Seriously. Have You TRIED the Cookies?

Chapter 34: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

The war council chamber of Sundari had been designed for diplomacy.

Tall windows. Polished stone. Gentle lighting. A circular table meant to encourage cooperation and open dialogue.

It had not been designed to host the aftermath of a battle involving Mandalorians, Jedi, Separatists, mercenaries, and an unfortunate number of explosions.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood quietly near the edge of the chamber, hands folded in his sleeves, doing his best impression of a calm and impartial observer.

It was an impression he had spent years perfecting.

Unfortunately, the Force had a way of informing him when events were about to become deeply, catastrophically complicated.

Today, the Force felt… amused.

Across the chamber, Satine Kryze stood at the center of the council table, calm and composed despite the chaos that had engulfed her world only hours earlier.

Obi-Wan admired that about her.

He admired many things about her, if he was being honest with himself.

Which he generally tried not to be.

Representatives from the Republic filled one side of the chamber—senators, advisors, military officers, and a particularly harried-looking legal attaché who appeared to have already aged several years since the battle ended.

The other side held Mandalorian leadership.

Pacifist ministers sat stiffly in their chairs, pale and shaken.

Warriors—many of them newly defected from Bo-Katan Kryze's faction—stood behind them with arms crossed and expressions that suggested they were deeply disappointed the battle had already ended.

Near the far wall stood a group of clone officers.

They stood at parade rest, identical faces calm and unreadable.

Obi-Wan found himself studying them.

There was something deeply unsettling about seeing an army of men who were, in a very literal sense, the same person.

And yet they were not.

The Force made that clear.

Each presence was distinct. Individual.

Alive.

It was a subtle distinction, perhaps. But an important one.

Which made the current political situation… complicated.

Very complicated.

Satine raised her hand slightly.

The chamber quieted.

Her voice carried easily through the room.

"Mandalore has always valued its independence."

A few Mandalorian ministers nodded vigorously.

A few warriors rolled their eyes.

Obi-Wan allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile.

Diplomacy on Mandalore had always been something of an extreme sport.

"However," Satine continued, her voice firm, "the recent attack by the Confederacy of Independent Systems has made one fact abundantly clear."

A holographic projection flickered to life above the council table.

Battle footage.

Droid transports descending into Sundari.

Columns of battle droids marching through the streets.

The unmistakable mechanical forms of Separatist war machines.

Murmurs spread through the chamber.

News of the attack had already begun spreading across the Holonet.

By now, the entire galaxy likely knew the Confederacy had launched an unprovoked assault on Mandalore.

Which, Obi-Wan suspected, was not precisely how Count Dooku had intended the situation to appear.

"Neutrality," Satine finished, "is no longer a viable position."

Silence settled over the room.

Then she delivered the decision.

"Mandalore will formally rejoin the Galactic Republic."

The reactions were immediate.

The Republic delegation released a collective breath of relief so synchronized it could have been choreographed.

Several senators even applauded before remembering that applause during war councils was generally frowned upon.

The Mandalorian pacifists looked as though someone had informed them the sun would now rise in the west.

One minister clutched the edge of the table like a man attempting to remain upright during a particularly violent earthquake.

Behind them, however, several Mandalorian warriors nodded with grim satisfaction.

Finally.

Obi-Wan suspected some of them had been waiting for this moment for years.

War, regrettably, had a way of simplifying complicated political positions.

The Republic admiral seated near the center of the table cleared his throat.

"If Mandalore is rejoining the Republic," he began carefully, "then the matter of the clone army must be addressed."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly.

Yes.

That.

The admiral continued. "As you are aware, the Grand Army of the Republic is currently… undergoing a certain degree of legal uncertainty."

The harried legal advisor beside him made a small sound that might have been a sob.

Satine inclined her head slightly. "Mandalore has already addressed that matter."

A faint ripple moved through the room.

The admiral frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

Satine gestured toward the group of clone officers standing near the wall. "The Mandalorian Assembly has already voted."

Obi-Wan felt a distinct disturbance in the Force.

Not dark.

Not violent.

Merely the quiet, inevitable tremor of a very large bureaucratic disaster about to occur.

"They have been granted full citizenship within Mandalorian space."

The room went silent.

Completely silent.

The Republic admiral stared.

"I'm… sorry."

He glanced at the legal advisor.

Then back at Satine.

"I'm not certain I understand."

Satine remained perfectly calm.

"The clones are not property," she said simply.

The admiral blinked.

"…not property."

"No."

He leaned back slowly in his chair.

Then, with the careful patience of a man attempting to understand a very complicated riddle, he gestured toward the clone officers.

"Then what exactly are they?"

One of the clones stepped forward.

A captain, judging by the markings on his armor.

His voice was calm.

Professional.

"Sir… soldiers."

The silence that followed lasted several seconds.

The admiral turned slowly toward the legal advisor.

The legal advisor looked like a man whose soul had just quietly left his body.

"Well," the advisor said weakly, adjusting his datapad, "if the clones are legally recognized citizens serving in a military capacity…"

He swallowed.

"…then they are entitled to the same rights afforded to all Republic soldiers."

The admiral frowned.

"What rights would those be?"

The advisor began reading from his datapad with the grim resignation of someone announcing the arrival of a meteor.

"Standard military wages."

A pause.

"Scheduled leave rotations."

Another pause.

"Medical benefits."

The admiral's eye twitched slightly.

"Retirement pensions."

The room fell silent again.

Obi-Wan slowly exhaled.

Because in that moment, he realized something remarkable.

The Republic had not merely acquired an army.

It had acquired an army of citizens.

Citizens who were now legally entitled to salaries, benefits, leave, and retirement.

And there were…

Millions of them.

Obi-Wan folded his hands calmly inside his sleeves.

Across the table, the Republic admiral had gone completely pale.

The legal advisor had begun quietly calculating something on his datapad.

Judging by the expression on his face, the results were not encouraging.

Obi-Wan gazed serenely out the chamber window toward the Mandalorian skyline.

The Clone Wars had begun.

Not with a battle.

But with a budget crisis.


The palace of Sundari had always been quiet.

Peaceful.

Calm.

Bo-Katan Kryze had always hated it.

Not the architecture—she could appreciate good Mandalorian engineering when she saw it—but the quiet. The soft lighting. The clean walls. The complete and utter lack of weapons racks.

It was a palace designed by people who believed war was something that happened to other civilizations.

Which, in fairness, had been Satine Kryze's entire political philosophy for the past decade.

Bo-Katan stood awkwardly in the middle of the chamber, arms folded, weight shifted to one hip, staring at the polished floor like it had personally insulted her.

She had fought Jedi.

She had fought Death Watch traitors.

She had helped repel a full-scale Separatist invasion.

None of those things had been nearly as intimidating as standing in a room alone with her sister after several years of not speaking.

This was ridiculous.

She was a Mandalorian warrior.

She had once headbutted a man wearing a helmet.

Why was this harder?

Across the room, Satine watched her with an expression that was somewhere between fondness and concern.

Bo-Katan hated that expression.

It was the same one Satine had used when Bo-Katan was twelve and had accidentally set a speeder on fire.

"Bo," Satine said gently.

Bo-Katan cleared her throat.

"Satine."

That was it.

That was the entire opening exchange.

Several seconds passed.

Bo-Katan briefly considered diving out the nearest window.

Thankfully, the door slid open before the silence could become fatal.

Korkie Kryze wandered into the room, mid-sentence, clearly continuing a conversation he'd been having with someone in the hallway.

"—and then Ben just kicked him off the balcony."

Korkie stopped.

Looked at Bo-Katan.

Looked at Satine.

Looked back at Bo-Katan.

"Oh," he said. "Family meeting?"

Bo-Katan rubbed the back of her neck. "Something like that."

Korkie shrugged and wandered further into the room, completely unbothered by the emotional minefield he had just walked into.

To be fair, he had grown up in this family.

His survival instincts were probably highly specialized.

Satine stepped forward slowly.

For a moment, Bo-Katan thought she might start with a speech. Something diplomatic. Something political.

Instead, Satine simply pulled her into a hug.

Bo-Katan stiffened.

This was highly irregular combat behavior.

