer now in age to Commander Tano when she entered service with the 501st than to anyone else. And Tano had been a child… stars.

Muscle, a few scars, the regulation haircut. He did not stand out much; clones weren’t made to stand out. It was strange not to see his beard, the grey streaks, his missing eye… He continued his routine, thinking not only of himself, but of his brothers. Rex was here—but was he Rex? Looking into Rex’s eyes startled him—a piercing light he didn’t remember having before. Not the standard brown like all others. Paired with blond hair, Rex always marked as different. An anomaly in a world that demanded uniformity. Cody was the same. Cody had always been himself, no stark difference… but did he earn his scar the same way this time? Why couldn’t Wolffe remember—

“CT-3636, report to the training hall.” The long-neck’s voice echoed softly into his quarters. His thoughts were cut short, his movement directed toward preparation.

The training hall was no longer empty. Rows of cadets assembled under the blinding lights, their armor still raw and white, HUDs flickering to life. Wolffe entered among them, and the sight nearly stole his breath.

Faces. Familiar ones. Rex, Cody, Bacara, Bly, Gree, Neyo. Young, unscarred, their movements unshaped by years of war. They stood shoulder to shoulder with other troopers whose names history would never record—men chosen not for command, but for skill, for instinct; the non-commanding ARCs.

The ocean hammered the structure, its rhythm matching the cadence of boots on the deck. Above, Kaminoans observed, their long words spilling in patient streams.

Their voices were meant for one another, not for cadet ears, but the hall carried sound too well. Every syllable dripped down like condensation through metal seams.“The cohort composition is irregular. Leadership distribution is also compromised. There is a potential destabilization of standard progression models. Such anomalies jeopardize efficiency of replication.”

Another added with slow precision: “Independence within one unit will replicate in others. Discipline fractures. Control diminishes. Deviation must be excised before it spreads.”

The clones shifted subtly, pretending not to listen yet catching every word. Banter died for a heartbeat. Rex angled his helmet, muttering, “They talk like we’re not even here.” At the balcony’s edge the Mandalorians waited, arms crossed.

One let out a short laugh, but Jango spoke with measured weight, his voice carrying easily down the chamber: “You want them to obey. We want them to survive. Marching in step wins you parades. Wars are different.”

One of the instructors beside him added, voice gruff: “Control isn’t worth anything if it dies the first time the plan breaks. Better to have men who can bend without breaking.”

The Kaminoans answered at length, proud and unhurried, as though delivering a lecture: “Deviation compounds. Initiative erodes unity. Each soldier must remain as predictable as the next. Otherwise the model falters. Otherwise millions become wasted resource.”

The exchange rolled back and forth, pride clashing with pragmatism, until even the cadets below could feel the weight of it. They were not supposed to hear—but they did, every word. And it burned.

Rex leaned toward Wolffe, voice low: “Feels like they’re arguing over cuts of meat.”

Cody huffed. “Meat doesn’t shoot back. Not yet.”

Bacara’s growl came from two rows down: “Give the droids time. They’ll learn.”

Bly chuckled dryly. “And we’ll still hit cleaner.”

Neyo muttered something about “long-necks liking the sound of their own voices,” earning an elbow from Gree, who added:

“Careful, they’ll start another report about ‘insubordination metrics.’”

The line rippled with quiet laughter. Even Cody’s mouth twitched, the scar at his brow tugging faintly. Wolffe took it in—the banter, the nervous energy masking real fear. It was the same rhythm he remembered from battlefield camps, from barracks before deployment.

He broke his own silence, tone steady, carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much: “Brothers, don’t waste your breath on their arguments. Out there, what matters is holding the line and keeping each other alive. That’s it. Everything else is noise.”

The cadets stilled, eyes on him. Rex’s voice followed, stronger now: “Side by side. None of us stand alone.”

“Even when we quarrel,” Cody added, steady as a drumbeat.

“Especially then…” Wolffe finished, letting the words land with weight. A murmur of assent ran through the ranks, banter fading into something sharper, more certain. For the first time since his return, Wolffe felt as though the future itself was lining up beside him.

The chamber answered in kind. Holographic streets and barricades unfolded, droids flickering into being. Orders were barked from above, sterile and precise. But on the floor, it wasn’t the scenario that mattered—it was the brothers.

Rex nudged Wolffe with an elbow.“Bet you five credits my squad clears their sector faster than yours.”

Cody shook his head. “You’ll burn through ammo in the first block.”

“Not if you’re covering me,” Rex shot back, grin audible in his voice.

Neyo added calmly, “I’ll keep count. Whoever wastes more shots buys mess rations.”

“We don’t even get paid! We don’t buy things!” Bly almost screamed, Wolffe thought it was because the situation baffled him, and he couldn’t blame him at all.

 Laughter ran down the line, clipped by blasterfire as the simulation began. Commands overlapped: Cody shouting for a flanking maneuver, Bacara demanding tighter advance, pushing a squad of non-commanding clones, Gree cursing at Neyo for overextending, yet providing covering fire to make his brother’s plan successful.

Through it all, Wolffe’s tone cut through, not louder, but heavier: “Hold the choke. Don’t scatter. Trust the man at your side.”

After a long, long skirmish, blasterfire stuttered, then died. The last droids flickered out, collapsing into static as the simulation ended.

For a moment the hall was only the sound of armor cooling, lungs dragging in recycled air. They didn’t cheer. They didn’t need to. A few helmets turned toward one another, nods exchanged in silence that weighed more than celebration. Rex gave Wolffe a shove at the shoulder, Cody muttered something about wasted shots, and Bacara just grunted approval.

Above them the lights dimmed, scenario dissolving back into gridlines. The order to stand down rang from the balcony, cold and clinical. But by then the brothers were already filing toward the mess—tired, scorched, and more a unit than they had been when they’d walked in.

The Kaminoans descended with slow, deliberate grace, long limbs carrying them to the floor as if they owned it. Slates glowed in their hands, styluses already scratching notes.

Two Mandalorians shadowed them, T-visors unblinking, arms crossed. Nala Se spoke first, her voice even and carrying: “This cohort performance exceeds baseline, as expected of this project. Casualty ratio minimal. Reflex cohesion acceptable. However, communication patterns remain… irregular. Informal exchanges compromise cadence, encourage deviation.”

Another Kaminoan added, slower still: “If left uncorrected, such variance will replicate. Predictability diminishes. Control erodes. Model stability suffers.”

They did not look at the cadets as they said it. They spoke above them, as if to the ceiling, as if the rows of men still catching their breath were no more than prototypes on display.

One of the Mandalorians snorted through his vocoder. “You call it variance. I call it trust. They held formation because they believed the brother beside them would fire true, not because you told them to.”

The Kaminoan eyes flicked once toward him, unimpressed. “Trust is not measurable. Therefore, it is unreliable.”

Jango’s reply landed like a blade drawn clean. “Unreliable is what wins wars. Droids obey without error, and they fall all the same. These men think. That’s why they’ll live.”

Nala Se’s stylus paused mid-stroke. Her words came measured, unhurried, almost satisfied: “If variance must persist, then it must at least yield return. Today’s results will be logged. Profitability assessed.” A final tap of stylus to slate ended the exchange. The lights steadied, gridlines fading into sterile white.

Overhead, a Kaminoan voice unfurled in long, unhurried tones, every word precise as if carved into stone: “Training sequence complete. Candidate performance logged. Efficiency rates to be reviewed and archived. Nutrient intake is required for continuation of program. Dismissed.”

The syllables dripped down like condensation, as though they had not just fought, bled, or proven themselves, but simply filled another column in an endless ledger.

One of the Mandalorians cut across, vocoder carrying a harsher note: “You heard it. Get fed. Rest what you can. Tomorrow you break again.”

The contrast lingered—clinical detachment against warrior bluntness—yet both meant the same. The constant roar of waves shook the dome, and boots began to shuffle toward the mess.

The mess was small, nothing like the halls for the regs, but it made sense: the ARC program burned through more energy, and every tray was loaded heavier, more caloric. Still tasteless, still Kamino. Rain drummed on the dome, always present, always marking time.

No one spoke at first. Exhaustion weighed too much. Only the scrape of utensils on plast-trays. Wolffe chewed in silence, mind still caught in the simulations.

It was Bacara who finally broke the quiet, after draining a glass of water. “So… are we going to sit here like droids on standby, or does someone actually have words in him?”

Wolffe’s gaze found Cody, the scar above his brow still raw. “How’s the cut holding up?”

Cody met his eyes, blunt as always. “Burns when I sweat. Otherwise? I’ll live.”

Before anyone else could answer, Gree leaned back with a grin and raised his voice: “Oh, come on, Codes. That scar’s going to win the war the moment you show it off to the ladies.”

“You’ve lost your call brother; you’d make a fine diplomat” added Bly before laughing.

And he wasn’t alone, laughter rippled around the table—short, tired, but real. Even Wolffe let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. Cody rolled his eyes, muttering about “meeting one first.”, and others talking on how “planets would fall before Cody’s charm.”

The warmth lingered, until Bacara leaned in again, voice quieter but sharper: “Alright, Wolffe. You keep dropping lines like you know more than you should. What else are you holding back? Any more ‘precious wisdom’ you’re keeping to yourself?”

The table stilled. All eyes on him. Wolffe set his fork down slowly. “Nothing that matters. Just… a nightmare. One that won’t leave me alone. Made me think.”

Silence stretched. Rex tilted his head, concern flickering. Wolffe’s voice was low when he went on, each word carrying weight: “I know what we are. Replacements. That’s the point, isn’t it? Mission before everything. That part isn’t in doubt. But listen—out there, beyond these walls, there’s a whole Republic waiting. None of us have stepped on Coruscant, but its people… they’re going to depend on us. Every last one of them.”

He let the words hang, raw and unguarded. “We can’t afford to be just numbers. If we fall, we fall together. But if we hold… then maybe, just maybe, we’re more than what they built us to be.”

The brothers didn’t answer right away. But the silence wasn’t empty—it was heavy, shared, alive.

***

The storm had lulled to a steady roar by the time Wolffe left the mess. The corridor stretched long and pale, empty but for the drip of condensation and the hum of the pumps. He should have gone straight to quarters. Instead, his boots carried him toward one of the training wings, quiet now, lights dimmed to conserve power.

A shadow peeled away from the wall. A Mandalorian instructor—armor battered, visor black, arms folded across his chest. Wolffe stopped. The air between them felt thick with unspoken challenge.

The vocoder rasped low: “Voice heavy for someone still wet from the tanks. You sure you’re not just acting tough?”

Wolffe met the visor without flinching. “I’ve paid attention to all my courses, classes and training, sir.”

A dry laugh answered him. The man stepped closer, boots echoing against the deck. “Attention doesn’t put weight in your voice. Experience does. Where’d you learn to talk like that to your brothers?”

“Does it matter?” Wolffe knew that he was playing a dangerous game, especially with the Cuy’var Dal. Any mando following Jango was to be taken seriously.

The Mandalorian tilted his head, studying him. “It matters because they’ll follow you. Whether you’re ready or not, you’ve put yourself in front. Don’t waste that.”

For a moment the storm filled the silence. Wolffe thought of Rex, Cody, Bacara—all those helmets turning when he spoke. “They deserve more than to be called numbers.”

The instructor’s laugh came again, sharper this time. “Spoken like someone who’s figured out the one thing the long-necks will never understand. Droids take orders. Soldiers survive. And survival is built on trust, not obedience. Jango wasn’t wrong putting you through the ARC program… Don’t waste the chance that he gave you all, and maybe, just maybe, you won’t end up a failure..”

He set a gauntlet on Wolffe’s shoulder plate, heavy but not hostile. “Remember that. Kamino will try to sand it out of you. Don’t let them.”

The hand withdrew. Without another word, the instructor turned back into shadow, leaving Wolffe alone with the storm’s endless drumbeat. For the first time since waking in this younger body, Wolffe felt the strange certainty that he wasn’t carrying the weight alone.

…

And so the days bled together. Fatigue became routine. Victories in sims, laughter over tasteless rations, sharp words traded with Mandalorians—each blurred into the next until time itself felt drowned, storm and training indistinguishable. Train. March. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. The monotony of Kamino was blunt and merciless, grinding the edges off anything that threatened to be different. Every cycle felt like the same storm drawn out across hours, swallowing whatever hope tried to surface.

Wolffe found himself spending more time with brothers he had barely known in another life. 99 became a shelter against the anger that gnawed at him, a place to drop his weight without breaking. To every cadet, 99 was the older brother—hunched, scarred, yet steady. He absorbed their rage, their doubts, as if his own body had long ago been tempered into patience. His condition gave him what the rest did not yet have: perspective.

Through him, Wolffe met others who carried “defects.” Not catastrophic—just enough to be discarded from the front lines. To the Kaminoans, they were mistakes tolerated only because eliminating them was inefficient. To the clones, they were miracles that had slipped through the long-necks’ filter. Counselors, sages trapped between tides. Without sight, without hearing, without strength enough to match the ranks, they gained something else instead: clarity, patience, craft.

One stood out—a cadet with poor vision, lenses always perched against the bridge of his nose, but with hands that moved faster than thought. He tore apart training droids in minutes, rebuilt them with sharper routines, recalibrated their response times until even the instructors raised their brows. With 99 guiding, and Wolffe lending quiet support, he reshaped the droids they were given into something closer to real enemies. Smarter, faster, capable of mistakes that felt almost human. The Kaminoans allowed it—not out of kindness, but curiosity. Data was data, even if it came from the hands of a “flawed” clone.

These moments became Wolffe’s reprieve from the endless drills, he almost felt the suffocation of Kamino lift. Almost. Because the monotony never truly broke. No matter the banter, no matter the small sparks of rebellion, the weight of routine pressed on.

And the hunger—the gnawing anxiety that whispered of battles waiting beyond the dome—never left him.

It was on one of those restless days; while wandering corridors he had no reason to walk, that Wolffe’s path bent toward a different wing of Tipoca. Lights here burned harsher, reflecting off rows of white plastoid as cadets filed past in perfect formation. A tide of bodies, indistinguishable—hair cropped to regulation, eyes the same cast of brown, expressions erased by drill. Every column marched like a machine pretending at men.

Wolffe slowed his pace, watching them march. So uniform. So replaceable. None of the loose edges that clung to the ARCs—no scars yet, no jokes traded under breath, no sparks of independence. Just a tide of white and gray.

A younger trooper stumbled in formation, bumping the shoulder of the one beside him. The instructor barked from the front, Kaminoan syllables sharp and liquid. The boy straightened instantly, face blank. But his neighbor—maybe fifteen by growth standards—caught Wolffe’s stare and gave the faintest grin, gone as quickly as it appeared.

Wolffe’s jaw tightened. That flash of humanity, buried under layers of drill, was the very thing Kamino wanted scrubbed away.

As he moved past, whispers followed. Not loud enough for instructors, but meant for him: “ARC.” “Different.” “Look at his plates.” “Not regs. Not like us.”

He stopped at the edge of the barracks, turning toward the rows of wide-eyed cadets. “Different doesn’t mean better,” he said, voice low enough not to carry far. “It means responsibility. You see us out there, remember that.”

They stared, silent. Maybe confused. Maybe inspired. Either way, it was more than they’d been told by the long-necks.

Wolffe walked on, leaving the echo of his words behind. The storm rattled the walls again, but this time it seemed the younger troopers heard it too—not as background noise, but as a reminder of the world waiting beyond the dome.