Then, after a moment, she awkwardly returned it.

The hug lasted exactly two seconds longer than Bo-Katan's comfort threshold.

Satine stepped back, studying her. Which she hated. She was a warrior, not an exhibit. "You're thinner."

Bo-Katan blinked. "I was fighting a war."

Satine nodded thoughtfully. "That would do it."

Bo-Katan shifted her weight again, suddenly aware that this was going far more smoothly than she had expected.

That was suspicious.

"Look," Bo-Katan muttered, rubbing the back of her neck again. "About the whole… joining Death Watch thing."

Satine waved a hand.

"We'll discuss it later."

Bo-Katan stared.

"You're not going to lecture me?"

"Oh, I absolutely will," Satine said calmly. "But I've been waiting years for the opportunity. I see no reason to rush it."

Bo-Katan had to admit that was fair.

Behind them, Korkie had wandered over to the refreshment table and was casually eating something while observing the situation like a spectator at a sporting event.

"This was way cooler than the last time you two talked," he commented.

Bo-Katan glanced over. "When was that?"

Korkie thought about it. "Right before you joined Death Watch."

Bo-Katan groaned.

Yes.

That had been… less productive.

Korkie leaned against the table.

"Still," he added, "it's good to see you. To see everyone, really. I missed Ben. A lot. Glad we got the chance to reconnect for a bit. It was nice seeing him kick Pre Vizsla around."

Bo-Katan snorted despite herself. "That was pretty satisfying."

"Yeah," Korkie continued cheerfully. "And it was even cooler when Ben took the Darksaber."

The room froze.

Satine's eyes narrowed slightly.

Bo-Katan slowly turned her head.

"I'm sorry," she said carefully. "What?"

Korkie blinked. "The Darksaber?" He gestured vaguely. "You know. When Ben beat Vizsla and took it."

Bo-Katan stared at him. "Huh. I must've missed that part. Or blocked it out." She then very calmly, and very slowly turned back to Satine. "I cannot believe you let a Jedi steal the Darksaber."

Satine raised an eyebrow. "That Jedi is your nephew."

Bo-Katan crossed her arms.

"That is not the point."

"And," Satine continued calmly, "if I remember our history correctly, we stole it from the Jedi first."

Bo-Katan opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Thought about that.

"…irrelevant."

Satine sighed.

"Bo—"

"No, I'm serious," Bo-Katan insisted. "The Darksaber is a Mandalorian symbol. It belongs to Mandalore."

"And Ben is Mandalorian."

"He's a Jedi!"

"He's also my son."

Bo-Katan blinked.

Korkie blinked.

Satine froze for half a second.

Then she continued speaking with the smooth confidence of someone who absolutely had not just said something extremely revealing.

"—my sister's son," she finished.

Bo-Katan narrowed her eyes. "Stop telling people he's my kid!"

"I've done no such thing. I've only stated the obvious. Ben Kryze is my nephew, and not my biological child. I've never told anyone you were his mother." Satine insisted.

"Same difference!" Bo-Katan spat. "You only have one sibling! Me! People assume I'm the mother by default because of that!"

"Noncense. Ben could easily pass for a foundling."

"Foundlings are the same as being sons or daughters! It makes no sense for you to refer to the boys as your nephews!" She reiterated. "Korkie, back me up!"

"I'm staying out of this." He wisely decided.

Traitor.

"Thank you, nephew." Satine nodded, approvingly.

Why did she want to save her sister's life, again?


The Jedi Council chamber had many qualities.

Majestic.

Ancient.

Serene.

Intimidating.

Personally, I would have added one more.

Deeply inconvenient.

I stood in the center of the chamber with Ahsoka Tano on my right and Maris Brood on my left, all three of us trying very hard to look like responsible young Jedi who absolutely had not just been involved in a Mandalorian civil conflict, a Separatist invasion, and the theft of a historically significant weapon.

Which, to be clear, we absolutely had.

The members of the Council watched us in silence.

At the center sat Yoda, looking exactly as calm and unreadable as always.

To his side was Mace Windu, who looked like a man attempting to decide whether meditation or a headache would arrive first.

A few seats away sat Plo Koon, whose presence in the room was the only reason Ahsoka hadn't fainted from anxiety sometime during the last ten minutes.

And then there was Obi-Wan Kenobi, who had just earned himself a lot of promotions.

Jedi Master.

Council member.

Professional negotiator.

My father.

The last part remained, thankfully, a secret. I think.

Obi-Wan met my eyes for half a second.

His expression was perfectly neutral. The kind of neutral that usually meant this conversation was about to become educational.

Yoda finally spoke. "Commend you, the Council does."

That was promising.

"Your actions on Mandalore, brave they were." I felt Ahsoka relax slightly beside me. "Instrumental, you were, in preventing the death of Duchess Kryze."

Good.

Very good.

"Saved Mandalore, you did."

Maris shifted slightly beside me, clearly enjoying the praise.

I couldn't blame her.

Stopping a Separatist invasion, a Death Watch coup, and an assassination attempt all in the same afternoon was objectively impressive.

Then Yoda continued. "Supposed to be there, you were not."

Ah.

There it was.

The Jedi Council had an incredible talent.

They could deliver praise and disappointment simultaneously with the precision of a master duelist.

I had seen them do it before.

But experiencing it personally was something special.

Mace folded his hands in front of him. "You disobeyed direct instructions from the Order."

Ahsoka sighed quietly.

Maris rolled her eyes.

I focused very hard on maintaining my serious Jedi face.

Technically speaking, the whole situation had been complicated. Yes, we had disobeyed orders. But in our defense, the Force had been acting extremely suspicious lately.

And also we had sensed a disturbance. And also there had been Mandalorians trying to kill my mother. And also there had been a Sith Lord invasion.

And also—

Okay, in hindsight, the Council probably wasn't going to accept that explanation.

"Because of this," Mace continued, "the Council has decided upon disciplinary measures."

There was a pause.

I braced myself for something terrible.

Extra meditation.

Philosophy lectures.

Extended discussions with Master Yoda about emotional balance.

Instead, Mace listed the punishment.

"Restricted mission clearance."

That was manageable.

"Additional training requirements."

Also manageable.

"Temple duties."

I blinked.

Temple duties?

That was it?

Ahsoka let out a long, defeated sigh beside me.

Maris leaned slightly toward me.

"Worth it," she muttered under her breath.

I very carefully did not laugh.

Because honestly?

I had recently helped found a Sith Empire.

I had conquered multiple planets.

I had commanded fleets.

I had fed a crime lord to his own rancor.

After experiences like that, temple chores sounded almost relaxing.

In hindsight, sweeping hallways was significantly less work than managing a galactic dictatorship.

Yoda studied the three of us carefully.

"Lessons, you must learn."

"Yes, Master," Ahsoka muttered.

Maris nodded with the enthusiasm of someone being sentenced to homework.

I bowed slightly.

"Of course, Master."

The Council watched us for another moment.

Then Mace's gaze shifted downward.

Specifically, toward my right hand.

There was a pause.

"…Initiate Kryze."

I looked up.

"Yes, Master?"

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"In your hand."

Oh.

Right.

I looked down.

The hilt of the Darksaber was still clipped to my belt, and I kept an unconscious hand on it at all times. A little taste of home, I suppose. Though in truth, I had actually forgotten it was there.

It's been a busy week.

Silence spread through the chamber.

I could feel the attention of every Jedi Master in the room focusing on that single object.

Behind me, Ahsoka made a very small choking noise.

Maris suddenly became extremely interested in the floor.

Mace stared at the weapon.

Then slowly looked back up at me.

"Explain."

I considered my options.

There were several.

None of them were good.

Finally, I shrugged.

"…Finders keepers?"

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Mace Windu closed his eyes. And slowly pinched the bridge of his nose.

It's good to be back.


The Jedi Temple hangar was many things.

Busy.

Noisy.

Full of ships.

Full of Jedi.

And currently full of one extremely controversial droid.

Maris Brood leaned against the landing strut of the shuttle, arms crossed, watching the unfolding situation with deep personal satisfaction.

Across from her, Ahsoka Tano stared at the droid standing beside Maris with the same expression someone might use when discovering a nexu in their bedroom.