Tipoca’s halls narrowed as Wolffe followed a maintenance corridor he wasn’t supposed to know. The air here was damp, smelling of coolant and salt. Panels shivered faintly with the constant vibration of pumps cycling ocean water. The deeper he went, the more the storm outside became part of the structure itself—every wave echoing like a heartbeat through steel.

The passage opened into a wide gallery lined with observation glass. Beyond it, the vats loomed: vertical cylinders lit pale blue, each one holding a shape suspended in gel. Rows upon rows of unborn brothers, half-formed, their eyes closed, lungs rising only because the machines insisted they breathe.

Wolffe froze. He had seen this before, years ago in another life. But it never stopped feeling like walking through a graveyard that hadn’t decided on its dead yet.

Technicians drifted along the gallery, long fingers tapping slates, voices soft and detached: “Subject growth rate within predicted variance.” “Neural stimulation consistent. Reflex capacity nominal.”

Each line was clinical, indifferent, as if the millions inside the tanks were no more than numbers scrolling down a column.

One cylinder closer to the glass caught his eye. The body inside twitched, fist closing tight before relaxing again. A reflex, nothing more, the Kaminoans would say. Wolffe knew better. Somewhere in there, a brother had already begun to fight.

He pressed a palm against the cold glass, breath misting the surface. His reflection looked back at him, overlaid on the figure inside. For an instant it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

The storm surged outside, rattling the dome. The machines kept humming, obedient and eternal. Wolffe pulled his hand away. He couldn’t stay here long—not without feeling like the whole ocean wanted to swallow him with the rest of them.

***

Days later, the summons came. The alarms shrieked sharp and sudden, dragging Wolffe from uneasy rest. Training summons. Again. He armed up in silence, falling into line with the others as the doors of the hall sealed behind them.

But this time it wasn’t the ARC program. It was the general cohorts—rows of cadets still raw, still unscarred. Their rifles looked oversized in their hands, grips clumsy, stances stiff with drill. They weren’t ready for this. Not yet.

The racks bore live packs. Plasma, not stun. Wolffe felt the weight settle in his chest. He had accepted it for the ARCs, barely. But for them? This wasn’t training. This was slaughter waiting to be tallied.

The Kaminoan voice poured from above, patient and endless: “Scenario initialization: urban incursion. Ammunition: active. Casualty threshold: acceptable. Commence.”

The words slid cold under Wolffe’s skin. Acceptable loss. He knew them too well. He remembered bodies burning on battlefields, men whose names never mattered to Kamino. And he remembered what it cost to accept that.

The chamber erupted. Droids poured from hidden alcoves, their fire real and lethal, not the sear of stuns but the tearing heat of plasma. The cadets faltered, reflexes trained but untested under fire. A line broke immediately, one clone dropping as a bolt tore across his chestplate. Another froze in the open until Wolffe’s shout snapped him back into cover.

“Move! Stay low, fire disciplined!” Wolffe barked, voice cutting through panic. Instinct pulled their helmets toward him. They didn’t have a commander, so they followed him.

A bolt clipped a cadet’s shoulder—armor scorched, scream muffled by helmet. Another stumbled as his thigh erupted red, dropping his rifle. Wolffe surged forward, cutting down two B1s and planting himself in front of the fallen brother.

“On your feet!” he snarled, hauling the cadet up by his harness. Blood smeared across Wolffe’s gauntlet. “You’re not done.”

The rest rallied, shifting into cover because Wolffe told them to, because his voice gave them an anchor. They formed a ragged line, firing tighter now, less wild. Droids pressed harder, but the cadets began to hold. Their blasterfire was shaky, but it found targets.

At last the final droid collapsed, smoke curling from its chassis. The chamber dimmed, scenario ending. The silence that followed was suffocating—armor scorched, cadets bleeding, one half-carried by two others. Yet they were alive.

The Kaminoans descended, robes trailing, styluses already moving. “Casualty prevention inefficient. Ammunition expenditure excessive. Candidate 4427 unfit for continuation.”

Something in Wolffe broke. Or maybe it had been breaking since the moment he woke on Kamino again. He stepped forward, helmet still on, voice carrying like thunder:

“Unfit? He stood. He fought. He lived. That’s more than any of your droids will ever do.”

Nala Se tilted her head, unreadable. “Survival does not excuse deviation. This subject will only drain resources—”

Wolffe tore the bucket off, eyes blazing. “Every one of us is a resource to you. Numbers. Columns. Losses ‘acceptable.’ But we are not expendable. Not one.” He pointed to the wounded trooper, then to the rest. “You want weapons that march into fire and don’t come back? Build more clankers. If you want soldiers who win, you stop wasting us.”

The hall was still. Even the storm outside seemed to pause.

One of the Mandalorians shifted at the edge of the group, arms crossed. His vocoder carried approval like steel. “He’s right. Soldiers who know they’ll be thrown away don’t fight harder. They die sooner. You keep them alive, they’ll fight for each other. That’s how you win.”

A ripple moved through the cadets—helmeted heads nodding, backs straightening. They had heard Wolffe before, in banter and drills, but this was different. This was defiance, raw and unguarded.

Nala Se’s stylus tapped once, precise. “Variance noted. Training protocols will be amended. Live-fire suspended.”

The words should have felt like victory. Instead, they landed like chains—Kamino still dictating, still owning the terms. Yet lives had been saved. Dozens, maybe hundreds, in the long march ahead.

Wolffe exhaled, steadying the tremor in his hands. He slid the helmet back on, hiding the fury, the grief, the relief. “Brothers,” he said quietly over comms, “we hold the line. Together.”

The storm outside resumed its endless hammering, but something inside the hall had shifted. The live rounds would not return. And every clone present knew who had drawn that line in the sand—and what it had cost.

When the chamber emptied and the wounded were carried off, Wolffe wandered alone through the corridors. That was where he found her waiting.

Wolffe found Nala Se waiting for him outside the gallery, her silhouette tall and fluid against the sterile lights. A slate rested in her hands, its glow reflected on her unblinking eyes. She did not seem surprised to see him there.

“CT-3636,” she began, voice calm and deliberate. “Your performance exceeds baseline projections. Yet your behavioral patterns remain irregular. The tendency to assert influence among your peers is noted. Such anomalies risk compromising the model.”

Wolffe straightened, saying nothing at first. The storm hammered the walls, and he let it fill the silence. Finally: “If you want soldiers who never think, someone else already built them. They’re called droids.”

Her head tilted, elegant and unnerving. “The droids are expendable. You are an investment. Predictability ensures returns. Deviation introduces failure.”

Wolffe’s fists curled at his sides. “Failure is leaving bodies on the field because your charts said they were acceptable. Survival means bending rules, breaking patterns. That’s the only reason any of us are still standing.”

For the first time, a pause. Nala Se studied him, head tilting with mechanical precision. “Your statements exceed the scope of training input. Such projections are not accounted for in your conditioning.”

Wolffe met her stare, unflinching. “Then maybe your charts don’t show everything that matters.”

Her stylus tapped once against the slate, the sound as precise as a verdict. “Continue your training. Anomalous commentary will be logged for analysis. Survival rates have improved. Data integrity suffered. Yet projections indicate this modification may be… profitable.”

She moved past him, robes whispering against the deck, leaving Wolffe alone in the corridor. The storm pressed against the dome, and for the first time, he felt that maybe it wasn’t only water out there—it was the weight of a galaxy waiting to break through.

***

The chamber smelled of oil and ozone, lights running dim to conserve power. At its center, a figure in unmarked white armor stood ringed by shattered droids. Limbs scattered across the deck, servos still whining. One remained upright only because Wolffe had it by the throat. His gauntlet closed with mechanical strength until wires burst and the head came free in a shower of sparks. He hurled it aside, chest heaving, visor fogged with breath.

The door hissed. A shadow leaned against the frame—Rex, arms folded, helmet clipped to his belt as if he owned the place. Cody followed at his shoulder, posture straighter, eyes already measuring the wreckage.

“Don’t know what’s got you so wound up, vode,” Rex said, voice pitched somewhere between teasing and concern.

Wolffe turned. He unclasped the plates, visor lifting, sweat-slick hair plastered to his brow. “Neither do I. I’m sick of the sims. Sick of the clankers 99 drags in for me to break.”

Cody arched a brow, suspicion in his tone though the grin gave him away. “You’re working him too hard.”

A short laugh cracked out of Wolffe—the first in longer than he remembered. “If 99 were doing this alone, then maybe I’d feel guilty. As it stands? He’s fine. Better than fine. He knows me better than the long-necks ever will.”

The three of them shared the laugh, a ripple that softened the edge of exhaustion. For a moment they weren’t subjects, weren’t experiments—they were brothers.

Cody broke it with a shrug. “Besides, he’s not alone. The kid and his brothers have been feeding him encrypted pads. The long-necks can’t crack them, haven’t even noticed half of what he’s slipped out.”

“Figures,” Rex muttered. “Vod’ika barely talks but his brain doesn’t stop moving. Makes me wonder if the Kaminoans are getting sloppy.”

Wolffe wiped a gauntlet across his jaw, letting the words sink. “Sloppy or not, doesn’t matter. What matters is we’ve got each other. And you didn’t just come here to tell me about our little brothers.”

Cody’s eyes narrowed, weight settling in his voice. “No. We came to give you the news.”

Wolffe’s body stilled, every nerve pulled taut. “What news?”

“The Cuy’val Dar are leaving.”

The words rang like a blaster report in the small room. Wolffe stared, helmet hanging loose in his grip. “What?”

“Their contract’s finished,” Cody said. “They trained us, trained others. The cycle goes on without them now—brothers teaching brothers. Maybe a supervisor here or there, but the Mandos? They’re gone.”

Silence swelled. Wolffe thought of iron grips correcting his aim, of voices barking in Mando’a, of gauntlets pulling him to his feet when he should have stayed down. Brutal men, but men who had cared in a way the long-necks never would.

“And Jango?” he asked, the name sharp as a blade.

“Still in Tipoca,” Cody replied. “With Boba.”

Rex shrugged, trying for levity. “So what? We’ve made it this far. We’ll make it further.”

Cody lifted his helmet, knocking it gently against Rex’s with a metallic clang. “We survived Kamino.”

The gesture spread, helmet to helmet. A rough circle formed, laughter bubbling through the fatigue. Pride carried it. Because for once they weren’t just surviving—they were celebrating.

And they had reason. Wolffe had fought the long-necks on live-fire drills, and won. Cadets still limped away scorched, still bore stun burns, but they lived. Hundreds would see battles they’d never have reached otherwise. And now, with assignments beginning to filter through the ranks—Cody to the 212th, Wolffe to the 104th—there was a sense that the storm had been weathered.

Rex, still listed as a trooper, marked non-standard in Kamino’s ledgers, drew as much respect as any commander. He hadn’t beaten the system, but he had survived it.

For a while, the broken droids on the floor were forgotten. They stood shoulder to shoulder, the storm outside pounding the dome, and Wolffe found himself smiling.

Then it faltered. He glanced at Cody, at Rex, and spoke low: “This means the war’s closer than we want to admit. Remember every drill, every scar, every time you thought you’d break. Out there, that’s what keeps you breathing.”

Rex’s reply came steady: “And when it comes, we don’t face it alone.”

“Side by side,” Cody added.

The thunder shook the transparisteel as if to agree. And for the first time, Wolffe felt that the shadow of the Mandalorians had lifted. What came next belonged to them—and to the war waiting just beyond the horizon.

Chapter Text

An alarm blared. Deployment orders.

They were to be sent to an unknown location, although 99 and his group of misfit brothers had already pieced together the approximate date, cross-checking shipments from multiple shipyards commissioned years prior, among searching through the whole holo-net.

Yet Wolffe didn’t need the information to know where they were heading, he already knew.

He was nervous. He had trained with his brothers countless times, sparred with Skirata’s boys, even crossed blades with a handful of CCs. The Kaminoans had warned him not to spend too much time with the CCs—understandable, since they were the epitome of long-neck genetic ideals. Yet after proving that even they lacked real experience, Wolffe had been left freer to roam. Joint drills between ARC trainees and CCs became common, always under the watchful eyes of the long-necks.

After one particular duel that lasted far longer than expected—thanks to the sheer tenacity of one Commando—Wolffe found himself alongside several commanders in a cold, echoing sparring chamber. The clash still seemed to vibrate in his muscles.

“Now I get why the Kaminoans tried to keep them separate,” Cody muttered, half impressed, half wary. “They’re beasts.”

“They’re clones. Modified, sure. Better training—”

“And better armor, and equipment,” Neyo cut in, nodding toward Bly.

“But still clones,” Bly answered flatly. “No one’s that afraid of Wolffe, and he’s nearly as tall as they are.”

“That’s because Wolffe still tolerates us. And because 99 would tan his hide if he didn’t,” Gree added with a smirk.

Wolffe unlatched the last of his plates, stretching sore arms and shoulders. Sev, the CC of Delta Squad, had pushed him harder than he cared to admit. Sweat stung his eyes as he sat down, exhaling slow.

“My temper isn’t aimed at you lot,” Wolffe said, voice gravelled, tossing a gauntlet aside. “Or at least I try to direct it toward something productive—unlike this lazy pack.” The words were dry humor, though the grimace on his face betrayed the sting of bruises more than the joke.

“All hail Wolffe, The Beast of Kamino,” Ponds intoned, deadpan serious, though his eyes gleamed. He was usually the most severe of them, but among peers he bent enough to join in the mockery.

“All hail,” echoed the ARCs and commanders together, voices rumbling in chorus. Wolffe only snorted, half a growl, before it broke into rough laughter.

The door hissed open. Rex leaned casually against the frame, arms folded. They didn’t see him often these days—he’d been deemed unfit for Commander rank, and ARC was off the table too. None of the brothers cared. 99 always found a way to weave Rex back into their circles, usually under the guise of “message runs” to upper command.

“Besides the satisfaction of seeing Delta Squad eating dirt, I gotta ask,” Rex drawled, the edge of a grin tugging his mouth. “Are we really shipping out soon?”

“Why else do you think Wolffe’s been taking out his nerves on the CCs?” someone shot back from the benches, earning a wave of laughter.

The chamber filled with overlapping voices. Cody raised his tone above the noise, mock-serious: “Careful, Wolffe. At this rate, you’ll have to train the rest of us just to keep pace.”

“Don’t tempt him,” Bacara called from the back. “Sev nearly had him limping.”

“Still good enough to kick your ass, Bacara,” Wolffe rasped, finally letting a crooked smile crack his face.

“Anyways, I bear news,” Rex said, pulling a datapad from his belt. Officially, he shouldn’t even have one—officially, every officer’s pad was supposed to remain clean, linked straight into Kamino’s central archives for review. 

Unofficially, 99’s boys had already locked down the systems, encrypting them and blocking access to the more… invasive applications the long-necks used. Wolffe and Cody had pushed the idea forward, and it stuck. 

Rex sent files across the chamber, each commander producing his pad in turn. 

“As you can see…” Rex continued, his voice steady in a way that made Wolffe’s chest tighten with a strange comfort. “…you’ve all been assigned to your legions. Took them long enough to make the lists public, but here it is. Congratulations, gentlemen. You’re officially commanders now.” 

The room burst—cheers, laughter, a few sharp whistles. Then silence fell again as datapads lit up and eyes tracked over the names. 

Wolffe’s gaze locked on his own. New unit numbers, new designations. But one line didn’t change. 

“…104th. Stars…” he muttered, low enough for himself alone. For him, the Wolfpack wasn’t just numbers—it was his brothers, his pack, even before Abregado shattered them. The names didn’t match yet, but just seeing the legion’s number gave him a fierce sense of certainty. 

Around him, Cody confirmed the 212th. Bacara, the 21st. Gree, the 41st. Neyo, Ponds, Bly—all falling into place. 

Rex looked around, smiling wide for his brothers. That was when Wolffe caught his eyes. 

“Vod, welcome to the 104th,” Wolffe said, extending his hand. 

Rex blinked, baffled. “What? I swear I was listed under—” 

Wolffe cut him short, grip firm on his shoulder, grin flashing teeth. “Lists change. Accidents happen. Someone misses a step, and suddenly I need a second-in-command. And there’s no one better than you.” 

“W-Wolffe, the Kamino—” 

“Will understand that I need someone to handle paperwork and keep me in line. Besides, it’ll be fun.” 

The chamber rumbled with chuckles. A few muttered that it wasn’t a bad idea at all. Some even envied Wolffe’s speed at claiming Rex, one of the best soldiers Kamino had produced—even if the cloners themselves didn’t see it. 

“Alright then,” Wolffe said, lifting his voice, “pack it up. The long-necks don’t wait, and neither will the war. Less than a standard day to board, to meet your men, to memorize every name if you can. Remember the drills. Remember how far we’ve come. And don’t forget why we fight. I’ll give you a full briefing as soon as I’m aboard my ship.” 

Cody narrowed his eyes. “Wait—you already know where we’re going?” 

Bacara leaned forward, challenging but not hostile. “You keep pulling secrets, Wolffe. What aren’t you telling us?” Neyo gave the smallest nod, silent but agreeing. 

Wolffe shook his head, holding up his datapad. “Not secrets. Just reports. If you’d actually read what 99’s team has been compiling, you’d know which sector’s about to boil over. Conjecture, sure, but you know I’m-” 

“Always right,” the chorus answered, half groaning, half resigned. One even sneaked a “smartass” that Wolffe found too hilarious to correct.

Wolffe let the smirk stay this time, teeth flashing once more. “Then get moving, brothers. It’s going to hit hard.” 

He slung his armor under one arm, heading toward the barracks showers. Over his shoulder, his voice carried: 

“I’ll see you across the hololinks. Next time, it won’t be drills—it’ll be war.”

***

The Acclamator was almost as Wolffe remembered it. Almost. Its scale still stole his breath—vast in a different way from Kamino’s storm-lashed platforms. Venator-class ships were larger, true, but they were a different design: carrier and capital welded together. The Acclamator was built first and foremost to move bodies and steel—a war barge meant to disgorge a legion and every walker, tank, and cannon needed to scorch a world clean. And yet even as a transport it carried teeth. Heavy turbolasers bristled along its flanks, point-defense cannons dotted its hull. This was no mere shuttle; this hull could punch, hold, and take a city.

If this was only the beginning of the Republic fleet, Wolffe thought, then perhaps mistakes like Abregado might never happen again. The memory clung like sea-salt on old scars, reminding him of fire and vacuum. He exhaled sharply, shoving it aside. There would be time later to bleed ghosts that are yet to come.

“Smells better than the barracks or the training grounds,” Rex said as they rode the lift.

“Anything would,” Wolffe muttered. “Give it time and we’ll foul the place with our own stink.”

“At least the walls don’t crack after a tidal wave.”

Wolffe laughed—a short, rare thing. “Keep looking and you’ll find something to complain about.”

“Like you dragging me into your legion without asking,” Rex shot back, curious rather than offended.

“Come on, vod. It was me or Cody. Trust me—you’ll enjoy the ride more with me.”

“Better you than him,” Rex admitted, a grin tugging his mouth. “Cody would drown me in regulations.”

“And I’ll drown you in work,” Wolffe said dryly, though his eyes brightened.

When they stepped onto the bridge the deck was alive. Officers moved in practiced patterns—nav plotting, weapons checks, comms running loops—each person a precise gear in a larger machine. They were not the Army, but they were kin; the same template, tuned differently. For a beat the bridge seemed to take notice of Wolffe’s presence, then resumed its motion. The Navy thought faster; the Army struck harder. Each respected the other.

“At ease,” Wolffe called, and the deck eased.

In another life he might’ve stayed Navy. ARC training had steered him elsewhere, but he liked the edge of assault, the first bite of contact. He missed the cockpit sometimes—the ARC-170, the cramped heat, the way the Wolfpack had made that ship theirs. Jag’s laugh came to him for a second—the one who had taken a shot and changed everything—and the thought cut like a snapped comm line.

The 104th. Plo Koon. Names and futures pressing at the edge of his mind, heavier than the durasteel beneath his boots.

“Sir, are you all right?” Rex asked, posture tightening now that strangers watched.

“Yeah. Yeah… just remembering how far we’ve come,” Wolffe said, gripping the rail as the ship carried them closer. “This is just the start.”

He straightened, pushing the ghosts aside with the discipline of a soldier who could not afford to dwell. The bridge bustled around him again, officers turning back to their tasks. He moved among them with deliberate calm, forcing routine back into his voice. “Pilots—good to meet you. Send me a roster. Names on my desk.” His tone was clipped, efficient; the pause between words betrayed more than he intended, but none called him on it. Rex fell into step beside him like a shadow.

They left the bridge, the lift humming as it bore them downward. With every deck they passed, the pulse of the ship seemed to grow louder, as though the hull itself anticipated war. The comms-auditorium opened before them at last—a cavernous dome of light and steel, wide enough to house not just briefings but the weight of entire legions’ worth of voices. Rows of receivers and holo-projectors stood ready, waiting to link fleets scattered across the void.

Rex moved with calm efficiency, initializing the table. Lights thrummed, rising into a haze of blue. And then they came—figures shimmering into being, commanders from ship to ship aligning as if summoned by ritual. The chamber filled with helmets and faces that weren’t truly there, the air charged with expectation.

Wolffe stood at the center, feeling the shift inside his chest as every gaze turned toward him. No Kaminoan stylus to script his words. No Mandalorian gauntlets to force his stance. This time, whatever he said would be his alone.

“Brothers. Kamino drilled us to follow orders. March straight. Die quiet. That ends here. Out there, the clankers won’t wait for permission. And the Jedi—” He let the word hang. Helmets tilted his way. “The Jedi don’t always think like soldiers, you’ll see why. Respect them. But don’t wait for them to save you.”

A ripple of chuckles broke the tension. Bly muttered, just loud enough for the feed to catch: “I’d rather trust my DC than a lightsaber.”

Wolffe pressed both palms to the table, leaning into the glow. “Now listen close. Intel from 99’s boys has been running circles around the long-necks. Cross-checked holo-net fragments, freight manifests, intercepted chatter. A dozen sectors flagged red—Mygeeto, Ryloth, Felucia. Could be any of them. But I have reasons to believe it’ll be here.”

He tapped the table. Red nodes flared and converged on a single world, its ochre surface scarred, circled by rings of half-assembled structures.

“Geonosis. Why? Because half the Republic’s shipyards have been bleeding durasteel into this system for months. Because Separatist transmissions keep vanishing on the same vector. Because the Banking Clan’s freighters all take the long way around this sector as if it’s poisoned. Put it together, and it stinks.”

He paused, letting helmets tilt toward him. His tone dropped. “And there’s one more thing. The chatter we intercepted from Jedi channels—they’re moving too. Not officially. Not yet. But someone’s going there. And if the Jedi are heading into the hive, the swarm won’t sit still. They’ll swarm.”

Red markers bloomed across the holo-map—Separatist strongholds, choke points, trenches cut into Geonosian spires. “This isn’t a parade ground. It’s dug-in, fortified. Every canyon is a kill-zone, every spire a deathtrap. Don’t chase glory. Secure your supply lines—bacta, ammo, water. Without them, you won’t last an hour in the heat.”

His tone hardened, voice carrying weight through the static. “Protect the walkers. AT-TE cannons open lanes you can’t. Stay in their shadow and they’ll keep you alive. Lose them, and the clankers roll over you like sand.”

He paused, jaw tight. “First blood will hit hard. You’ll see brothers fall—young, unscarred. Don’t freeze. Call their names. Pull them back if you can. If not, finish the fight so their loss isn’t wasted. Honor isn’t in dying—it’s in surviving together.”

From the edge of the projections Bacara growled, “And if we run dry?”

“Then you find a rock,” Wolffe snapped back without hesitation, scar tugging into a crooked grin. “And you aim true.” Laughter cracked the chamber, rough and honest, easing the pressure for a heartbeat.

Wolffe tapped another marker—outer sectors blinking red. “Remember: the clankers have numbers, trenches, artillery. They expect us to break against it. Don’t give them that. Bend. Adapt. If a Jedi order will get you killed, adapt. If a chart says leave men behind, ignore it. Kaminoan logic doesn’t win wars—brothers do.”

His voice dropped, low and iron. “We don’t do ‘acceptable losses.’ Every vod counts. If one falls, drag him back. If your squad splinters, rebuild it. Survival isn’t cowardice—it’s victory.”

Rex’s voice followed, low but steady: “Side by side.”

“Side by side,” the chorus answered, rolling like thunder. The words vibrated through deck and bone alike.

Wolffe let the smirk linger this time, teeth flashing. “Good. Remember it. The clankers may outnumber us ten to one, maybe more. But numbers mean nothing if brothers hold the line. That’s what wins wars—not charts, not orders, not glory.”

The holo dimmed as he pulled his datapad free, leaving only silence and the steady rumble of engines. “War will bring horror. Maybe glory. Neither means a thing if you don’t walk away breathing. So fight smart. Cover each other. And don’t give the long-necks the pleasure of seeing us broken. That will be all, gentlemen.”

The words lingered like static, carried in the blue haze even after Wolffe stepped back. For a heartbeat, no one moved—each man left alone with the weight of what he’d just promised.

Then the silence cracked. The comms station pulsed with light, a fresh signal forcing its way into the channel. Priority code. Republic seal.

Every commander froze as the projection stabilized, and the small figure of a robed creature with long ears materialized above the table, his voice calm but final:

“To all command staff. Confirmed it is. Geonosis, the Separatists gather. There, the first strike will be made. Ready your legions. The war begins.”

The feed cut as abruptly as it had come. Silence rippled through the chamber, heavier than before. Wolffe glanced at Rex, then at the others, and found every helmet turned his way—not because he had been right, but because the storm was now real, named.

He set his datapad down, voice low but steady: “Then you heard it. We’re not drilling anymore. Geonosis waits.”

Chapter Text

The void snapped back into hardpoints of light as the Republic fleet tore out of hyperspace. For a heartbeat, silence stretched across decks, lungs, bone. Then the scopes filled—and the galaxy bared its teeth.

Geonosis rotated below like a rust-red wound under an ochre sky, spires of calcified stone stabbing upward as if the planet had learned to pray by growing knives. But it was the space above that froze breath: a skein of Separatist hulls strung edge to edge, core ships stirring from hive-sleep, escort frigates bristling with antennae and muzzles, and clouds of droid fighters pouring outward in black streamers that wrote a single word across the void—swarm. The First Fang , the Aclammator Wolffe was assigned to, trembled as her shields came alive, and the bridge took its first breath of the new war.

Clone naval officers moved like the innards of a single organism—plotting vectors, charging turbolasers, updating threat cones, calling out bearing and elevation until language wore down to numbers. They were brothers too, just tuned for a different arena. Their hearts beat on the metronome of flak and capacitor charge. Wolffe braced both hands on the command rail and let starlight burn lines into his visor. The light felt like a foretelling. It always did, out here.

“Captain Aven. Report.”

“Shields green. All the designated ships from Kamino entered the battlespace. Hostile density, it’s severe.” The tactical overlay flashed the blue images of triangular shapes; Dozens upon dozens of Acclamators quickly fell in position, the ones in the front already pouring hundreds of fighters.

Aven was new to Wolffe. He briefly read the reports, splendid in his navy training, his worries lay in how he could handle the pressure.

“Broadside batteries primed. Captain Jovan, Lakke and Commander Monnk forming the wedge for our landers.”

Monnk, Navy?  It made sense, he already specialized in aquatic warfare in his previous life, maybe he took some time off the training to go under Navy training. It didn’t matter now, his mind came back to the Acclamators, to formations.

He let the rhythm breathe. For a moment, memories struck him like a blunt blow. The Wolfpack—not this one, not yet—had been forged in brutal theaters where there was no polish, no trace of elegance. Only instinct. Instinct that saved lives, even as it left more brothers behind in silence. He would not repeat those mistakes. He hadn’t when his brothers, aged too fast by time and betrayal, turned their weapons against the Empire and birthed a different kind of war. With a mind carrying too many campaigns at once, he had learned the one truth that made survival possible: you let go, or you break.

“Suggestions,” he said, voice iron. “Now.”

A beat of bridged silence. Then:

“If we drive the wedge full-force, sir, we can rip a corridor for troop landers.”

“Too costly. We’ll bleed the vanguard before they breach the screen.”

He let them clash until sparks lifted. Argument shaped steel; steel shaped survival. Then he cut: “Both are right. We spearhead hard—but stagger the push. First line draws their fire, make them concentrate all power to the shields, second line hits their flanks. Gunships do not launch until their screens are tangled with our pilots. Make it happen.”

Orders ran outward with the clean percussion of training becoming truth. The First Fang surged forward with the Acclamators, and the void stopped pretending it was empty.

Turbolasers opened in green sheets and knives. Droid frigates answered with lances that wanted hull and bone in equal measure. The first Vulture cloud hit like sleet—sensor returns thickening into a storm where each point was an intention to kill. The Vulture-class did not dogfight so much as calculate; four blaster cannons and the patience of arithmetic, a doctrine written in factory dust and shared among a million identical minds. They came in confidence because numbers had taught them how to be unafraid.

Across the net, bursts of static carried the pilots’ work—short, clipped transmissions of trim corrections and vector calls, throttle murmurs and cold checklists. Clone pilots breathed in the cadence of procedure: a clipped exhale for a bank, a sharp inhale for a burn, hands making tiny, practiced corrections on throttles and yokes. Their voices were instruments tuned to formation—call signs, micro-adjustments, split-second confirmations that kept iron from becoming chaos. Training had taught them to fly as a single mechanism; training made reflex the language of survival. Wolffe listened to that rhythm like a metronome and trusted it with the lives spilling below.

Then came the first loss.

A Separatist frigate rolled fire across the vanguard Acclamator. Shields screamed, buckled, failed. For a moment she burned with measured dignity, a ship deciding whether to die, and then her spine gave and she came apart in clean fractals. On the net—panic; then pain; then the brief strangled intimacy of last words. Then the kind of silence that leaves echoes.

The bridge crew stared. Wolffe swallowed the weight and spoke in a voice so flat it could be used to level a deck. “Hold formation. Push the line. Their loss will count.”

The fleet obeyed. Obedience wasn’t love, but it was motion—and motion kept the wedge driving forward as the void burned alive with turbolaser fire.

Blue and red lances shredded the black, carrier hulls groaning as the battle line pressed toward atmosphere. Wolffe braced against the command rail, visor washed in the chaos of it, and listened to the comms fracture into a dozen channels.

“Cody here. Alpha battalion prepping descent.”

“Monnk reporting—naval wedge holding the corridor.”

Voices cut in, clipped, urgent, but steady. Every commander had their mission, their slice of the war, precise as the training that bred them.

No one was steering the whole storm. The war wasn’t one will, but many: assignments carved, objectives distributed, every descent mapped before they’d even broken orbit. All of it cold, calculated.