The droid stood very still.

Very polite.

Very armed.

"Observation," the droid announced cheerfully. "The surrounding population of meatbags appears highly uncomfortable."

Ahsoka slowly blinked.

Maris grinned.

The droid beside her was technically an HK-47 unit.

Technically.

She had, however, made a few… modifications.

The original rust-colored plating had been repainted in dark matte black with subtle crimson accents. The photoreceptors glowed a soft, ominous red. It looked less like a standard assassin droid and more like something that had stepped out of a Sith nightmare.

Maris thought it suited him. "I like him," she said.

Ahsoka continued staring. "That thing just called everyone 'meatbags.'"

HK tilted his head slightly. "Correction: I referred to the present organic lifeforms as potential meatbags. Explanation: Clearly, the non-organic beings are not meatbags. Many contain little to no liquid, and their shells are made of much denser material."

Ahsoka slowly turned toward Maris. "You brought an assassin droid into the Jedi Temple."

Maris shrugged. "He's mostly harmless."

HK immediately responded. "Clarification: I am only 'harmless' when instructed to be."

Ahsoka closed her eyes.

Maris could practically hear the internal screaming.

Which honestly made the entire situation even funnier.

"Relax," Maris added. "He's loyal."

HK straightened slightly. "Statement: I am extremely loyal to my current master. Disloyalty would result in immediate termination of the offending meatbags."

Ahsoka opened one eye.

"…that's not helping."

Maris snorted.

She had to admit, the droid's personality was doing most of the work here.

Across the hangar, a familiar voice spoke.

"Oh dear."

Maris glanced over.

Ben Kryze was walking toward them, accompanied by a very shiny, very gold protocol droid.

The protocol droid looked around the hangar with polite curiosity. "Oh my," the droid said. "Such a large facility! I do hope I am not intruding."

Ahsoka blinked again.

"…Ben."

He stopped beside them.

"Yes?"

She pointed at the droid. "What is that?"

Ben looked at the droid. "Oh, him? This is C-3PO."

The droid bowed politely. "Greetings! I am C-3PO, human-cyborg relations. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Ahsoka looked between the gold protocol droid and the murder machine standing next to Maris. "…why do both of you have droids now?"

Maris shrugged again. "It felt appropriate."

HK nodded approvingly. "Statement: A wise decision, master."

Ahsoka rubbed her temples.

Maris studied the protocol droid more closely.

Something about it felt… familiar.

Then she remembered.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she leaned toward Ben. "Was this a smart idea?"

Ben blinked.

"What do you mean?"

Maris gestured subtly toward the droid. "Didn't Anakin Skywalker build that thing?"

Ben paused.

Then shrugged.

"Technically."

Maris stared at him. Seriously. Why are the cute ones always so oblivious. "That feels like the kind of detail that could connect us back to Tatooine."

Ben remained calm.

"And?"

"And we bought that droid on Tatooine while disguised as Sith Lords."

Ahsoka's head snapped toward them. "You what?!"

Maris ignored her. She already had one nonsensical peer to deal with. Ahsoka could wait her turn. "This could expose us."

Ben waved a hand dismissively. "I took care of it."

Maris frowned. "How?"

Ben smiled slightly. "Memory wipes are very convenient."

Maris considered that.

Fair enough.

Protocol droids were not exactly known for their independent thinking.

Still…

She glanced across the hangar.

And immediately froze.

Walking past a row of starfighters was none other than Anakin Skywalker himself.

He was talking to another Jedi.

Completely unaware of the disaster walking directly through his line of sight.

C-3PO turned his head politely toward the movement. "Oh! Another human approaching!"

Maris felt her soul leave her body.

Ben casually stepped between the protocol droid and Anakin.

Ahsoka held her breath.

HK watched with interest. "Observation," the assassin droid whispered. "This scenario appears extremely amusing."

Anakin walked past them.

Did not look at the droid.

Did not recognize the droid.

Did not notice anything.

He continued walking across the hangar and disappeared around the corner.

The tension evaporated.

Maris slowly exhaled.

Then she silently thanked the Force for whatever cosmic sense of humor had allowed that to work.


The gardens of Naboo were very good at keeping secrets.

Padmé Amidala had always suspected that was intentional.

The quiet stone paths wound through clusters of flowering trees and soft lantern light. Small fountains whispered gently into the evening air, their sound masking footsteps and conversation alike. It was the sort of place where a person could disappear from the galaxy for a little while.

Which, at the moment, was extremely useful.

Padmé stood beneath a flowering archway, trying very hard to focus on the moment rather than the hundred different ways this could become a political disaster.

Across from her stood Anakin Skywalker.

He looked nervous.

Which was almost endearing, considering when he was a child, she had personally watched him fly a starfighter through a blockade without even blinking.

Now he looked like a man who had been handed a thermal detonator and told not to drop it.

Between them stood a very discreet priest.

He was a local Naboo officiant who had been extremely cooperative after a modest donation to several charitable organizations that he very much supported.

At least, Padmé was fairly certain he supported them.

If not, he would probably start.

Nearby, the only other witnesses in attendance observed the ceremony.

R2-D2 sat near the edge of the path, dome slowly turning as he recorded the event with what appeared to be great enthusiasm. Padmé suspected the little astromech was going to keep a copy of this recording forever.

Which meant this secret marriage technically had a permanent backup.

That felt like something she should probably worry about later.

The priest finished the final lines of the ceremony and looked between them with a polite smile.

"You may now exchange your vows."

Anakin took a breath.

His expression softened as he looked at her.

"I thought I understood courage," he began quietly. "I've faced enemies, battles, things most people only hear about in stories."

Padmé felt warmth rise in her chest.

"But loving you," he continued, "that's the bravest thing I've ever done."

That was, admittedly, a very good line.

Padmé made a mental note to remember it.

She stepped forward, taking his hands.

"The galaxy is changing," she said softly. "Wars are beginning. Alliances are shifting."

She smiled slightly.

"But whatever happens… we face it together."

The priest nodded approvingly.

"Then by the authority granted to me by the laws of Naboo…"

He paused for dramatic effect.

"…I now pronounce you married."

Anakin blinked.

"That's it?"

The priest folded his hands calmly.

"That is, in fact, how marriage works."

Anakin looked delighted.

Padmé laughed quietly.

R2 let out an enthusiastic whistle that sounded suspiciously like applause.

The priest discreetly accepted a small credit chip and vanished down the garden path with impressive efficiency.

Padmé suspected he had officiated several extremely confidential ceremonies over the years.

For a moment, the garden was quiet again.

Anakin looked around the empty space. Then his expression softened slightly. "I wish my mother could've been here."

Padmé felt a small pang of sympathy.

She had met Shmi Skywalker once. Briefly. Years ago.

She had been kind.

Warm.

The sort of person who deserved to see her son happy.

Padmé tilted her head thoughtfully. "You know," she said slowly, "there's actually a way we could talk to her."

Anakin looked confused. "How?"

Padmé blinked. "You… call her."

"With what?"

"The Holonet."

Anakin stared at her.

"The what."

Padmé paused.

Then she remembered something very important. Anakin had grown up as a slave on Tatooine. His childhood exposure to modern galactic communication networks had likely been… limited.

"Oh," she said gently. "Right."

A few minutes later they were seated on a small bench with a datapad balanced between them.

Padmé navigated through a few directories.

Anakin watched with fascination.

"You can just… look people up?"

"Most people," Padmé confirmed.

A moment later a contact entry appeared.

Shmi Skywalker.

Location: Tatooine.

Anakin leaned closer.

"That's her."

Padmé opened the call channel.

The holoscreen flickered to life.

A moment later Shmi's face appeared.

She looked surprised.

Then very confused.

Then extremely happy.

"Anakin?"

He grinned.

"Hi, Mom."

Shmi blinked.

"I didn't even know you could call me."

"Neither did I," Anakin admitted.

Padmé waved politely.

"Hello, Mrs. Skywalker."

Shmi studied them for a moment.

Then her eyes moved between them.

Then back again.

"…did something happen?"

Anakin glanced at Padmé.

Then back to the screen.

"We got married."

Shmi froze.

Then she laughed softly.

"Well," she said warmly, "that explains a lot."

She spent the next several minutes asking questions, offering congratulations, and gently teasing Anakin about finally settling down.

Padmé could see how happy it made him just to talk to her.

Eventually the call ended with promises to visit soon.

Anakin leaned back on the bench, staring at the datapad like it had just revealed the secrets of the universe. "This thing is amazing."

Padmé smiled. "The Holonet is very useful, yes." By the stars, he was like a child… not that it was a turn on for her. Certainly not.

Anakin immediately began scrolling through random information. "You can find anything on here."

"Within reason," Padmé said carefully.

Anakin squinted at the screen. "Hey, look at this."

Padmé leaned slightly closer. "What did you find?"

Anakin pointed excitedly. "It says here they finally discovered the name of Master Yoda's species."

Padmé felt a sudden and overwhelming sense that the universe itself was about to intervene.

"It's called—"

R2-D2 suddenly let out a loud, dramatic burst of static.

The datapad screen flickered.

Then shut off.

Padmé blinked.

Anakin stared at the dark screen.

"…huh."

R2 whistled innocently.

Padmé patted Anakin's shoulder gently. "Some mysteries," she said with a small smile, "are meant to remain mysteries."


The Jedi Temple dormitories were quiet at night.

Which was convenient.

Because secretly running a galactic empire required a certain amount of privacy.

I sat cross-legged on the floor of my room, lights dimmed, the door securely locked. Across from me, Maris Brood leaned against the wall with the relaxed posture of someone who had recently been assigned temple chores and was still deciding how much effort she planned to invest in them.

Between us sat two inactive droids.

Or rather—two extremely active droids currently pretending to be inactive.

PROXY units were incredibly useful.

Originally designed as combat training droids, they had the very convenient ability to mimic other individuals.

Which meant they could also mimic Sith Lords.

Which meant they could run an empire while those Sith Lords were temporarily busy pretending to be Jedi Initiates again.

Honestly, it was one of my better ideas.

Maris tilted her head slightly.

"You ready?"

I nodded.

We both closed our eyes.

The Force shifted around us as we reached outward—through space, through distance, through the strange connection linking us to the droids currently sitting on a throne halfway across the galaxy.

The sensation of Force projection was always strange.

One moment I was sitting on the floor of a dorm room.

The next I was looking out across a vast command chamber filled with officers, holographic displays, and rows of black-armored HK droids standing guard.

Technically speaking, I was now looking through the eyes of my PROXY.

Which was currently impersonating me.

Or more specifically—

Darth Sol.

Across the chamber, another throne sat beside mine.

Maris's PROXY sat there, perfectly replicating the posture and presence of Darth Nox.

The two Sith Lords who ruled the rapidly expanding First Order.

Except at the moment they were actually two Jedi Initiates sitting on a dormitory floor on Coruscant.

Life was strange.

One of the HK units stepped forward.

"Statement: Reporting current status of imperial territories, my lord."

I mentally gestured for it to continue.

The droid projected a holographic map.

"Planetary report: Jakku has been stabilized."

The hologram shifted.

"Local populations have accepted new governance structures. Crime has decreased by forty-two percent."

I blinked.

That was… good.

"Trade routes have been reorganized. Infrastructure improvements underway."

Maris's voice echoed through the projection link.

"Well that's efficient."

The droid continued.

"Territory update: Dantooine secured."

Another set of reports appeared.

"Agricultural production increased. Defensive garrisons established. Local leadership cooperative."

I leaned slightly back in the throne.

Huh.

That also sounded… good.

The HK unit turned toward the final report.

"Resource update: Hoth mining operations progressing successfully."

The hologram displayed several automated extraction facilities embedded in massive ice formations.

"Crystal harvesting efficiency exceeding projections."

Maris's PROXY leaned slightly forward in the throne beside mine.

Which meant Maris herself was probably leaning forward on the dorm room floor.

"Wait," she muttered through the Force connection. "Is the empire… running well?"

The HK droid nodded enthusiastically. "Affirmation: Current governance has resulted in improved security, economic growth, and widespread civilian satisfaction."

I stared at the report.

Safe trade lanes.

Organized infrastructure.

Lower crime.

Productive economies.

Apparently…

Benevolent tyranny worked.

I glanced sideways toward Maris's projection.

She was staring at the holograms with growing suspicion. "This feels wrong," she said.

I nodded slowly.

"Yeah."

Because this was not how Sith empires usually worked.

Historically speaking, Sith governments tended to collapse into infighting, betrayal, and dramatic lightning-related accidents.

Instead, ours appeared to be quietly becoming… functional.

Which was deeply concerning.

Maris leaned back against the dorm room wall on the other side of the Force connection.

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "we could just stay here."

I blinked.

"What?"

She gestured vaguely. "As Jedi."

I considered that.

Our PROXY droids were clearly handling things just fine.

The empire was stable.

Our worlds were prosperous.

The citizens were apparently happy.

Meanwhile, our biggest problem here was sweeping temple hallways.

I leaned back against the wall in my room. "…that's an option."

Maris nodded thoughtfully. "Let the droids run everything."

I stared at the ceiling.

…

Then we both spoke at the same time.

"This feels like a terrible sign."


The office of the Supreme Chancellor was designed to inspire confidence.

Tall windows overlooked the endless cityscape of Coruscant. The furnishings were elegant without being ostentatious. The lighting was warm, dignified, and carefully calculated to make visiting senators feel they were speaking to a wise and trustworthy leader.

Sheev Palpatine normally enjoyed the room very much.

Today he hated it.

Specifically, he hated the datapad sitting on his desk.

Because the datapad contained numbers.

And those numbers were catastrophic.

Palpatine stared at the budget report with the same expression a man might use when discovering that someone had quietly replaced his wine with poison.

The Clone Army had been expensive.

Very expensive.

Creating millions of genetically identical soldiers on Kamino had required an extraordinary investment of resources. Laboratories, facilities, training regimens, accelerated growth technologies—it had all cost a fortune.

But that had been acceptable.

Because it was a one-time expense.

You paid the cloners.

You received an army.

A very efficient arrangement.

Now, however, the situation had changed.

Palpatine read the report again, just to ensure he was not hallucinating.

He was not.

The clones were now classified as citizens.

Which meant they were also classified as employees.

Which meant—

He closed his eyes briefly.

The Republic now had to pay them salaries.

Salaries.

For soldiers he had already paid to create.

This was outrageous.

Palpatine leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he contemplated the various individuals responsible for this financial catastrophe.

First there was Count Dooku.

The Count had been tasked with overseeing certain aspects of the war's early stages.

Specifically, ensuring the Confederacy applied enough pressure to drive the Republic into conflict.

Nowhere in that plan had Palpatine authorized the Count to launch a spectacularly ill-timed invasion of Mandalore.

Which had then forced Satine Kryze to rejoin the Republic.

Which had then triggered the clone citizenship issue.

Which had now triggered the budget issue.

The Count, Palpatine decided, was clearly losing his edge.

He made a mental note to have a very pointed conversation with him later.

Then there was Satine herself.

The Duchess had always been… inconvenient.

Her pacifism had complicated matters for years.

Now she had apparently decided to improve the situation further by granting the clones full legal rights.

Palpatine tapped the datapad again.

Another column of numbers appeared.

Benefits.

Leave rotations.

Medical care.

Retirement pensions.

Retirement.

For clones.

The entire point of the clone army had been that they were disposable.

You did not retire disposable soldiers.

You simply… disposed of them.

Palpatine sighed quietly.

Democracy, he reflected, was truly the worst system of government ever invented.

And yet he had spent decades manipulating it into the exact position it now occupied.

The irony was deeply irritating.

He stood and walked toward the window, gazing out at the endless lights of Coruscant.

Millions of citizens.

Millions of voters.

Millions of taxpayers who would soon begin asking very uncomfortable questions about the Republic's new military budget.

Palpatine folded his hands behind his back.

Clearly, adjustments would need to be made.

If the Count could not maintain operational efficiency, then perhaps it was time to begin considering… alternatives.

A new apprentice, perhaps.

Someone younger.

More adaptable.

More fiscally responsible.