The galaxy had always promised order. But down there, Wolffe knew, order wouldn’t hold. Not against sand, wings, and the swarm waiting to bleed them.

“Helm” Wolffe ordered, iron flat. “Take us down.”

The First Fang angled nose-first into Geonosis’ sky. The fleet fractured into spears of descent, and the war followed them into gravity.

The blockade fractured like bone under strain. Separatist frigates broke formation, some twisting away in belated maneuvers, others cracking open under overlapping broadsides. Republic fire poured into the widening gap, blue lances cutting through the black.

“Corridor open,” Aven confirmed, voice clipped.

“Keep the teeth up,” Wolffe snapped. “No one drifts. Not now.”

The First Fang shuddered as her prow angled downward. Ahead, the twice —now thrice—damned sphere of Geonosis swelled, veined with canyon-shadows and studded with hive-spires. The planet didn’t look alive—it looked armed.

“All landers, detach.”

The order rolled outward. Massive Acclamators dipped from formation, ventral doors splitting like jaws to release LAAT gunships, AT-TEs locked in their clamps, torrents of armor and men spilling planetward. The void screamed with friction-fire as the first wave entered atmosphere.

“Rex,” Wolffe said, bracing himself against the rail.

“Already on it,” Rex answered, eyes scanning the streams of icons peeling away from their hull. “LAAT squadrons Green and Gold are in route to rescue the Jedi. We’re routing Blue for heavy armor. If one falls, the other fills the slot.”

“Good.” Wolffe’s voice ground low. “Stay on that channel. I want no one lost to silence.”

A junior officer muttered bearings under his breath, too low, too nervous. Wolffe caught it. “Speak like soldiers, not ghosts.” The clone straightened, repeated louder, steadier. Wolffe nodded once.

Then gravity took them. The First Fang tipped nose-down, dragged into Geonosis’ pull, and the bridge rattled like a beast’s ribcage. Outside the viewports, the descent turned space into streaking fire. Gunships screamed ahead, hulls glowing, breaking through the haze of upper atmosphere.

The world below bloomed into violence. Tracer fire clawed upward from hive-spires, red arcs spearing through the ash-hazed sky. A gunship burst in flame, its wreckage carving down like molten shrapnel.

“LAAT Two-Seven lost!” a voice barked.

“Mark the site, reroute evac later,” Wolffe ordered, iron flat. “We don’t scatter now.”

Through the viewport he glimpsed a wedge of AT-TE walkers punching through cloudbanks, massive legs braced against turbulence. LAATs wheeled to shield them, rotary cannons spitting into the rising swarms of Geonosian fliers.

The comms net filled with fractured voices:

— “Shadow Two, breaking left, vulture lock—”

— “Copy, I’ve got your six—”

— “Armor clamps disengaged—walkers are hot—”

The First Fang broke through the last storm of ash, repulsors howling as struts bit into Geonosian soil. The ship shuddered, then stilled—fortress-born in dust. Heat struck like a furnace breaking its seal, pouring inside as if the planet itself had been waiting to invade.

The ship had become a fortress.

“Deploy.”

Hatches blew wide. Ramps slammed into sand. The world outside roared with engines, cannons, and the rising swarm of droids. Clone boots thundered down steel and into dust.

Wolffe adjusted his helmet, checked his rifle a last time, and felt his heart pounding with anticipation of what was to come. “Rex, with me, I’m craving for a good fight.”

Rex gave a curt nod, voice warm despite the storm around them: “Side by side.”

Wolffe led the push. He felt the ground shiver under his boots as the walkers behind them dropped, AT-TEs planting their colossal legs in the soil with seismic force. Each impact was a drumbeat that matched the rising roar of his pulse. The sky was no longer space-black but a burning haze, fractured by tracer fire.

“Line up!” Wolffe barked, voice raw over the comms. “Stay in the walkers’ shadow until I say otherwise. They’ll punch the lanes. We just bleed them dry.”

The air was alive with vibration. Above, the first waves of LAAT/i gunships spiraled, rotary cannons chopping the sky into fragments of green fire. Geonosian wings shrieked against the turbulence, swarming out of hive openings like the planet itself was vomiting defenders.

The 104th surged forward, voices tangled in the comms, distinct and alive, a current carrying Wolffe deeper into the storm.

“Shadow Three, marking trench line!” That was Grit, voice sharp, fast, Wolffe couldn’t remember him that well, he died on Hisseen.

“Confirmed. Watch your flank—droids nesting at two o’clock.” Vagn, calm, surgical, for Wolffe he was new, but knew about him already on the way in.

“Copy, I’ve got the nest. Frag out!” That was Grim, young, still hungry to prove himself, just like he was before Abregado, Wolffe couldn’t help but wonder where the survivors were, would they come later? Didn’t matter now.

Static tangled their voices—Grit too fast, Grim too loud, Vagn clipped and cold. Same armor, same rifles, but none of them sounded the same.  Fractured but alive, each soldier carrying the rhythm in his own way.

The first exchange hit like thunder. Droid rifles spat red across the killing field, cutting down dust and men alike. A brother fell near Wolffe, chest plate smoking, and the sound that tore from his throat was not a command but a growl. He dropped to one knee, sights locking on the advancing line, and burned through three clankers in a heartbeat. The acrid stench of overheated barrels filled his filters, coating each breath with grit and metal tang.

“Push forward!”

Someone took the trooper who just fell, his hands clenching in pain; he was alive.

The line advanced under covering fire. Walkers opened up with their mass drivers, each shot collapsing spires into rubble, sending showers of Geonosians and droids tumbling like shattered glass. Still they came, shrieking, wings buzzing so loud it became a vibration in bone.

Rex fought beside him, movements precise, every squeeze of the trigger measured. Where Wolffe burned through a power pack in raw bursts, Rex shifted fire with calm economy, each bolt dropping a target before sliding smoothly to the next. He leaned into cover with a shoulder, pulled a trooper upright by the harness without breaking rhythm, then returned fire with the same steady cadence. His voice cut through comms — short confirmations, never wasted, keeping squads knitted together even as the dust swallowed their outlines.

Then Rex’s voice cut through the comms: “Someone feel from a LAAT, east sector! Jedi convoy scattered—visuals on Padmé Amidala!”

Wolffe’s snarl caught in his throat. Of course. The Jedi never stayed where they were supposed to. And the Senator’s presence made the field more volatile by the second.

“Go,” Wolffe ordered without hesitation.

Rex hesitated. “Commander, your flank—”

“Go!” Wolffe snapped. His visor locked onto Rex. “You find her. Secure whoever’s alive. That’s an order.”

A brief silence stretched between them, longer than the blasterfire could allow. Then Rex nodded once, short, almost fraternal. “Side by side, vod.”

“Side by side,” Wolffe echoed, though it was only half a promise—he knew this was the split.

Rex peeled away with a fireteam, sprinting east, disappearing into the storm of dust and wings. For a moment, Wolffe felt the battlefield trying to close over him, to erase Rex’s trail like water consuming a dropped stone.

The desert greeted them like a furnace breaking its seal. Heat surged against armor seals, leaked into breath-filters until every inhale felt baked, metallic. Dust carried static that clung to joints and lenses, turning the world ochre and blurred.

Wolffe pushed forward with the walkers, his boots sinking just enough to feel the ground drag at him.

“Keep close to the shade,” Wolffe ordered, voice cutting through the comms. “Walker shadow is cover. Lose it, you’re target practice.”

“Copy, Commander.” Grit’s reply came fast, too fast, like he couldn’t get words out quick enough. “Contact possible, three points north—shimmer pockets.”

“Could be heat,” Grim muttered. “Could be clankers.”

“Doesn’t matter what it is,” Wolffe said. “We burn it down the same.”

The sand trembled under another AT-TE stride. Turrets along the flank stitched green bolts across the haze, cutting down vague forms that scattered before resolve. Above, a LAAT/i screamed over their heads, ventral doors yawning to spill another squad into the storm. Gunship cannons whirred in their housings, tearing lines through the dust where wings had begun to stir.

Wolffe glanced once—never long, never indulgent. The gunships were teeth; the walkers were bone. Infantry was blood. He was here to keep the body whole.

“Dead ground ahead,” Vagn’s calm voice noted, a counterweight to Grit’s nerves. “Canyon mouth. Too narrow, too quiet.”

Wolffe’s visor found it: a shallow cut in the desert floor, shadow pooled where light should burn. His pulse didn’t change, but his mind reached back into a memory that wasn’t supposed to exist yet—another world, another canyon, men lost because they’d rushed.

Not again.

“Hold the ridge,” he said flat. “We don’t walk blind. Eyes on the walls. Bugs love dark corners.”

“Copy that,” Grim said, his tone edged with the kind of eagerness that made blaster grips slick inside gloves.

Dust thickened as they closed in. The sky had lost its horizon, drowned in ochre and tracer streaks. Geonosian spires rose like rust-red knives, stabbing upward out of the planet’s crust, and Wolffe thought they looked less like stone than like scars.

“Shadow line, push,” Wolffe called. “Two steps on my lead.”

The squad moved with him, tight to the AT-TE’s ribs. Each man different, but their rhythm braided together, welded by training and need. He heard their breaths over comms, the clipped confirmations, the shuffling of boots in dust. They weren’t ghosts. Not yet.

Wolffe kept his rifle angled, muzzle ready to snap. His visor cut through static, reading heat traces against the canyon walls. Too many. Too deliberate.

The instinct pressed hard, old as the scars on his soul. Last time, they’d trusted the canyon. It had swallowed them whole.

He wouldn’t repeat it.

“Shadows on both flanks,” he said, voice iron. “Stay in the walker’s footprint. Weapons up.”

Silence answered—discipline, not doubt. The line adjusted, rifles tracking the stone. The AT-TE shifted its bulk, turrets yawning wide. Dust swirled under its belly.

For a moment, the desert held its breath.

Then wings broke out of the canyon walls, a burst of motion and shrieks. Geonosians poured from cracks and caverns, rifles spitting red bolts into the haze. The walker’s flank guns roared back, green slicing through wings, turning the air into falling shards of chitin.

The 104th was already moving.

“Contact left!” Grit snapped.

“Covering!” Grim’s voice burned with adrenaline.

“Two nests above—marking,” Vagn said, clinical as always.

“Frag the high ground,” Wolffe ordered. “Short throws. Don’t waste wrists.”

Grenades arced up, blossomed into smoke and fire. Stone cracked, wings scattered. The canyon spat dust and death back at them, but the line held.

Blasterfire lit the haze in alternating pulses—red, green, red, green. The walker’s mass-driver dropped another shell and the canyon wall fractured, collapsing in a rain of stone and insect screeches. The commander of the 104th tasted iron in his filters and kept the line steady. His men stayed tight, their voices threading into his ear like a heartbeat: clipped, human, alive.

The desert hadn’t claimed them yet. Ahead, the basin waited, and Wolffe drove the pack toward it with teeth still bared.

Not this time.

The firefight in the canyon simmered down to smoldering stone and broken wings. The 104th pressed onward, boots crunching through chitin fragments, rifles angled to the haze. The AT-TE shifted its bulk forward with a groan that made the ground flex.

Wolffe stayed at the shoulder of the walker, visor sweeping, mind sharper than the dust in his lungs. Every detail mattered: the way the air trembled, the pitch of the wing-drone above, the unnatural silence in front. Silence was never free.

“Feels clear,” Grim muttered. He let the words bleed out, eager to be the first to speak.

“Too clear,” Vagn countered, already running calculations in his head. “No sound forward. Either empty… or full.”

Wolffe didn’t comment. His gut had already locked onto the second answer. The terrain ahead was broadening into an open basin, scarred by ridges and fissures like old teeth. Perfect kill-box. He remembered maps, reports, screams. The last war had taught him the price of trusting open ground.

Never again.

“Slow your pace,” he said, voice low but carrying. “Eyes high. If they’re here, they’ll drop in waves.”

“Commander?” Grit’s voice cracked with nerves. “We’re supposed to cross, right? Orders from high were—”

“Orders don’t walk this dirt,” Wolffe cut. “We do. Hold formation.”

The silence that followed wasn’t disobedience—it was awe wrapped in discipline. His sergeants had read the same orders, knew the push was meant to be fast, decisive. Yet Wolffe’s tone carved steel certainty into the comms.

The pack slowed, feet deliberate. The AT-TE paused, turrets shifting. Dust rolled in lazy coils ahead.

Then the ground moved.

Not the sand—the air. Heat shimmer bent in arcs above the basin as if something invisible pressed down. In the next breath, the shimmer cracked open and Vulture droids dove from the high atmosphere, wings stiff, blasters already alight.

“Contact overhead!” Grim shouted.

“They’re aiming for the walkers!” Vagn added, voice clipped but tense.

Wolffe had seen this move before. Not here. Not now. But somewhere. The pattern was the same: droids sweeping low to shred armor joints while infantry gaped at the sky.

“Shields up!” Wolffe barked. “All fire vertical! Don’t chase—just rake the sky!”

The walker’s dorsal cannon roared, blue bolts hammering the incoming trio. Troopers followed his call, rifles angling skyward, not scattered but in unison. Blaster fire stitched a web across the air, catching the Vultures in overlapping arcs. One disintegrated mid-dive; another spun into a ridge, detonating in flame. The last swerved, scarred and failing, before a gunship intercepted it, rotary cannons chewing it apart.

Dust rained down, flecked with durasteel and sandglass.

Grit let out a sharp exhale. “If we’d kept marching…”

“We’d be ash,” Grim finished, voice quieter than usual.

“How did he—” Vagn began, then cut himself short.

Wolffe didn’t answer. He just lowered his rifle, smoke venting from the barrel, and set his gaze back on the basin. Instinct wasn’t magic. It was scars remembering for you.

“Keep moving,” he said. “But don’t forget this. Nothing clear stays clear.”

The sergeants followed, silent now, their banter burned away by the realization that their commander wasn’t just another Kamino product. He read the war like others read orders—etched into him before the first shot was fired.

The 104th advanced into the basin, every step heavier with the weight of that truth. Wolffe had no time to speak it aloud—the place lit up with red. Blasterfire raked across the dust, each bolt a shard of glass screaming past helmets. The 104th pushed into it like men walking into rain—tight, deliberate, shoulder to shoulder.

The droid line emerged out of the haze in layers: B1s first, their stick-thin frames stumbling in programmed lockstep, rifles clattering too loud for the discipline they lacked. Behind them, sturdier B2s advanced with heavier arms raised, their volleys chewing into the sand and sparking against walker armor. Mixed between the lines came spider droids, legs stabbing into the ground as their cannons tracked for targets.

“Clankers, dead center!” Grit shouted, voice rising sharp. “Two squads, maybe more!”

“More,” Vagn corrected, eyes cold, tone clinical. “At least five formations. B2s at rear.”

“Looks like a whole karking factory dumped on us!” Grim barked, half thrill, half fear.

“Then break the line before it learns to stand,” Wolffe snapped. He raised his DC-17 and fired without hesitation.

His shots came fast, brutal. No pause between squeezes, no measured control—just bursts that hammered through the haze, each one punching holes into the clankers. Where Rex would have shifted smoothly from target to target, conserving every bolt like a scalpel, Wolffe tore power packs apart like they owed him something. Rage tightened his trigger finger, and precision came second to momentum.

A B1 staggered forward, chest plate smoking. Wolffe put two more shots into it before it fell, then shifted to burn down the one behind. He didn’t stop until the rifle hissed hot in his grip.