The thought amused him.

A slow smile spread across his face.

"Darth… Aravice."

It sounded excellent.

Powerful.

Mysterious.

Sufficiently Sith.

Palpatine leaned back in his chair, chuckling softly to himself.

Naming Sith Lords, he had discovered, was surprisingly easy.


The flagship of the Confederacy drifted in cold silence above the stars.

Inside the command chamber, Count Dooku stood alone beside a long tactical display, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

The galaxy rotated slowly across the holomap.

It was a beautiful map.

Elegant. Informative. Precise.

And at the moment, extremely irritating.

The Count studied the glowing projection of Mandalore with the composed expression of a man who had just watched a carefully choreographed opera collapse when the stage caught fire.

The mission had been simple.

Decisive.

Elegant.

Remove Satine Kryze.

Without her leadership, Mandalore would fracture. The Republic would hesitate. The political situation would destabilize beautifully.

Instead—

Satine Kryze was alive.

Mandalore had formally aligned itself with the Republic.

And, somehow, the clones had become citizens.

Citizens.

Dooku stared at the word in the intelligence summary as if it were a minor grammatical error the galaxy had made by accident.

The clone army had been designed to serve as a convenient catalyst for war.

It had not been designed to receive civil rights.

Or voting privileges.

Or legal protections.

He could already imagine the endless committees the Republic Senate would create to discuss clone compensation packages.

It would be unbearable.

The Count exhaled slowly.

This had not been the plan.

The war had begun earlier than intended.

The political board had shifted before the pieces were fully in position.

And most irritating of all, several of his own assets had behaved with spectacular incompetence.

Pre Vizsla had failed.

The Death Watch had fractured.

And worst of all—

Jango Fett had defected.

Dooku had invested considerable time cultivating Fett as a reliable asset.

The man had been practical. Efficient. Sensible.

Now he was apparently working for the Republic.

Which meant the clones were now receiving tactical guidance from the very man whose genetic material had created them.

A development Dooku suspected would not improve the Confederacy's battlefield prospects.

He folded his hands calmly behind his back again.

The situation was… inconvenient.

But not catastrophic.

The Republic was still slow.

Still bureaucratic.

Still vulnerable to manipulation.

And the Jedi—

Dooku's mouth curved faintly.

The Jedi were nothing if not predictable.

The war could still be guided.

Still shaped.

Still escalated precisely as his master intended.

Which was when he noticed the other problem.

The holomap flickered as several Outer Rim systems illuminated.

Small markers blinked into existence.

Three worlds.

Jakku.

Dantooine.

Hoth.

Dooku frowned slightly.

These systems had not previously been significant.

Sparse populations. Limited strategic value. Minor trade routes.

Yet the intelligence reports attached to them were… unusual.

He opened the first transmission.

The recording was grainy, clearly intercepted from a civilian relay.

"…the new authorities have secured the spaceport. They claim to represent—"

Static crackled.

Then a voice finished the sentence.

"—the will of Darth Sol."

Dooku stilled.

He replayed the recording.

The same name echoed through the chamber.

Darth Sol.

The Count opened the second report.

Another intercepted transmission.

This one from Dantooine.

"…the governor surrendered without resistance. Their forces arrived with droids and a fleet of unfamiliar warships. They claim allegiance to—"

The message cut briefly.

Then resumed.

"—Darth Nox."

Dooku felt the faintest tightening in his chest.

Curious.

He opened the third report.

The situation on Hoth was even stranger.

Sensors had detected a fleet entering orbit.

Large vessels.

Old vessels.

Republic dreadnoughts that had supposedly disappeared years ago.

And the command codes attached to their transmissions again referenced the same two names.

Darth Sol.

Darth Nox.

Dooku slowly straightened.

That was… odd.

Very odd.

Because the Sith operated under a very simple principle.

The Rule of Two.

One master.

One apprentice.

No more.

Even Ventress was not a true Sith.

Which meant that somewhere in the Outer Rim, someone had begun using Sith titles withiut being directly connected to the line of Bane.

Dooku studied the holomap in silence for a long moment.

The systems under their control were not random.

They formed the early shape of a territorial foothold.

Small.

Distant.

But growing.

Someone was building something.

Quietly.

Carefully.

And with a certain flair for theatrical presentation.

Dooku felt the faintest flicker of interest.

Because that left two possibilities.

Either a group of opportunists had decided that declaring themselves Sith would make them sound more intimidating—

Or someone had decided to start playing the same game he and his master had been playing for decades.

The Count allowed himself a slow, thoughtful smile.

If it was the first possibility, they would be eliminated easily.

If it was the second—

Well.

That could become very entertaining.

"Darth Sol," he murmured softly. "Darth Nox."

He considered the names thoughtfully.

Yes.

This might complicate matters.

But complications, in the right hands, could also become opportunities.

Dooku folded his hands behind his back once more, gazing out at the stars beyond the flagship's viewport.

Somewhere in the Outer Rim, two unknown players had just placed themselves on the board.

The Count's smile sharpened slightly.

This could become… interesting.


Yes... very interesting.

But, it'll have to wait! I sincerely hope everyone enjoyed the chapter, as always, please stay tuned for more. And, naturally, if you want to read ahead, you are more than welcome to check me out on Patreon, link below:

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Chapter 35: The War Begins

The Senate Rotunda of the Galactic Senate Building had hosted countless historic debates over the millennia.

Declarations of war.

Peace treaties.

Trade disputes that had lasted so long entire species had evolved new political parties before they ended.

Today, however, the Senate was debating something far more horrifying.

A budget.

From the central podium, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine stood with hands folded inside the sleeves of his robes, the perfect image of calm statesmanship. Around him, the massive chamber roared with thousands of voices as senatorial pods drifted through the air like agitated insects.

"Outrageous!"

"Financially impossible!"

"We cannot fund an army of this scale!"

Several pods clustered together as representatives from the Commerce Guild waved datapads in the air like weapons.

Palpatine watched them with serene patience.

Inside his mind, the Force trembled faintly with irritation.

Millions of clones.

Each now legally classified as a citizen.

Each entitled to—

He resisted the urge to sigh.

Salaries.

Housing.

Medical care.

Veteran pensions.

Hazard pay.

Equipment stipends.

One particularly enthusiastic senator from the Core had even suggested retirement plans.

For soldiers.

Soldiers were supposed to be expended, not retired.

This was what came of allowing Mandalorians to write legal documents.

The pod belonging to Mandalore's delegation floated prominently near the Chancellor's podium, its occupants looking quite pleased with themselves. Somewhere behind that quiet diplomatic victory stood Satine Kryze and her argument that clones were people.

Palpatine disliked when other people's moral victories became his accounting problems. Frankly, he disliked other people in general. And moral victories. He preferred his victories to be dark, and ominous.

Insidious, if you will.

A finance committee representative cleared his throat loudly, activating the holoprojector above the central podium.

Charts appeared.

They were enormous.

They were colorful.

They were catastrophic.

"As you can see," the senator began, with the grim tone of a man announcing a planetary extinction event, "the cost projections for maintaining the Grand Army of the Republic under standard citizen compensation structures include—"

More charts appeared.

"Salaries."

Another column appeared.

"Barracks housing converted to civilian living allowances."

Another.

"Medical coverage and prosthetics programs."

Another.

"Hazard pay for active combat zones."

Another.

"Pension allocations for long-term service."

The chamber erupted.

Several senators began shouting over one another while their aides frantically recalculated figures on datapads.

Palpatine examined the projections with the calm expression of a man who had once orchestrated the entire creation of this army and now found himself paying for it twice.

He had already funded the cloning project through secret channels on Kamino.

Now the Senate wanted him to fund the soldiers themselves.

That was outrageous.

A pod from the Mid Rim rotated forward. The senator leaned over his railing, eyes gleaming with bureaucratic inspiration.

"If the Jedi intend to command this army," the man announced, "then perhaps the Jedi Order should contribute financially to battlefield supervision."

Several pods turned toward the Jedi delegation.

A cluster of robed figures sat calmly within their pod.

Not a single one reacted.

They had perfected the ancient Jedi technique of pretending they had not heard a word.

Palpatine almost admired the maneuver.

Almost.

The debate continued for another hour.

Numbers were proposed.

Numbers were rejected.

Several senators attempted to argue that the Republic should simply return the clones to Kamino and pretend none of this had happened.

Unfortunately, the Separatists had begun mobilizing droid armies in the Outer Rim, which made pretending the galaxy was at peace somewhat difficult.

Eventually, the Senate reached the unavoidable conclusion.

The Republic required an army.

And armies required funding.

How inconvenient.

Palpatine stepped forward to the podium, raising a hand slightly.

The chamber gradually quieted.

His expression softened into the warm, grandfatherly concern that had made him the most trusted man in the Republic.

"Honored senators," he began gently, his voice echoing through the vast chamber. "The galaxy stands at the threshold of a difficult era. Forces beyond our borders threaten the peace and security that the Republic has preserved for a thousand generations."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the chamber.

He continued calmly.

"The clone army, whatever its origins, now stands as the shield that protects our citizens. They did not ask for the circumstances of their creation. They ask only the chance to serve."

He paused, letting the sentiment settle over the assembly.

"The Republic must not fail those who defend it."

More murmurs.

Several senators nodded solemnly.

Behind his calm expression, Palpatine's thoughts remained perfectly composed.

Patience.

Let them argue about the costs.

Soon they will beg for emergency powers.

Soon the Senate will grant me the authority to end these debates myself.

And when that day came, he would no longer need to pretend that the Republic's budget mattered.

The final vote was called.

Lights blinked across the chamber as thousands of senators cast their ballots.

The results appeared above the central podium.

Funding approved.

The Grand Army of the Republic officially entered service.

Across the galaxy, shipyards would begin accelerating production. Clone battalions would deploy. Fleets would mobilize.

The gears of war had begun to turn.

Palpatine folded his hands once more, smiling faintly as the Senate erupted into renewed argument over tax allocations.

Yes.

The war had begun…

Technically.

Logistically, both sides are still severely ill equipped to begin true hostilities. So, both the Confederacy and the Republic have agreed to a year long armistice, in order to prepare themselves. But not to worry.

Palpatine had plans to ensure conflict would not only be inevitable… but immanent.


The thing about saving a planet is that you expect at least a little appreciation afterward.

A parade, maybe.

A medal.

Possibly a strongly worded lecture followed by the parade.

What you don't expect is being handed a bucket.

I leaned against the wall of a hallway in the upper levels of the Jedi Temple, staring down at the cleaning supplies in my hands with the sort of weary resignation that only came from long experience.

To be clear, the Jedi Council had been very grateful.

According to Masters Mace Windu and Yoda, Ahsoka, Maris, and I had performed an "extraordinary service" to the Republic by helping prevent Mandalore from collapsing into civil war.

We had also, according to those same Masters, absolutely not been authorized to be there.

Both of these things were apparently true at the same time.

Which meant we were currently serving a sentence of Temple Duties.

I was very familiar with Temple Duties.

I had grown up here.

Temple Duties were the Jedi Order's preferred method of reminding initiates that heroism did not exempt you from janitorial responsibilities.

Behind me, a training remote exploded against the wall.

The crack echoed down the hallway.

I slowly closed my eyes.

Behind me, Maris Brood stood in the middle of the corridor with a Force-grip still clenched in one hand. The smoking remains of the remote slid down the wall, leaving a fresh black scorch mark across the polished stone.

I pointed at it with my cleaning brush. "You know that adds another scorch mark we'll have to clean, right?"

Maris folded her arms. "Worth it."

I looked at the wall.

Then at the bucket.

Then back at her.

"Well, I'm not cleaning it up."

From halfway down the corridor, Ahsoka Tano glanced over from where she was scrubbing another section of wall with the enthusiasm of someone performing manual labor for the first time in her life.

"Me neither."

Maris stared at the scorch mark again.

"…less worth it."

The Jedi Temple contained an alarming number of scorch marks.

That was something I had discovered very early in my childhood.

You'd think an ancient order of space monks dedicated to peace and self-discipline would maintain immaculate hallways.

You would be wrong.

Apparently when thousands of Force-sensitive children were given laser swords and told to "practice responsibly," the architecture suffered.

Which explained why one of our official punishments involved scrubbing carbon scoring off the walls.

Again.

"Why do we have to do all of this?" Ahsoka muttered, dragging her brush across the stone with dramatic irritation. "We saved Mandalore."

"For the record," I said, "we only helped save Mandalore. Which we did while also committing about twelve separate violations of Jedi protocol."

But, at least they didn't discover that I was secretly a Sith Lord.

They were really bad at discovering secret Sith Lords.

"Protocol is a suggestion."

"That's what Anakin says."

She paused.

"…okay that's a fair point."

Ahsoka resumed scrubbing with renewed resentment.

Across the hallway, Maris kicked the remains of the training remote into a nearby disposal bin with the precision of someone who was still imagining it was a member of Death Watch.

Maris took Temple Duties very personally.

Archive cataloging had been an insult.

Youngling supervision had been a humiliation.

Meditation lectures had nearly caused a diplomatic incident.

Which, to be fair, wasn't entirely her fault.

If you asked Maris Brood to explain the philosophy of emotional balance to a room full of six-year-olds, the results were always going to be… creative.

"Next time," Ahsoka grumbled, "we should just let Mandalore solve its own problems."

"Next time," Maris said darkly, "I'm throwing someone off a balcony."

"Preferably someone important," Ahsoka added.

I dipped my brush into the bucket again, scrubbing at the wall with the calm patience of someone who had accepted his fate long ago.

Honestly, this was still an improvement over archive duty. I used to like it there. But that was before the dark times, and the rise of Jocasta the punisher, who showed me the true nature of the archives.

The archives were endless.

The archives were quiet.

The archives were supervised by librarians who could sense disturbances in the Force caused by improperly filed datapads.

Cleaning scorch marks was practically a vacation.

Somewhere in the Temple, a distant training saber crackled as two Padawans dueled.

Another scorch mark in the making.

I shook my head slowly.

The Jedi Order had existed for twenty-five thousand years.

At this point, I was pretty sure the entire Temple was structurally supported by layers of carbon scoring.

Ahsoka leaned back against the wall, breathing heavily as she looked down the hallway we had already cleaned. "Are we done yet?"

I glanced at the list on my datapad.

"Nope."

"What's next?"

I scrolled down.

"Training droid maintenance."

Ahsoka groaned loudly enough that several passing initiates turned to look.

Maris cracked her knuckles. "Well," she said, a faint smile appearing for the first time all morning. "At least that involves violence."

I considered correcting her.

Then I remembered the last time Maris had "repaired" a training droid.

…on second thought, violence was probably accurate.

And if we were lucky, the repairs would only add two or three more scorch marks.

Which, unfortunately, meant we'd be cleaning those tomorrow.


The chamber of the Jedi Council Chamber had witnessed many important moments in the history of the Order.

Great victories.

Great failures.

Several extremely awkward philosophical debates that had lasted three days longer than anyone involved would have preferred.

Today, however, it hosted something far more pleasant.

The knighting of Anakin Skywalker.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood near the edge of the circular chamber, hands folded calmly within his sleeves as sunlight poured through the tall windows behind the Council seats. The light cast long golden lines across the polished floor where Anakin knelt before the assembled Masters.

The moment carried the appropriate solemnity.

It also carried a certain sense of disbelief.

Anakin Skywalker… a Jedi Knight.

Obi-Wan studied his former Padawan quietly.

Anakin looked older now. The last year had a way of doing that to people. The Mandalorian conflict, the Separatist incursions, the constant rumors of war spreading through the Republic—it had all pressed forward faster than anyone would have liked.

War had a habit of forcing the galaxy to grow up quickly.

Even with a year-long armistice.

And yet.

Despite everything, Anakin still looked very much like the same reckless boy Obi-Wan had first met on Tatooine all those years ago.

Perhaps slightly taller.

Possibly more confident.

Almost certainly more dangerous.

But fundamentally the same.

The ceremony concluded with the traditional blessing from Yoda, whose small figure rested calmly upon his Council seat.

"By the authority of the Jedi Council," the ancient Master said gently, "a Knight of the Jedi Order, you are."