“Keep tight!” he barked, voice cutting over the comms. “Use the walker’s fire as cover—don’t outrun your armor!”

The AT-TE’s mass-driver boomed, collapsing a ridge into rubble. Chunks of stone crashed down onto advancing droids, snapping lines in half. Turrets along its flanks stitched green arcs through the swarms, shredding Geonosians that tried to dive-bomb the formation.

A screech pierced his filters as one winged shape slammed into the line, clawed hands dragging a trooper down. Grim’s rifle flared—one shot, center mass—and the bug crumpled onto the sand, wings twitching.

“Bug tried to grab me!” Grim called, adrenaline riding high.

“Stay on your sector,” Wolffe growled. “Let them come. You cut them down.”

The firestorm thickened. Red bolts clawed into their formation, one striking a brother at Wolffe’s flank. The clone pitched sideways, armor smoking, hands scrambling for the wound. Wolffe’s body moved before thought. He dropped to one knee, sights locking on the droid responsible, and tore through three clankers in a heartbeat. The sound that ripped from his throat wasn’t language—it was raw, guttural, carried across the comms like a warning.

He dragged the wounded trooper back by the harness, shoving him into the cover of a ridge. Another brother knelt to seal the wound, pressing medfoam against scorched plastoid.

“Stay breathing,” Wolffe ordered flatly. Then he stood and threw himself back into the fight.

“Advance!” His command cracked like a whip. “Pair your bolts, left-right! Don’t let them stack!”

“Copy!” Grit called, already adjusting.

“Covering left!” Grim added.

“Sector right is thin,” Vagn observed. “Reinforcing.”

Wolffe let the words wash through him. They were more than comms—they were pulse, rhythm, the sound of the pack alive. He poured fire into the droid line, each bolt cutting space into survival.

Above, LAAT/i gunships spiraled, rotary cannons chopping the sky into threads of green. Their shadows rolled over the basin like predatory wings. A gunship screamed low and spat rockets into a spider droid, its chassis folding inward before it toppled and burned.

The 104th surged forward in the gunship’s wake, momentum snapping their line into a wedge. AT-TEs followed, each step seismic, each cannon shot another answer to the storm.

The field became chaos: clankers falling in waves, Geonosians shrieking as they broke from hive-mouths, sand turned to glass where fire licked too long. But the line held—held because Wolffe’s voice never stopped cutting through the comms, short and brutal.

“Anchor left!”

“Frag that nest!”

“Watch your spacing, Shadow Three!”

“Hold the line!”

And they obeyed. Not because orders told them to. But because his voice carried the weight of survival earned, not taught.

Elsewhere, whole companies were swallowed by wings and fire. Reports of collapse bled through the net. But here, the 104th still stood—burned, dust-choked, scattered with wounded—but standing.

Wolffe’s rifle hissed as it vented heat. He reloaded in silence, chest rising hard, and scanned the field. His visor painted heat signatures across the haze—droids regrouping, bugs circling, more shadows pressing in.

The battle wasn’t won. Not yet. The line hadn’t broken, still holding in the storm—until the warning hit the channel a half-second before the world did.

A shriek—“Heavy round, incoming!”—and then the basin folded in on itself. 

The shell slammed into the ridge, detonating with a roar that made the sky crack. 

Sand erupted in a wave, stone shards scythed through the haze, and the ground heaved Wolffe off his boots. 

Armor hit rock. White light swallowed his visor. For a breath, there was no battle, no men—only the suffocating pressure of silence. 

Not silence like peace. Silence like drowning. 

His ears rang with one endless tone. HUD flickered, stuttered, died. The comms dissolved into static, voices breaking in half. Dust poured over him until the air turned to smoke and weight. 

Shapes lurched in the haze. Some fell, some crawled, some fired in blind panic. Wolffe pushed onto an elbow, lungs dragging grit, rifle clutched though the sight wavered. The battlefield had become an echo chamber—sounds stretched, fractured, out of order. 

A clone staggered by with armor blackened, shouting words that reached Wolffe a second too late. Another lay on his back, hands clawing at his chestplate, mouth open but voice lost in the ringing. Farther off, an AT-TE groaned as its legs sank unevenly, one turret coughing fire before choking into smoke.

The line—his line—was gone to dust. 

And then—light. 

A bar of blue carved the haze. Steady. Calm. Moving with purpose that cut through the ruin. 

Wolffe’s chest locked. His heart slammed against his ribs. 

Plo. 

The figure advanced with saber drawn low, steps measured, shoulders steady. Dust caught on the blade’s glow and turned to stars around it. It was him—it had to be. The guardian, the father, the anchor. 

“General…” The word rasped out of Wolffe, half prayer, half growl. 

The blade swept wide, silhouettes collapsing under its arc—droids, maybe, maybe not. Every movement carried the same calm Wolffe remembered, the patience that had once steadied him against storms. 

His throat burned. His vision blurred. It couldn’t be. 

It was. 

It couldn’t— 

The haze thinned, enough for the lie to collapse.

For a heartbeat he let himself believe—long enough for his chest to ache with relief. Then the green blade wavered, smaller, thinner, and the illusion cracked.

She almost stumbled as she reached him, breath ragged under the vocoder. Her blade slashed wide, caught a bolt, but the follow-through shook in her grip.

“I’m Sha Koon,” she blurted, voice high and uneven. “We… we must hold this flank! If it breaks—”

Wolffe froze. The name hit harder than the blast. Sha. Not Plo. His kin. A shadow carved from the same blood, trembling in front of him.

“General… Koon…” he rasped.

Her eyes widened. “Not General. Just Sha. Knight. I—” Another shot screamed past and she swung again, sloppy but desperate, sparks bursting against the dust. “I don’t know if—”

“Stop,” Wolffe cut, iron steady despite the tremor in his body. He stepped close, gauntlet on her forearm, anchoring her blade. His voice dropped, flat but grounding. “Listen. You breathe. You stand. You hold. That’s all.”

His own chest heaved with effort, but he refused to let it show. Pain could wait. The line couldn’t.

He turned back to the storm, forcing his rifle up. The weapon felt heavier than it ever had, but his grip stayed sure. “Shadow line!” His voice cracked through the comms, louder than the ringing in his ears. “Form by the walkers. Tighten sectors!”

Comms lit alive. Grit’s orders came rapid-fire, Grim shouting to keep momentum, Vagn cold and precise, squads snapping back into place. In the distance, another channel screamed about a walker down, Jedi calling for reinforcements. The whole front was breaking and knitting itself again.

Wolffe stood in the center, anchoring it, and for a moment Sha leaned on that steadiness more than her own blade.

She raised her saber, still shaking, but firmer now. Green light flashed against his visor as she looked at him once, unspoken fear raw in her eyes. Then she turned and threw herself back into the fight with a ragged cry.

For a heartbeat the word rose in his throat—buir.

The old tongue for father, a word clones were never meant to need. It pressed against his teeth, raw and heavy, but he bit down until it turned to iron in his mouth.

Shadows weren’t family. Around him, the comms still screamed bearings, and Wolffe forced the pack back into formation.

The blast’s echo was still rolling when Wolffe took the line back.

“Shadow line, mark sectors!” His voice cracked through the comms, iron and steady.

On the left, Grit’s squad came out of the haze, scattered but alive. His orders were quick, sharp, too many words packed into seconds, but his men locked angles, rifles covering gaps as if his nerves alone could knit them together.

Grim surged ahead with his fireteam, shouting over static, voice riding the edge of panic but dragging his men with him. Their bolts came too fast, too wild—but they held their ground because he burned to prove himself, and they refused to let him burn alone.

Vagn was already repositioning his flank, precise hand signals cutting through the chaos. His squad pivoted clean, rifles drawing straight lines into the advancing droids. Every shot was chosen, surgical, and the hole it carved gave space for the others to breathe.

A hundred voices filled the net—reports of losses, calls for medics, coordinates barked into static. Beyond them, other companies bled into their own storms, LAATs circling overhead like wasps, AT-TEs pounding the sand with shells that collapsed ridges and spires into rubble.

But here, now, the 104th held because Wolffe’s voice had turned fear into rhythm.

“Anchor on the walkers! Push them forward—let their guns clear the air!”

The AT-TE nearest them groaned and obeyed, mass-driver booming, turrets shredding clankers by the dozen. Dust and smoke thickened into a wall, but behind it the 104th moved like a body finding its heartbeat.

A trooper stumbled past Wolffe, helmet cracked, comm sputtering. Wolffe caught him by the harness, shoved him back toward cover, and turned without a word, rifle burning a trio of droids before they could pin another squad.

“Don’t scatter,” he growled. “You scatter, you die.”

The words stuck. They echoed through comms, picked up and repeated by voices across the line.

And for the first time, the 104th felt less like scattered squads and more like a single force—scarred, bleeding, but alive, a pack with fangs bared.

From the corner of his visor, Wolffe caught Sha Koon. Her blade still shook, but she followed his rhythm now, striking where the pack’s fire had already cut gaps. Not leading, not steady—but trying. And for that, Wolffe let her stand.

The desert thundered with cannon fire, with wings shrieking, with the roar of engines overhead. The storm had not passed, but the line no longer bent.

The Wolfpack’s shape began to hold, ragged but alive, just as new orders crackled through the net.

The battle noise broke like a wave and then rolled back, leaving only its foam.

Blasterfire stuttered out in the distance, scattered, directionless. The sky—once a storm of wings and red bolts—hung heavy with smoke. Sand turned darker where fires had burned long enough to fuse it to glass. The smell was a layer all its own: scorched metal, ozone, burned chitin, hot plastoid.

Clones moved through it in threads, some carrying stretchers fashioned from blast-plates, others stacking the still forms of brothers beneath makeshift beacons. Helmets bobbed in the haze like buoys in a sick sea. Each motion was tired but precise, the rhythm of soldiers taught to clean the field even when their lungs still burned.

An AT-TE loomed at the center of the basin, its hull blackened, plating scarred, one leg dragging. But it still stood, turrets cooling with dull ticks. Smoke vented from its exhaust like tired breath. Around its feet, squads regrouped, rifles slung now, heads turning constantly, as if waiting for another swarm that refused to come.

Wolffe stood among them, helmet still on, visor blank but burning inside. His rifle hung in one hand, barrel scorched, weight dragging his shoulder low. Dust coated his armor until the wolf-markings blurred into ochre.

A clone limped past, arm slung over another’s shoulder. Another knelt by a body, fingers pressing to a pulse that wasn’t there. A medic shook his head once and moved on.

Victory. That was the word that would be written into reports, carved into memory. But the ground didn’t feel like victory. It felt like aftermath—like the air itself was catching its breath, deciding whether to keep them.

Comms crackled with fractured voices:

“Sector Four clear—picking up stragglers.”

“Walker Seven stabilized, leg actuator offline.”

“Medic teams moving—mark your wounded.”

Every voice sounded older than it had that morning.

Wolffe scanned the horizon. Spires leaned like knives dulled by fire. Smoke coiled out of collapsed ridges. The desert had been cut open and left to bleed in silence.

He exhaled once, slow, and let the breath fog his visor before filters cleared it.

The 104th had held. That was enough.

The haze thinned as the desert’s pulse slowed. In that lull, voices grew clearer.

“Sector’s clear,” Grit said, pacing fast, helmet tilted like he couldn’t stop scanning. His men shadowed him, rifles still raised though there was nothing left to shoot. “Nothing moving but smoke. Still don’t like it.”

“You never like it,” Grim shot back, dropping onto a half-buried chunk of stone. He yanked his helmet off, hair plastered with sweat, and took the desert air in a ragged gulp. “Feels like my lungs are full of ash.” He grinned anyway, a flash of teeth against grime. “Guess that means I’m still breathing.”

One of his troopers barked a short laugh. Another cuffed him on the shoulder and shoved a canteen his way. The sound was sharp in the silence, fragile but real.

Vagn stood apart, visor tilted toward the wreck of a spider droid smoldering on its side. He lifted a hand, sent two of his men to sweep it, then turned back. “Clear. No secondaries. Line holds.” His voice was flat, but the certainty in it stitched a kind of strength back into the others.

Around them, more clones began to gather in knots, armor dulled by dust until the markings blurred into the same ochre. Helmets tilted toward Wolffe—brief glances, waiting for him to speak, to move, to tell them what came next.

Wolffe didn’t miss it. He could feel the weight pressing in—not fear, not exactly, but the need for anchor.

He raised his rifle, let the scorched barrel point down into the sand, and spoke low over the comms. “Stay with your brothers.”

The words moved outward, repeated by Grit, by Grim, by Vagn, each in their own tone. And then by others, further down the line. A phrase catching like flame, simple enough to hold onto.

Side by side.

It was training, but not in meaning, not in the way the clones took those words. It wasn’t in any manual. It was written in them, and now it was theirs.

For the first time since the ramps had slammed into Geonosis’ soil, Wolffe felt the shape of something forming around him. Not perfect, not whole. But alive. A pack.

The storm had burned itself down into silence.

Smoke drifted low, curling in the basin like fog that had forgotten how to rise. Walkers groaned as they shifted their weight, turrets ticking in tired arcs. Clones moved through it in steady lines, white armor coated with dust until they looked carved from the same stone as the ridges. No colors, no marks—only numbers buried under discipline.

Sha stumbled into the perimeter, saber clipped to her belt. Her breathing mask was crooked, one lens cracked from a glancing hit. With a sharp tug she tore it free, dragging air into her lungs though the Geonosian atmosphere burned her throat raw.

Her skin was a deep rust-orange, darker along the ridges of her cheeks and brow. Wide black eyes blinked against dust, glossy, unreadable—no pupils to anchor them, only reflections of fire. The lack of expression made her look calm, but Wolffe saw the tremor in her hands, the ragged pull of every breath. She looked nothing like the white-armored men around her. And yet, she looked younger than all of them.

She stopped a step short of him, trying for poise but falling into exhaustion.

“I thought… I knew soldiers,” she said, voice raw, filtered air still rattling her lungs. “But this—” She gestured at the basin, the wreckage, the men. “This doesn’t look like anything I trained for.”

Wolffe didn’t turn at first. His voice came flat. “Training often falls short.”

She winced, as if stung. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” He finally shifted, visor tilting toward her. She caught her own reflection warped in the black glass: a young Knight, unsteady, streaked with dust. “First time seeing us?”

“Yes,” she admitted. Too quick to lie. “I knew Kamino made… something. But not this.”

“What did you expect?”

“Machines,” she confessed. “Not men.”

“They told you nothing.”

She shook her head. “Nothing. The Council kept it quiet, even from us. We knew there was an army. Not who you were.” Her gaze swept the clones stacking wrecked droids, hauling stretchers, posting perimeter marks. “I didn’t expect… life.”

Wolffe tipped his chin slightly toward the men. “What else would we be?”

“Droids don’t cover each other. They don’t improvise. They don’t…” Her words faltered. “They don’t sound alive.”

“That’s because they’re not.”

Her eyes lingered on Grit pacing too fast, Grim crouched with his men around a canteen, Vagn steadying a turret crew with sharp hand signals. Same armor, same dust. Different rhythms.

“It’s like…” She searched for a word. “Like a pack.”

“Yes,” Wolffe said. “Stay with the pack, you breathe another day. Step out, the war keeps you.”

She repeated it under her breath, as if it might root itself in her. “Stay with the pack.” Her eyes lifted again. “That’s not in any manual.”

“No,” Wolffe said. “It’s in us.”

She stared at him then, questions crowding her lips. One slipped free. “Do you have names?”

“Wolffe.”

“Not numbers?”

“Numbers too. Names are faster.”

Her brow creased. “Did Kamino give them?”

“No. We did.”

Her lips parted at that. “So you choose.”

“When we can.”

She glanced at the armor again—unmarked, anonymous. “No colors. No paint. You all look the same.”

“Looks don’t matter if you’re already a target.”

“That feels… cruel.”

“It’s survival.”

The words left her silent. Around them, clones went about their work with quiet purpose: counting casualties, hauling gear, shoring up the perimeter. The war machine looked nothing like the stories of the High Republic she had grown up with.

Finally she spoke, voice smaller. “I thought being a Knight would mean clarity. Lead with the blade, and others follow. But down there…” She looked at her trembling hands. “I didn’t know where to stand.”

“You didn’t fall,” Wolffe said. “That’s enough.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Is it?”

“It is today, you will live other fights, other battles, you’ll learn more, we all will.”

For a moment she studied him—this man with no insignia, indistinguishable from the hundreds around him, yet carrying himself like a pillar that held up the whole sky. “You sound old,” she murmured.

“I am” he said.

The answer unnerved her more than the blasterfire had.

Before she could ask more, a voice broke across the comms: crisp, clipped, naval. “Commander Wolffe, maintain perimeter. You are now the extraction point. Survivors will be routed to your position for immediate evac.”

Wolffe didn’t hesitate. ““Copy. Bring ‘em in, we will defend them.” He turned to his men. “You heard High Command, I want a perimeter, move, move, move!”

Troopers moved instantly—shifting into cover, digging in, rifles scanning outward. Dust rose under their boots in a rhythm that felt less like orders and more like instinct.

Sha watched, wide-eyed. “So this is what they made,” she whispered. Then, louder, to Wolffe: “And this is what you are.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The perimeter was set in dust and discipline. White-armored troopers dug firing pits along the ridge, others mounted repeaters salvaged from wrecked gunships. Blue smoke markers hissed upward, curling against the ochre sky to mark the extraction zone. The Wolfpack moved without paint, without heraldry, yet every man seemed to know exactly where to stand, as if instinct had carved the line into the ground itself.

Sha stayed beside Wolffe, her breather mask cracked along one edge but still sealed tight against her face, lenses clouded from dust. Each inhale rattled faintly through the filters, proof she was still breathing at all. She couldn’t look away from the clones—how one tossed a power pack to another without a word, how two men lifted a barricade into place like they’d rehearsed it a hundred times, though they’d never set foot on this world before today. It didn’t look like soldiers. It looked like something older. A tribe.

She leaned closer, voice low. “Do they always… know what to do?”

“They know what keeps them breathing,” Wolffe said. His visor never left the horizon.

The horizon answered with engines.

Gunships streaked in low, their silhouettes black against the sun. Dust spiraled under their repulsors as they skimmed the basin, cannon fire spitting to clear stragglers from the path. The first LAAT roared overhead and settled hard inside the smoke markers, wings trembling with strain.

Rex dropped from its side hatch before it had finished settling, rifle still in his grip, armor burned black in streaks. Behind him came Jedi—robes torn, sabers lit only long enough to cut through dust—then a figure in torn senatorial garb clutching her side but walking upright.

“Commander!” Rex’s voice hit the comms, alive with relief. “Extraction package secured.”

Wolffe stepped forward, boots grinding grit. “Bring them in. This ground holds.”

Clones rushed to guide the newcomers behind the walker line. The Jedi moved with weary grace—Anakin fierce-eyed even through exhaustion, Obi-Wan already speaking over his shoulder about casualty counts. Padmé Amidala drew stares, not for her face but for the fact that she walked among them at all.

Sha froze. She hadn’t expected to see the ones who were in dire need of rescue—not alive, not stepping into a line of clones who already moved like they had fought together for years. Her saber hand twitched at her side, useless.

Rex clasped Wolffe’s forearm, a brief, brother’s grip through plastoid. “Side by side” he said, breath still ragged.

“Side by side” Wolffe returned. His voice didn’t rise, but it carried, and the line straightened a fraction more.

Obi-Wan’s gaze swept the perimeter, then fixed on Wolffe. “Commander, your men are holding steady. We’ll need this corridor secured until fleet transports can land.”

“Understood” Wolffe said.

Anakin’s boots hit the dust, saber low at his side, his steps still uneven from smoke and blood loss. His gaze cut first to the senator—Padmé—already being pulled aboard the gunship, alive. Safe. Relief burned through his features and then hardened, tucked behind command.

Only then did his eyes fall on the clone who had brought her in. Armor scorched black, rifle still hot, helmet tucked under his arm.

“You” Skywalker rasped, voice raw but intent. “You pulled her out.”

Rex straightened under the stare. “Sir. Orders were clear. We don’t leave anyone behind.”

For a heartbeat, Anakin just looked at him—measuring, weighing. The battlefield noise dimmed around the silence. Then a sharp grin broke through the grime, fierce despite exhaustion.

“You saved her. That’s more than orders—that’s loyalty. And I don’t forget loyalty” he said. His hand clamped on Rex’s forearm—not the grip of a general to a soldier, but of a man testing iron. “I’ll need men like you. When this war moves forward… I want you with me.”

Rex hesitated, his eyes flicking once toward Wolffe. The commander gave the smallest nod—not permission, not denial, just a steady acknowledgment.

Rex’s answer came clipped but steady. “Understood, General.”

Sha caught her breath. She hadn’t seen soldiers traded like that before—pulled from one line, promised to another—as if lives were pieces on a dejarik board. And yet, the look that passed between Rex and Wolffe was not loss. It was something harder, quieter. Trust carried into motion.

The gunships cycled power, engines keening. More dust rose. Around them, the Wolfpack adjusted firing lanes, marking arcs, preparing for the next wave even as the first evacuees were ushered aboard.

Sha turned to Wolffe. “They just keep moving. Even now. Don’t they ever stop?”

“We stop when the war does” Wolffe said. His visor tilted toward her. “So don’t count on it being soon.”

She didn’t answer. She only watched the clones work, her wide black eyes reflecting white armor moving like a living wall, and wondered what the Order had brought into this war without knowing what it truly was.

The gunships cycled low, engines humming steady as wounded and civilians were ushered aboard. The line held, rifles scanning outward, walkers thudding into ready stances. Smoke curled higher, blue markers burning bright through it all.

Obi-Wan stood near the central ridge, robe torn, one shoulder singed. He leaned on his saber like a staff, eyes scanning the basin. Anakin paced beside him, restless energy still coiled tight.

“These men—” Obi-Wan’s voice was quiet but carried, raw with disbelief. “They fight as if they’ve drilled with us for years.”

“They don’t need years,” Anakin shot back. “You saw what they did. They know. Give me a legion like this and I’ll end this war in half the time.”

Obi-Wan frowned, gaze flicking to the clones steady at their posts. “War isn’t won by speed alone. These are lives. Soldiers, yes—but lives.”

“Better soldiers than droids” Anakin countered, fire sparking. “At least they choose to fight.”

Sha’s head turned sharply. She looked at Wolffe, whispering, “Choose?”

Wolffe’s answer was iron. “We fight. That’s enough.”

The words silenced her more than any lecture could.

Obi-Wan shook his head, tired. “The Council never meant for this—Jedi leading battalions?”

“They’ll get used to it. The Republic needs us here, not meditating in towers.” Anakin said, jaw set. “The Republic needs us here, with them.”

“Needs us to be generals?” Obi-Wan murmured. “Or to guide?”

Wolffe listened without a word. It wasn’t his place to weigh in. But he felt the tension coil in the silence between them: two Jedi, already pulling the same war in different directions.

Sha shifted closer, her voice low so only Wolffe heard. “They don’t sound… certain.”

“Certainty’s a luxury” Wolffe said. His visor never moved from the horizon. “We hold the line. Let them argue.”

She absorbed that, eyes wide, as the Jedi voices faded into the thrum of gunships and the click of rifles being checked.

The war wasn’t over. But the 104^th —and others—  still lived, boots in the dust, rifles in hand, waiting for the next order that would drag them forward again.

The last gunship lifted, turbines howling, dust billowing around its silhouette until it was swallowed by sky. The basin was quieter now. Not silent—never silent—but quieter.

Medics moved among rows of stretchers, marking tags, sealing wounds. Engineers checked the walkers, counting which ones would march again. The acrid stench still hung in the air, but the rhythm of the field had shifted from fighting to enduring.

A report came through the comms. Numbers. Always numbers.

“Casualties: one thousand four hundred and twelve confirmed KIA. Wounded still being tallied—early estimates place them in the thousands. Over fifty walkers lost. LAAT losses still counting. Commandos: none killed, three confirmed injured.”

Wolffe let the figures etch into his mind. The weight pressed heavy—but not as heavy as it had once been. In another line, another Geonosis, commandos had bled out in the sand before the first hour. This time they still stood. The pack had lost brothers, yes, but not as many. Fewer than he had feared.

It wasn’t victory. It was survival with edges. But it was proof that things could bend differently.

Rex approached, armor still scorched, helmet clipped to his belt. He gave Wolffe a look that said more than words—respect, regret, a promise unspoken.

“Looks like I’m headed elsewhere” Rex said, half a grin, half a grimace.

“We will meet again, vod’, be sure of that” Wolffe answered, flat but firm, Maybe his tone carried the ghost of a smile, but the visor kept it buried.

Rex clasped his forearm, brief and hard, before turning toward Anakin and Obi-Wan waiting by the last gunship. Padmé stood near them, cloak wrapped tight, eyes too bright against the smoke. The Jedi spoke quick, decisive, already charting the next war.

Sha lingered. Her mask was still cracked, her saber dimmed at her side. She looked at the clones—rows of white armor moving with weary precision—and then back at Wolffe.

“I didn’t know,” she said quietly. “Any of it. What you are. What you carry.”

“You know now,” Wolffe said.

She hesitated. “You fought like… you’ve done this forever. And I—” She broke off, shook her head. “I’ll remember how your men moved. How you kept them moving.”

“Remember this instead,” Wolffe said. “We buried more than one thousand brothers. That’s what war costs. You never forget the count.”

Her wide black eyes blinked. “And yet you sound… hopeful.”

“We didn’t lose commandos. And the count… it’s less than it could have been.” He exhaled, visor dipping. “If this is how things keep turning, maybe estimates don’t own us anymore.”

Sha didn’t understand the weight behind the words, but she nodded, solemn. “Then I hope you’re right.” Her voice cracked through the mask’s filter, too young to be carrying so much weight already.

Obi-Wan called her name, sharp over the dust. She flinched, then straightened, tugged her mask back into place, and gave Wolffe a last look. Not command, not farewell—something smaller. Gratitude, maybe.

“Stay with the pack,” she said softly, as if it belonged to her too now.

“Keep breathing,” Wolffe replied.

She turned and went, boots vanishing into the haze toward the waiting Jedi.

Wolffe stayed where he was, visor tilted toward the horizon. Spires leaned black against ochre sky. Fires smoldered in the gullies. Behind him, clones worked—hauling, counting, setting markers, their white armor all the same and not the same at all.

More than a thousand gone. Too many, but fewer than it could have been. Fewer than it once was.

Maybe the galaxy could still be bent. Maybe this time it wouldn’t break the same way.

He clenched his gauntlet until the joints creaked, then turned back to his men.

The war wasn’t over. But more brothers stood than had fallen. That was a beginning he could accept.

Chapter Text

Wolffe had just gone through a déjà vu—an exact scenario he had lived before. He knew it wasn't the first one, nor the last.

Heather, not yet a trooper of the 501st, throwing fists in a Kamino barrack, shouting that he never asked for this war, that maybe desertion was the only choice left. Back then Wolffe had dragged him out, offered the theater of “redemption,” a mission to clear his name. Heather had taken it without hesitation, grateful for a cage he mistook as freedom. Wolffe did the same now—the mission was yet to come, and he had time. If Heather proved himself again, Wolffe would take him into the 104th.

Years—or lifetimes—later, Wolffe felt the same fracture spreading through every brother he looked at. The same hunger. The same word burning on their tongues: choice.

And yet choice was illusion. He had seen it etched into bone, wired into skulls, catalogued by long-necked hands that never once asked permission. No brother could name it, but Wolffe carried the weight for them all. That was the truth of Kamino: even rebellion came preordained.

Amid the echoes of thunder and lightning from distant storms, Wolffe flinched at his own reflection—haunted, distorted each time the light struck Kamino’s vast windows. The transparisteel warped him into something less than human: a silhouette bent by the sea’s pressure, a figure cracked down the middle, sometimes young, sometimes old, sometimes a corpse. The storm refused him a single face.

Geonosis had come and gone, just like the last time, and in its wake the commander of the 104th couldn’t stop wondering what the second turn at that world’s dominion would look like. The thought gnawed at him: wheels and cogs grinding behind his eyes until he let his mind drift. The storm outside became the storm inside—endless, circular, without release.

He had thought before, of course. The years trapped on Kamino had left him nothing but time for questions—most of them immediate, tied to his brothers, the only anchor in an oceanic prison. But now the war had broken open, and the galaxy stretched wider than he could hold. Infinite possibilities, yet all of them narrow.

After all, the battle of Geonosis had happened.

What else would repeat?

Order 66, with its poisoned chips? Abregado? Plo’s death? Would he even still stand at the head of the 104th? What fronts would they march into? How many had he already bled through? How many were still waiting?

He pressed both gauntlets against the edge of the debrief table, head bowed, trying to steady the rhythm of his own breath. The silence in the hall was heavy, clinical, punctuated only by the drip of condensation from the high beams and the muted roll of thunder outside. In Kamino every sound was measured. Every second carried weight.

The door sighed open. The storm’s murmur gave way to the precise click of Kaminoan steps. Tall, silver-eyed, face unreadable, the figure regarded him not as a man but as a chart to be studied.

“Commander Wolffe,” the voice was calm, almost soothing, stripped of warmth. “The reports are complete. Casualty percentages across the Republic fleet were… within tolerances. In fact—below projected margins.”

Wolffe straightened, visor catching the pale shimmer of the storm outside.

“Below projections” He repeated, iron-flat.

“Correct. Clone units under your command reported thirty-one percent fewer losses than forecast. Curious.” A long neck tilted, pale fingers folding with clinical grace. “A statistical anomaly. Do you attribute this to… chance?”

Wolffe’s gauntlet clenched against the table. Dust. Fire. Screams. The names of brothers already buried. Nothing about it was chance. The Kaminoans would never understand that survival was not mathematics—it was blood, pain, sacrifice.

“No,” he said, voice low. “Not chance. The modified training had to do something—my changes worked.”

The Kaminoan blinked slowly, unmoved, holding anger, perhaps? “Then efficiency. Your instincts preserved units. We will note this variance in our models.”

A pause, long enough to feel deliberate. The Kaminoan adjusted the datapad against her chest, eyes sliding over him as if testing whether the subject would hold under further weight.

“Before you are dismissed, CT-3636… your suggestion regarding visual identification has been noted. Integrating legion colors to units—rather than to commanders—may improve cohesion. The proposal will be forwarded for review. Your reasoning, that individuality undermines standardization, is… not unfounded.”

The words cut sharper than intended. They were taking his idea, twisting it into policy, stripping it of intent. What he had meant as protection—a way to keep brothers from being marked out and slaughtered alongside their officers—was already being filed as another algorithm to test.