Anakin rose.

The new Knight bowed respectfully to the Council.

The gesture lasted exactly as long as required.

Then he immediately flexed his new prosthetic hand.

The polished mechanical fingers whirred faintly as they opened and closed.

Obi-Wan allowed himself a small sigh.

The hand itself was quite impressive. The craftsmanship was exceptional, almost artistic in its design. Apparently the Senator from Naboo had insisted on the finest prosthetics available in the Republic.

Quite generous of her, really.

Quite generous indeed.

Anakin seemed rather pleased with it as well.

He rotated his wrist experimentally before glancing up at the Council with the expression of a man who had just completed an important life milestone and was already thinking about the next one.

"So," Anakin said brightly, "when do I get a Padawan?"

The chamber became very quiet.

Obi-Wan felt a disturbance in the Force that strongly resembled several Jedi Masters suppressing sighs.

Anakin clasped his hands behind his back and continued with enthusiasm. "I've been looking forward to shaping the minds of the next generation with all of my knowledge and wisdom."

Several members of the Council developed expressions normally associated with mild migraines.

"Particularly my thesis on The Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly.

That thesis.

He had heard it many times.

Too many times.

In fairness to Anakin, it was an interesting historical discussion about the dangers of Sith ambition and the philosophical implications of unnatural life preservation.

Unfortunately, Anakin had discovered it in the Temple archives six months ago and had since decided that it was the most fascinating story ever recorded in Jedi history.

Which meant he told it to everyone.

Younglings.

Padawans.

Temple staff.

Once, tragically, a group of diplomats who had only asked for directions to the cafeteria.

The Council chamber remained politely silent.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes again and considered the matter thoughtfully.

In truth, Anakin had raised a valid point.

Traditionally, newly knighted Jedi often took Padawans of their own once they had proven themselves ready to teach. And despite Anakin's… enthusiastic personality… he had grown tremendously over the years.

He had become a capable warrior.

A brave defender of the Republic.

Still reckless, of course.

But Obi-Wan had long ago accepted that certain elements of Anakin Skywalker were simply permanent fixtures of the universe.

With that in mind, Obi-Wan inclined his head respectfully toward the Council.

"If I may, Masters," he said calmly.

Several Council members turned toward him.

Now that Anakin had completed his training, Obi-Wan found himself considering the next step in his own path as well. A Jedi Knight without a Padawan often felt… incomplete, in a sense.

The Order was built upon the passing of knowledge.

It was time for him to teach again.

"I have given the matter considerable thought," Obi-Wan continued. "And I believe I have selected a new student of my own."

The Council watched him with quiet interest.

Obi-Wan allowed himself a faint smile.

"There is an initiate in the Temple who has demonstrated remarkable potential. Strong in the Force. Intelligent. Resourceful."

Admittedly, occasionally troublesome.

But what promising student wasn't?

"I believe Initiate Kryze would make an excellent Padawan learner."

The reaction from the Council was… unusual.

Several Masters exchanged glances.

One or two actually looked sympathetic.

Master Mace Windu studied Obi-Wan with the expression of a man watching someone unknowingly walk toward a falling tree.

Obi-Wan blinked.

That was odd.

"Masters?" he asked carefully.

The silence stretched.

Across the chamber, Anakin looked between them with growing curiosity.

Obi-Wan slowly frowned.

"What?"


The training courtyard of the Jedi Temple was unusually crowded that morning.

Padawans and initiates gathered in loose clusters beneath the tall arches that framed the open sky. Training remotes buzzed lazily in the distance where younger students practiced deflection drills, but most of the Temple's attention was focused on the group assembled near the center platform.

Assignments were being announced.

Ordinarily that sort of thing was done quietly.

A discussion between Masters.

A quiet decision in the Council chamber.

But the galaxy was changing. War hovered just over the horizon, the Senate was mobilizing fleets, and the Jedi Order suddenly found itself needing more fully trained pairs of Knights and Padawans than usual.

Which meant the announcements were happening publicly.

Which meant everyone was watching.

Which meant Ahsoka Tano was having a very complicated emotional experience.

She stood beside Ben and Maris near the edge of the courtyard, arms folded as the senior Masters spoke with a group of Knights ahead of them. The Force carried faint ripples of anticipation through the gathered students.

Ahsoka tried to look calm.

Inside her head, however, several thoughts were fighting for dominance.

The first was excitement.

Padawan.

That word had lived in the back of her mind for years now. Every initiate dreamed of the moment a Jedi Knight would step forward and say they were ready to begin real training.

Real missions.

Real responsibility.

The second thought was dread.

Because there was a very specific Jedi Knight standing nearby.

And Ahsoka had spent enough time around him to understand something very important about Anakin Skywalker.

He was chaos.

Not malicious chaos.

Not even irresponsible chaos, exactly.

Just… chaos.

The kind that happened when someone with incredible power, absolute confidence, and a creative interpretation of the rules walked into a situation.

Ahsoka respected him.

She admired him.

She had also watched him accidentally start three separate duels with other Padawans in a single afternoon because he thought their training stances looked "a little boring."

Which was why she felt a sudden spike of nervous energy when Master Mace Windu stepped forward to begin the announcements.

"The Council has made its decisions regarding several new Padawan assignments."

The courtyard grew quiet.

Ahsoka felt her montrals twitch slightly.

Windu consulted a datapad briefly. "Padawan learner assignments will begin immediately." He looked up. "Initiate Tano."

Ahsoka straightened instantly.

Her heart did something extremely un-Jedi-like.

"Step forward."

She did.

Across the courtyard, Anakin also stepped forward with the confident posture of someone who had clearly been expecting this moment for at least an hour.

Windu's voice remained calm.

"You will be assigned to Jedi Knight Skywalker."

Ahsoka's brain stopped for approximately two seconds.

Then it restarted.

Her emotions attempted to process the information.

Excitement.

Pride.

Respect.

And a rapidly growing sense that her life had just become significantly more dangerous.

Across from her, Anakin grinned like someone who had just been given permission to adopt a very enthusiastic space gremlin. "Excellent," he said. "I've got a lot to teach."

Ahsoka managed a polite nod while internally preparing for what would almost certainly be the most unpredictable apprenticeship in Jedi history.

Behind her, she heard Ben quietly whisper, "Good luck."

Maris added, "You're going to die."

Ahsoka didn't turn around.

Mostly because they were probably right.

Windu glanced down at the datapad again. "Next assignment." Several initiates shifted nervously. "Initiate Brood."

Maris Brood stepped forward with the expression of someone who had already decided she would dislike whatever came next.

Across the platform, Obi-Wan Kenobi approached with his usual calm composure.

The two of them stopped a few paces apart.

They looked at each other.

Something in the Force shifted.

It was the subtle but unmistakable realization two people experienced when they both understood that the future was about to become complicated.

Maris tilted her head slightly. "So… do you meditate a lot?"

Obi-Wan folded his hands calmly into his sleeves. "Yes."

Maris sighed.

Not a small sigh.

Not a polite sigh.

A long, dramatic sigh that suggested she had just been assigned to the galaxy's most patient philosophy professor.

Several nearby Padawans tried very hard not to laugh.

Obi-Wan, to his credit, appeared completely unfazed.

Ahsoka watched the exchange with growing fascination.

That pairing was going to be spectacular.

Behind her, Ben muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "This will end in property damage."

The courtyard slowly relaxed as the assignments settled into place.

Padawans and Knights began speaking quietly with their new partners.

Plans were being made.

Training schedules.

Mission briefings.

The next chapter of several Jedi careers had just begun.

Which was when Ahsoka noticed something strange.

No one had called Ben's name yet.

That was odd.

Because everyone had assumed the same thing from the beginning.

If Obi-Wan was taking a new Padawan…

It would obviously be Ben Kryze.

The logic made perfect sense.

Ben had trained at the Temple almost his entire life.

He had an unusually strong connection to the Force.

And—

Well.

There were also the… other reasons.

Which was why several students were now glancing around the courtyard with mild confusion.

Because the assignments had been announced.

Ahsoka.

Maris.

Several others.

But not Ben.

So… what was going to happen to him?