“And,” the Kaminoan continued, stylus scratching like rain on glass, “rehabilitation efficiency has risen twelve percent since the implementation of prosthetic integration. Candidates who would once have been reassigned to maintenance or… discontinued… are now preserved for combat readiness. Resource expenditure is higher, but acceptable when measured against replacement cost. After all, and in your own words, experience outranks everything. We have yet to test that theory onto the field, so expect an official announcement of that policy.”

Wolffe’s chest tightened. He remembered brothers discarded for less: a limp, a missing hand, a training accident. Reduced to parts, to biomass, to waste. Now prostheses clicked into sockets where flesh had been lost, white plastoid arms strapped to fresh scars. Better than before, yes. But still a number in their ledgers, still “acceptable expenditure.”

A line echoed unbidden, one he had heard once from Rex, steady and unshakable: experience outranks everything. Here, twisted into metrics, it felt less like wisdom than indictment.

Numbers. Always numbers.

For them, thirty-one percent fewer losses. For them, integration of markings and prosthetics, new baselines to adjust the grand experiment.

For him, every name still counted, every face still waiting.

The Kaminoan’s voice pressed further, soft but piercing.

“Should this variance be replicable, it may alter our projections for future cohorts. Do you believe your behavior can be generalized?”

Wolffe’s breath caught. He thought again of Rex—his anchor, his brother—of trying to shape him here, now, into the man who would one day endure Endor. He thought of 99, bending over armor he could never wear. He thought of the chips, each buried in a skull, silent and waiting. Could his defiance ripple outward? Could survival be taught, or was he the only one cursed to remember the grave before it opened?

His throat scraped dry. “No. I don’t believe it can.”

The Kaminoan tilted her head again, as if cataloguing an aberrant result. “Not generalizable. Individual anomaly, then. Perhaps error in conditioning.”

Her words struck harder than any blaster. Error. As if everything he carried—all the scars that hadn’t yet been cut into his skin, all the memories decades too early—were just misprints in the design.

She folded her datapad once more. “You are dismissed, CT-3636. Return to quarters. Tomorrow you will join a training sequence designed to test coordination under altered parameters. We will see if the anomaly persists.”

Wolffe’s visor was black as the storm. He said nothing.

The Kaminoan departed in the same silence she had entered, long steps fading down the sterile corridor. The door closed with a sigh, leaving only the pulse of thunder against glass.

Wolffe stayed frozen at the table, gauntlets still pressed against its edge, as if bracing for impact. In his mind the storm outside shifted into Geonosis dust, the dust into Abregado fire, the fire into Plo’s falling fighter. Each memory clawed for space, overlapping, crushing. He forced his breath steady, but it came out ragged anyway.

He closed his eyes and let the storm carry him, knowing tomorrow it would all begin again.

When the door sighed open behind him, he rose without a word. The Kaminoan was already gone, her steps long vanished into the sterile corridors. Only the echo of her datapad notes seemed to linger, as if his life had just been archived on a screen.

He walked. Cadets passed in tight formation, boots striking in rhythm, voices flat with recited cadence. The corridor stank faintly of solvent, of wet metal where the rain had crept in.

The medbay doors slid open as he passed. For a breath he saw inside—an arm grafted in pale plastoid, a leg clamped in braces, brothers lying still beneath too-bright light. The image snagged at him like shrapnel. He didn’t slow his step.

The storm rattled the transparisteel as he turned down a quieter passage, one few bothered with. The hum changed here—less the ordered drone of Kamino, more jagged, uneven, like static gnawing at the edges of his hearing. He followed it until he reached a sealed hatch, light spilling thin through its seams.

The door hissed open with a sluggish breath, as if reluctant to reveal what hid behind it. Wolffe stepped through and the storm’s thunder dulled, replaced by a quieter hum, a layered static that crawled at the edge of his hearing.

A young vod’e, a… technician? slipped past him on the threshold—Wolffe couldn’t figure who he was, what was his name, but he looked familiar, especially with those glasses, and the way he was cradling a datapad like it contained victory itself. The boy’s expression was… unreadable, even for a vod’e. He stared more than what was comfortable to Wolffe, then kept walking.

The leader of the 104^th then make his way in. Inside, the light was softer than the corridors outside, blurred by interference. His HUD sputtered with artifacting glyphs, unreadable, then black. Wolffe unsealed his helmet with a click and tucked it under his arm. The air tasted different here: ozone, metal warmed by human hands, oil burned down to its dregs. Not sterile. Lived in.

This was 99’s room.

Not the empty clone barracks, not the glass-smooth cells Kaminoans called “quarters.” This place had weight. Armor stacked against the wall, plastoid scuffed and patched. Notes half-pinned, half-taped, edges curled from moisture. Holo-photographs jittered faint light above a shelf, souvenirs already carried back from Geonosis—a dented pauldron, a shard of droid plating scratched with a number that only meant something to the vode who had carved it.

And woven through all of it: small, jagged devices tucked into corners, humming faintly. Bugs. Counter-signal emitters, jury-rigged from maintenance scraps, choking the air with noise that blinded any Kaminoan eye that might pry too closely.

“Helmets don’t last in here” rasped a familiar voice.

99 straightened from his workbench, scars folding into a smile. His gaze was sharp, though his body bent with age before age. “Welcome, vod. Sit. You look worse than the storm outside.”

Wolffe eased onto the bench, uncomfortable not with 99 but with the weight of the room. Protection pressed down on him, alien and raw. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

“How was it?” 99 asked. “Geonosis. They said the sands swallowed whole squads.”

Wolffe’s jaw tightened. Dust, fire, screaming. Brothers half-buried before he could reach them. “It was… Geonosis” he muttered. “First wave’s never clean. The boys fought well. Too well for the numbers Kamino expected.”

99’s eyes glinted. “So you brought more back than they liked.”

“Thirty-one percent.” The words came out flat, and for a moment he almost let himself be proud. Almost. “Enough to call me an anomaly.”

99 gave a dry chuckle. “Then be one. Better anomaly than body bag.”

Wolffe let silence hang between them. The static hummed, louder than it should have been. His gaze drifted to the souvenirs—bits of armor, tokens of brothers who might not have returned.

Finally, he spoke. “I need your opinion. A… case came up. A brother infected by a Geonosian parasite—burrowed deep, close to the brain. We took him to the highest scanner. And there, inside, something showed. Not parasite. Something else. Small. Fixed. Like it belonged. Almost.”

99’s brows furrowed. “And he lived?”

“He lived.” Wolffe lied smoothly. “Different. But alive. The problem was that protocol tells us to look at everyone who was close to the infected, and so we did, and everyone had that… thing.”

99 blinked, slow and heavy, as if weighing the words. His hands stilled on the scarred edge of the bench. “Everyone?”

Wolffe nodded once, the motion sharp. “Every single vod we scanned. Same shadow in the skull. Same shape. No variance.”

The older clone let out a low breath through his teeth, the sound closer to pain than surprise. “That would mean…” His voice trailed, not wanting to finish.

“That we’re all carrying it” Wolffe supplied, harsher than he intended. “Every one of us.”

The static hum of the counter-signal filled the pause between them, louder now, invasive.

99 rubbed at his scarred jaw, eyes narrowing. “If what you say is true… then it isn’t infection. It’s design.”

The word hit Wolffe like a bolt to the chest. He forced his voice steady, though his pulse hammered. “Exactly.”

For a moment, 99 said nothing, only looked at him. And Wolffe hated it—hated the quiet steadiness, the way his brother didn’t flinch, didn’t dismiss him, just… listened. It left Wolffe exposed, like the storm had stripped his armor away.

The older clone leaned forward, voice low. “Well, it wouldn’t be the worst thing the Kaminoans have done to us, nor the first secret…what did the long-necks say?”

“They called it irregularity. Background noise.” His hands clenched. “But I saw the image. Clear as rain.”

99 studied him. Didn’t question the story, didn’t press. Just worry, plain as steel. “And it troubles you.”

“It should trouble all of us.” Wolffe muttered, throat tightening. “We don’t know their purpose, and we cannot ask, they won’t answer. And personally, their deflection makes thing worse, way, way worse.”

99 tilted his head. “So what do you think it is?”

Wolffe’s gaze flicked to the counter-signal devices humming in the corners. He almost wished they’d burn out, so the Kaminoans could hear, so the burden would split, so the lie would finally fall. “I don’t know. But I know what it isn’t. It isn’t nothing.”

The weight between them thickened, heavy with the storm’s echo.

99’s voice came quiet, steady. “And you came here because you don’t want to carry it alone.”

That cut deeper than Wolffe expected. He bristled, tried to bury the admission under a scowl. “I came because someone had to know. I don’t know how, or when, but I’ll strip it out—every last one of them. Look, 99… I can’t give you every answer now. Maybe I don’t even have them. But I know I can count on you.”

He forced a sharper breath, then let the corner of his mouth twitch—not quite a smile. “Besides, I know you like being the first to hear the gossip.”

99 huffed, scars folding into something like amusement, but his eyes stayed sharp. The static hummed on, steady as the storm outside.

The door slid open with a hiss. A clone trooper stepped in, helm under his arm, showing a clean face and long, well-kept hair—out of protocol, but Wolffe said nothing.

“99, have you—” He stopped cold, eyes snapping to Wolffe. A salute, stiff, voice tight.
“C-Commander Wolffe! We were unable to contact you. Thanks to the Maker you’re here. Orders just came through, straight from High Command. The Jedi assignment roster’s been approved and transmitted back to Kamino.” He hesitated, as though the words carried more weight than his voice could hold. “Every legion’s been matched with their General. You’ve been assigned to Jedi Master Plo Koon.”

The words hung, swallowing even the static. Wolffe remained still, armor squared, visor dark. A name he already knew, a fate he had already carried, returned to him as if nothing had ever changed.

Outside the storm clawed at the transparisteel. Inside, the datapads kept their rosters, the implants waited in silence, the wheel turned on without pause. He was being dragged into it again—pulled by currents he could neither resist nor escape.

And yet.

Behind the weight, something else stirred. For once the cycle was not only a chain. Plo Koon. Buir, anchor, the only Jedi who had seen them as more than numbers. The galaxy was repeating itself, but in that repetition Wolffe was given what he thought lost.

The storm rattled the glass, pressing in from all sides. Wolffe didn’t move. He let it wash through him—the certainty and the cruelty, the comfort and the trap. Some things could not be changed. But some things, like this, he would hold against the storm a second time.

Chapter Text

***

His heart was pounding hard. In those moments he felt it would burst out of his chest, that his armor weighed on him in every inch, every joint.

For the first time in a long while, Wolffe allowed himself to feel old—and at the same time, like a child.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The commander of the 104th already knew the routine—already knew what he was going through. Thankfully, he was in his small quarters aboard the First Fang, a luxury officers could afford, a luxury that felt like a sentence for how overwhelming the confinement was.

He wanted to leave. He wanted to go back to Kamino. He wanted to return to Yavin and its forests.

He wanted to die, if only to avoid seeing him.

How could he? With what face? With what right? He had postponed not only thinking about it, but feeling it. And though Kaminoan training was enough to hide, to cover, to entrench the mind within a fortress where neither panic nor grief could enter, that fortress had already been cracked for decades. Order 66, the deaths, Abregado, Gregor—only three left out of the millions of brothers they once were, and he had left Rex alone.

But now came what had to come. After his plans, after his brief visit to Kamino, after both his personal and legion training—after choosing that crimson tone that once marked the Wolfpack—he was now aboard the First Fang, on his way to retrieve Plo Koon. To meet him again.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He stopped his hand when he saw it trembling. Finished fastening his armor. Typed briefly on his comm, reaching out to other ghosts of better times, if such times had ever existed. With a freshly painted helmet, a pristine kama, and ARC-issued gear, he felt a bit safer, more familiar—perhaps through muscle memory, the body remembered before the mind did. It allowed him to do what it always had: to slip back into the only role he knew.

That of a soldier.

Walking through the corridors felt strange—a brief eternity, the prelude to the mission, the anticipation before action. It always had been. This time was no different.
He saw them from afar; he already knew their names, their numbers, their habits, their flaws, their victories. He knew exactly what they would do on this mission if nothing changed. After all, they were the loyal ones. The ones who survived. The ones who, alongside him, made the Wolfpack.

Same armor paint. Wolffe allowed himself a faint smile—let them see it for a moment as he reached the hangar before sealing his helmet on.

Before him stood Comet, Boost, and Sinker, all lined up and saluting their commander.

“At ease,” he said casually, his tone level but his gaze sharp as he inspected them. Same armor, same ranks. Sometimes he questioned whether he truly was somewhere else—another place, another time—or if all he’d lived had actually happened. This was one of those moments.

The troopers eased slightly, though not completely. Sinker used the pause to speak.

“Permission to speak, sir.” Wolffe gave a short nod.

“Where are we headed this time?” A short question—perhaps a little eager. Sinker wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t the most cautious either; a hound too eager to show how hard he could bite.

“Our Jedi General will inform us in due time,” Wolffe replied, his voice steady. “But that’s not what I came to talk about. I called you here because I needed to see you,” Wolffe said. “Not through a simulation—face to face.”

“Oh, I see. Sergeant Sinker here,” the trooper said casually, gesturing toward the others. “These are Boost and Comet. We’re batchmates—well, us and Warthog, who ended up flying.”

“We’re from Howl Squad, sir,” Boost added. “Alongside Tracer, Muzzle, and Dash.”

“I was separated from my original unit early on,” Sinker continued, his voice tightening. “Three of us made Sergeant here. The others gave their lives on Geonosis.”

Wolffe gave a short nod in acknowledgment. There was nothing fitting to say to that, so he returned to the point.

“An honor, gentlemen. I have orders for you. Soon we’ll leave standby and take on our first mission. Before that, our General will arrive. I want a presentation worthy of the work we’ve done. Sinker, spread the word. Find Grit, Grim, and Vagn—have them form their squads in the main hangar, lined up on both sides. Our Jedi will see the discipline of this legion firsthand.”

He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle.

“No helmets. I don’t want the long-necks’ ridiculous traditions binding us. We’ll show him who we are beneath the buckets.”

Sinker snapped a salute, and the others followed before scattering to their assignments. Boots struck durasteel in rhythm, the sound fading into the mechanical hum of the ship. Wolffe watched them go, their armor moving in perfect sync. Efficient. Predictable. For a moment, he hated how much comfort that gave him.

Each order had been spoken before. Each step, already rehearsed. He knew how they’d form, how they’d stand, who would adjust a stance too late, who would keep his chin too high. The illusion of control was a habit he couldn’t kill.

The First Fang hung in space, motionless between systems, lights dimmed to standby. Outside the viewport, the stars stood fixed and cold—no horizon, no movement, only the endless waiting. The ship was breathing quietly, every vent and conduit exhaling recycled air like a heart that refused to stop.

He could feel the anticipation crawling through the decks, a current beneath the stillness. They all knew what they were waiting for.

The comm unit crackled.

“Bridge to Commander Wolffe. Jedi starfighter on sensors. Vectoring in from the outer marker. Transponder confirms General Koon.”

For a second, his lungs forgot the pattern.

Inhale.

Exhale.

“Understood,” he said, voice flat. “Route him to Hangar Two. Clear the approach lane and prep the upper decks for inspection. I’ll meet him there and give the tour myself.”

He cut the channel and stood motionless for a breath longer, feeling the engines hum through the deck plating. Every sound sharpened—the vents, the distant chatter, the pulse in his own throat. He reached for his helmet, fingers steady now.

Whatever this was—loop, punishment, design—it demanded composure.

He turned and started toward the hangar, boots echoing in the quiet corridors, each step measured, deliberate.

He remembered Kamino—its light too pale, its air too clean. Rows of troopers standing motionless while the rain struck the transparisteel beyond. The day they’d been assigned their Jedi.

He hadn’t known what to expect. Another general, another name.

But the figure who entered had carried a quiet gravity that silenced even the Kaminoans.
Almost pitch-black through the mask, the slow rhythm of a respirator—measured, patient.

A nod. A few words he couldn’t quite recall now. Nothing more. Yet somehow it had stayed with him, that first impression: calm wrapped in steel, a presence that didn’t demand obedience but still commanded it.

That had been the beginning.

Now the sound returned—boots on metal, engines breathing, the steady hum of the First Fang alive around him. The same rhythm, only older. Only heavier.

He could almost feel the mountain of his own thoughts shift as the hangar doors opened.
Light bled across the deck, cold and clinical, as the shuttle slipped through the magnetic seal.

Rows of troopers waited in formation, armor pristine under the floodlights. No helmets, just faces—some too young, some already carved by routine. None of them spoke. The silence was the kind only soldiers could hold without discomfort.

Wolffe took his position at the center line, the weight of his armor grounding him. Inside, the storm kept steady—compressed, ordered, under control.

This was the only peace he knew: not the stillness of the Jedi, but the discipline of men who didn’t have room to fall apart.

The shuttle’s landing struts touched down. A vibration rippled through the deck.
Hydraulics sighed. Steam rolled outward as the ramp lowered.

And then he saw him.

Plo Koon descended with the same deliberate motion Wolffe remembered, cloak brushing the edge of the ramp, the sound of the respirator like a steady pulse through the hangar’s silence if you focused enough to hear it.

For a moment, it was the same scene all over again—Kamino, the pale light, that first nod of acknowledgment.

Except now, Wolffe knew what came after.

He straightened, voice level.

“General on deck.”

The words echoed sharp and clean, swallowed by the ship’s still air.

Plo stopped a few meters away. The lenses lifted, meeting Wolffe’s visor. No recognition—there couldn’t be—but something in the air folded back into its old shape. A pattern restored.

Wolffe’s heartbeat slowed, heavy but steady. The mountain held.

“You must be Commander Wolffe,” said the voice—calm, even, filtered through the soft hiss of a respirator. “You’ve met my niece, Sha. I am Plo Koon.”

Wolffe straightened on instinct, boots aligned, voice steady. “General. We were expecting you. As you can see, this is your legion now.”

Plo inclined his head slightly. “Order and precision. Kamino was right about you.”

“They say too much.” Wolffe replied.

“Perhaps not enough” Plo countered, tone still mild. “Sha spoke highly of you. Said you led like someone who’d seen the field before stepping onto it. That Kamino training must have been... intense.”

Wolffe’s visor tilted a fraction. “Did she now? What else did she say?”

“That you listen more than you speak.” Plo said. “A rare quality—one the men will need.”

“I listen because someone has to.” Wolffe answered.

There was a pause—neither long nor awkward, just weighted.

“I hope you’ll find that our goals align, Commander.” Plo said at last. “Discipline, survival, and the lives of those under our care.”

“Those are the only goals that matter.” Wolffe said.

“Good.” Plo replied, the faintest trace of approval beneath the mask. “Then we understand each other. On other topics, I have to ask... ‘Wolfpack.’ The name, it was yours?”

Wolffe nodded once. “Kaminoans called us the 104th. It was a designation, nothing more. My men needed something that defined what we actually do. We were built for direct engagement—breach and hold, urban containment, rescue under fire. When the call goes out, we will usually be the ones first in and last out.”

He paused, glancing down the corridor as if seeing the ghosts of a dozen deployments. “They train us for adaptability. We move fast, we build footholds where there shouldn’t be any, and we don’t rely on reinforcements. Every detachment carries its own medics and engineers. If we’re cut off, we keep fighting.”

Plo listened in silence, the soft hum of his respirator the only sound between them.

Wolffe continued, his tone level but certain. “That’s where the name came from. Not just for unity, but by-uh... gut-feeling, let's say. A pack moves as one, without waiting for orders. My men learned that early. Kamino called it irregular. I call it survival.”

“‘Wolfpack.’” Plo repeated, tasting the word through the mask. “It suits you all, you seem very close, the cohesion the Kaminoans talked need to be credited to you and your men.

Wolffe met his gaze—or tried to, through the lenses.  Curious, if anything. He had already saw that mask and those lenses in another one, so it seemed right to calm said curiosity. “Did Sha told you anything else, General?”

Plo paused, as if weighing the memory. “Many things, Commander, mainly on how you and your men—especially you— move on the battlefield. I seem to recall that she mentioned something among the lines of “he moves first and thinks second, yet it somehow it works for him.”

Wolffe’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t sound flattering.”

“She didn’t mean it as insult,” Plo said quietly. “She meant you adapt. The war will demand that of all of us.”

Wolffe looked away, the corridor seeming too bright. “With respect, sir, the war’s already demanding more than that.”

Plo inclined his head again—an acknowledgment, not agreement. “Then let’s see what we become when it’s finished.”

The words lingered like pressure in the air before dissolving into silence once more.

The walk to the bridge was steady—measured steps echoing off durasteel. It didn’t take long for Plo’s calm curiosity to fill the quietness.

“So” Plo began, his voice calm behind the mask. “the Wolfpack. Tell me how you’ve trained these men. The Kaminoans spared no comments about your… orthodoxy.”

Wolffe glanced ahead, helmet under one arm. “Seven detachments. Each runs autonomous under Wolfpack command. Every squad carries its own comms, medics, and engineers. We rotate leadership weekly. Since we lack enough Captains, Sergeants act as unit heads. It keeps the legion flexible—able to complete assignments freely, to act more independently than most.”

Plo inclined his head slightly. “Practical. Adaptable. You favor initiative over obedience.”

“I favor the lives of my men.” Wolffe answered.

They turned a corner. Crewmen stepped aside; the corridor lights shifted from soft white to tactical blue as the ship entered operational readiness.

Plo’s tone stayed even. “Your casualty rate at Geonosis was lower than predicted. Kamino credited it to training variance. I suspect it’s something else besides your unortodox upbringing.”

“Luck.” Wolffe said flatly.

Plo’s lenses caught the corridor light. “Luck is what the untrained see when discipline meets opportunity.”

They reached the bridge doors. Wolffe keyed the panel. The blast shutters withdrew to reveal the control deck—officers at their posts, the vast viewport framing the storm-wrapped planet below. In the center hovered the hologram of their target: the Nexus, fractured by orbiting debris and red defense markers.

Wolffe took in the scene—the windows opening into the endless cosmos, the galaxy untamed. Before them, officers at their stations. Captain Arven was waiting, nervous in ways most wouldn’t notice, but a clone would. The way his hands clasped tight behind his back gave him away; Wolffe could have bet he was digging his nails into his palms.

Plo stepped forward, his cloak brushing the deck. The officers straightened instinctively.

“General,” Wolffe said, gesturing to the projection.

“This will not take long.” Plo replied, moving to the console. The hologram rotated as he spoke, each section lighting with his gesture. “Wat Tambor’s forces have taken the Nexus platforms in the Quarmendy system. They’re holding Administrator Orkle and several engineers as hostages. Intelligence confirms active droid defenses—AA turrets, shielded corridors, and vulture squadrons stationed nearby.”

He looked briefly toward Wolffe. “We will not hold the stations. We extract the hostages, destroy separatist assets, and withdraw. Your men will control the skies while a reduced unit lands for the ground entry.”

“Yes, sir.”

Plo continued, steady as the ship itself. “These are dark times, Commander. And yet—” a pause, the faintest rasp through the vocoder—“you and your men are an anomaly, both in war and in the Force. A welcome one.”

He turned slightly, the tone shifting from observation to order. “Select the troopers for the extraction.”

“I already have them in mind.” Wolffe said.

No reaction followed. The plan was surgical, efficient, already in motion.

“The longer we linger, the greater the civilian risk.” Plo concluded. “We move fast. We leave nothing behind.”

Then he faced Wolffe again, lenses catching the low light. “You’ve trained your men well, Commander. The Republic will need all of your effort.”

Wolffe’s reply was simple, iron-flat. “It will.”

The bridge dimmed as the First Fang angled toward hyperspace. Beyond the viewport, the stars began to stretch.

***

The time with Plo wasn’t that bad.

Or so he thought—until Plo excused himself. Or rather, Wolffe excused him, using the pretext of showing the General to his “humble quarters.” Sinker, clearly, had been the volunteer-not-so-voluntary guide.

His hands started trembling again just as the door closed behind the Jedi Master. He felt the familiar rhythm of Navy boots approaching. Wolffe already knew who it was.

“What do you think, Aven?” he asked after a long exhale. He knew the captain and man-in-charge of the First Fang had an opinion.

“He seems good. We’ve all read about the Kel Dorians—seeing one’s different, though. I don’t know, Commander… I’ll have a clearer opinion when he fights with us. Jedi aren’t clones— I mean, not to doubt them, sir. They lead us, they’ll lead us to victory.”

“But?”

“But they’re not ready. Everyone talks about it. They were massacred in the arena—then thrown to lead us on the ground. They weren’t ready for that.”

“Nobody is, Aven.”

“We are. We persevered on Geonosis—”

“It was our first battle,” Wolffe cut in.

“Still… it was thanks to you we made it, maybe not on paper, maybe not on the grand scale of the war, but everyone knows your prep made the difference. Did you know the Navy got initiative courses after that? Sounds stupid, but—”

“They were going to replace you with nat-borns.”

“… Nothing escapes you, does it? Yeah. Exactly. Didn’t matter how much they trained us; they were ready to throw in old politicians or career officers to ‘take command.’ They still will, but thanks to a certain ARC Commander, the long-necks decided to… experiment with a few of us instead.”

Wolffe had nothing to add, nothing to say. It was his responsibility, after all—the duty of every brother to watch over another.

A story, both past and yet to come, surfaced unbidden in his mind: a brother once branded a traitor, who made the wrong choices for the right reasons, who sinned for the sake of those he swore to protect. It was the same speech, only with different names.

Wolffe couldn’t help but ask himself what truly set him apart from Slick. Was it loyalty? Circumstance? Or had the line blurred long ago, somewhere between duty and defiance?

How far could he go before the chain snapped? How long could he keep pushing, pulling the reins tighter, before the weight of his choices came crashing down on all of them?

Letting Aven speak that freely was dangerous—but so had everything Wolffe had done until now. Each lie, each act of defiance, each hidden truth he carried—it all piled higher, waiting for the moment it would collapse.

He exhaled once, long and steady, the sound lost in the low hum of the ship.

“Prepare our men, Aven. Brief the pilots. Ready everyone to fight in the air…”

“Sir.” Aven nodded, and left.

For a long moment, Wolffe stood still. The corridor lights hummed overhead, their pulse syncing with the slow rhythm of the ship’s engines. He could almost feel Kamino again—its sterile glow, its endless rain—every hallway whispering the same order: move, obey, repeat.

He did.

***

By the time he reached the hangar, the air already tasted of metal and ozone. Engines idled in neat rows; mechanics shouted codes over the storm of noise. Gunships hung suspended in their cradles, their armor reflecting the cold blue of standby lights.

Clones moved between them with practiced purpose—voices clipped, gestures exact, armor freshly sealed. Wolffe paused at the threshold and watched. Every motion was one he’d seen a thousand times before, yet it still hit like ritual: the calm before another descent into chaos.

Comet was perched on a crate, calibrating his DC-15 with the same patience a surgeon might envy. Boost leaned against the hull of LAAT Two, helmet tucked under his arm, chewing on a ration bar that had seen better times, if there was such thing. Sinker paced between them; restless energy packed into every step, must have came back from Plo.

Wolffe entered without a word; they felt him before they saw him.

“Commander on deck.” Boost muttered, mostly out of habit.

“At ease.” Wolffe said. He wasn’t looking for formality.

Sinker stopped pacing, smirked faintly. “You sure, sir? You look like you’re about to have us running laps.”

“If you can find room to run in here, be my guest.” Wolffe replied, tone dry as Kamino air.

Comet looked up from his rifle. “He’s nervous. Happens before assignment. Thinks movement burns fear.”

Sinker shot him a glare. “Better than sitting around polishing your barrel for the tenth time, Comet.”

“Eleventh,” Boost corrected. “He counted.”

Comet didn’t even blink. “You’d count too if you knew what your weapon actually did.”

“Boys.” Wolffe cut in, the faintest edge of command in his voice—but there was no heat behind it. “Save the romantic banter for the debrief.” At the end, there was just humour.

That earned a short laugh from Sinker. “Yes, sir. We’ll behave. Mostly.”

Wolffe let it pass. They needed this—noise before silence, jokes before chaos. It kept the blood steady.

“Orders are simple,” he continued. “Three platoons, three drops. Each platoon has its lane. We’ll extract a civie while the rest of the legions burns the sky.”

“Yeah,” Boost said, biting down the last of his ration bar. “We go in, get shot at, get out. Real creative, sir.”

“That’s the plan.” Wolffe said evenly. “Try not to improvise too much.”

Comet finally stood, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “No promises. You know us, Commander. We’re very artistic.”

Sinker laughed under his breath. “Artistic’s one word for it.”

They started boarding procedures, helmets clicking into place, armor systems syncing with the gunship consoles. Wolffe moved among them, checking seals, datapads, the rhythm of everything. Each movement so ingrained it felt like breathing.

Boost caught Wolffe’s eye as he passed. “Sir.” he said, quieter now. “Thanks for the paint. Makes us stand out, though I gotta ask—why this color? Not complaining, the maroon looks good, but won’t it get us killed faster?”

“No more than white,” Wolffe replied, running a check on his wrist display. “You weren’t in the briefing?”

Sinker shook his head. “Didn’t make the list, sir. Sergeant Major privileges and all that. Still—whatever you talked about, it worked. Looks sharp.” He glanced down at his Phase I helmet with something close to pride, and for a heartbeat, Wolffe almost smiled.

“You didn’t miss much,” Wolffe said. “It was Warthog’s idea, actually. Back on Geonosis, his LAAT went down. One of the troopers with him snapped his leg—half the bone sticking out, the armor broke too, boot full of blood. The medic who treated him ended up the same way, arms and gloves soaked red. Both of them said later the color—blood mixed with dust—stuck with them. Thought it looked… right.”

“Absurdly grim.” Comet muttered.

“Absurdly cool.” Boost countered. “It’s like—our blood on the armor. Never thought of it that way.”

“Figures.” Sinker said. “Only a pilot would turn a crash into a fashion statement.”

That earned a round of low laughter, quick and rough around the edges. For a moment, the hangar sounded almost alive—like any other place before a mission.

Wolffe let them have it. He stood a few steps apart, hands folded behind his back, watching the three of them talk over each other while the gunships powered up. The vibration in the deck plates rose, the air thick with heat and ozone. He could feel it through the soles of his boots, through the weight of his armor—steady, familiar, almost human.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

Then the ship’s comms crackled to life, Arven’s voice cutting through the noise, calm but firm:

“Entering Quarmendy system in ten minutes.”

Wolffe turned, snapping back to command in an instant.

“All right, boys—fun’s just getting started. Sinker, contact Vagn and Grit. Tell them to pick four more squads besides their own and have them ready in the LAATs. Arven will handle pilot assignments. I want everyone in the main hangar in three. Move, move, move!”

***