The summons arrived approximately ten minutes after the Padawan assignments ended.

Which was not, in my professional opinion, a comforting timeline.

I stood outside the tall doors leading into the Jedi Council Chamber with the very specific feeling that my life had just wandered off-script.

Which was impressive.

Because my life had already been off-script for quite some time.

Still.

This was new.

Inside the chamber waited the full Jedi Council.

Waiting for me.

That was never a good sign.

I took a slow breath and reminded myself not to panic.

This was probably fine.

Totally fine.

Just a normal meeting with the most powerful Jedi in the galaxy.

Nothing suspicious about that.

Except—

Except that Ahsoka had just been assigned to Anakin Skywalker.

Which was wrong. Not morally wrong (though I'm sure she'd disagree.)

Just timeline wrong.

In the movies that didn't happen until the Battle of Christophsis.

And Obi-Wan Kenobi had just taken Maris as a Padawan. Which was also wrong. Obi-Wan wasn't supposed to take another apprentice after Anakin. And if he was going to, then I had assumed it would be me!

Unless—

Unless the Council had done this deliberately.

Unless they had looked at my training record.

My suspiciously good battlefield instincts. My tendency to show up in places I absolutely should not have been. My occasional habit of staring into the middle distance like someone gazing into the future.

Unless they had noticed something.

The doors slid open.

Great.

No time to panic now.

I stepped inside.

The Council chamber was exactly as intimidating as it had been every other time I'd been summoned here.

Tall windows overlooking the skyline of Coruscant.

Twelve seats arranged in a circle.

Twelve Jedi Masters studying me with the calm attention of people who could absolutely sense guilt through the Force.

I stopped in the center of the room.

"Masters."

My voice sounded calm.

This was impressive because internally I was already evaluating the structural integrity of the windows, and how likely I could break them with my tiny body.

I could make that jump.

Probably.

The Force would help.

Maybe.

Master Mace Windu leaned forward slightly in his seat. "Initiate Kryze." That was never followed by anything relaxing. "You have served the Order with distinction during the recent Mandalorian conflict."

I nodded politely.

Which was Jedi Code for please don't investigate the details too closely.

"Your actions demonstrated courage, initiative, and unusual resourcefulness."

That last word worried me.

Resourceful Jedi tended to become questionable Jedi.

Windu continued calmly. "The Council has therefore discussed your future training."

My heart did a small, uncomfortable flip.

Okay.

This was the moment.

Either they assigned me to a Master… Or they politely explained that I would be spending the next ten years alphabetizing the archives under armed supervision.

I glanced briefly toward Obi-Wan.

He sat alongside the Council, looking calm and thoughtful.

Not concerned.

Not suspicious.

Just quietly observant.

Which somehow made me more nervous. If he had been angry, I would have understood that. Angry meant he knew something.

Calm meant—

Well.

Calm meant Obi-Wan Kenobi had decided to let the Council handle it.

Which felt worse.

Master Windu was about to speak again when a small green figure shifted slightly in his seat.

Yoda tilted his head toward me, eyes half-lidded with quiet thought.

"Hmm."

That single syllable carried the weight of several centuries of Jedi contemplation.

Then he tapped his gimer stick lightly against the floor.

"Mine," Yoda said.

The chamber went very still.

Master Windu blinked once.

Obi-Wan raised one eyebrow.

I stared.

Yoda looked directly at me. "Train him, I will."

My brain took a moment to process that sentence.

Because there were only two Jedi in the entire Order that Master Yoda had personally trained.

One of them had been Count Dooku.

Which—

Now that I thought about it—

Was not a great statistic.

Across the chamber, Windu folded his arms.

"Master Yoda," he began carefully.

But Yoda simply nodded, as if the matter had already been decided. "Unusual, his path is." That felt like a generous understatement. "Special guidance, he will need."

The room fell quiet again.

Several Council members exchanged thoughtful looks.

Obi-Wan studied me for a moment. Then, to my growing alarm, he simply inclined his head. "I believe Master Yoda is correct."

That was it.

No objection.

No protest.

Just calm agreement.

Which somehow made this entire situation feel significantly more suspicious.

I looked between them slowly. "Master… Yoda?" I asked.

The ancient Jedi smiled faintly. "Much to learn, you have."

Oh no.

A terrible realization began forming in the back of my mind.

I knew how Yoda trained people.

I had seen it.

The swamp.

The riddles.

The carrying him around on your back while he whacked you with a stick.

The weird cave visions.

The flipping.

So much flipping.

I wonder if they'll actually use the Force to stop me from jumping out of that window…?


The first thing I learned about training under Yoda was that it began immediately.

The second thing I learned was that it never made any sense.

My first lesson started at sunrise the next morning in a secluded section of the Jedi Temple training grounds. I had expected something reasonable. Lightsaber forms. Meditation. Maybe Force exercises.

Instead, I found myself standing at the base of an obstacle course that looked like it had been designed by someone who had very strong opinions about gravity. And none of them were positive.

Narrow balance poles.

Swinging platforms.

Rope climbs.

Floating targets.

And at the top of the first pole sat my new Master, tapping his gimer stick against the wood.

"Begin, you will."

I stared at the course.

Then I stared at him.

"Master… is this a standard Jedi training exercise?"

Yoda tilted his head slightly. "Standard, the Force is not." Which was not an answer. Then he hopped lightly onto my back. "Carry me, you will."

I sighed internally.

This was happening.

I stepped onto the first pole.

The Force shifted around me as I focused on balance. Wind brushed across the courtyard as I moved from one narrow perch to another, Yoda perched comfortably on my shoulders like an ancient green backpack.

Behind me, the Grandmaster occasionally whacked my shoulder with the stick.

"Too slow."

Whack.

"Thinking, you are."

Whack.

"Balance, not muscles, you must use."

Whack.

I began to suspect this might go on for a while.


The next few months were… educational.

Not in the traditional sense.

More in the why is this happening to me sense.

One morning I was balancing on a pole with my eyes covered while Yoda threw training remotes at my head.

Another day I was suspended upside down from a training rig while attempting to meditate.

Meditation, it turned out, was extremely difficult when all the blood in your body had decided to relocate to your forehead.

"Clear your mind," Yoda advised from somewhere nearby.

"I am trying," I said, hanging like a very confused bat. In hindsight, it was a very poor choice of words when talking to this little gremlin.

"Trying, you are. Letting go, you are not."

That sounded suspiciously philosophical.

Which meant the exercise would probably continue until I achieved enlightenment or passed out.


The lightsaber training was worse.

Yoda insisted on blindfolds.

"See with the Force," he said.

Which sounded very wise until you realized it meant attempting to duel someone you could not see.

And that someone was Yoda.

A nine-hundred-year-old Jedi Master who moved like a caffeinated pinball.

My blade came up just in time to deflect a strike that appeared out of nowhere.

Another hit followed instantly.

Then another.

Then a spinning leap that absolutely should not have been physically possible for a creature his size.

Somewhere during the third exchange I realized something horrifying.

This was not just a toned-down training version.

This was Yoda being gentle.


At one point he decided we needed a change of scenery.

Which was how I ended up knee-deep in swamp water on a remote jungle world, holding a large stone above my head with the Force.

While doing a handstand.

Rain fell steadily through the trees.

Mud clung to my boots.

Frogs made judgmental noises from the undergrowth.

Yoda stood nearby on a dry patch of ground, watching calmly.

"Focus."

I tried.

The stone wobbled slightly above me.

"Master," I said carefully, "what exactly is this supposed to accomplish?"

Yoda tapped his stick lightly against a tree root. "Help you lift heavy things, it will."

That was the entire explanation.

I stared at the swamp.

Then at the floating rock.

Then back at him.

Inside my head, a very specific realization slowly formed.

Luke's training hadn't been special.

The swamp.

The riddles.

The weird exercises.

The upside-down meditation.

That had not been a desperate last hope attempt to train a farm boy quickly. That had just been how Yoda trained people. I was not experiencing some unusual method reserved for special cases.

This was the standard curriculum.

Which meant a nine-hundred-year-old gremlin had been doing this to students for centuries.

This naturally led me to a single, inevitable conclusion.

I was being trolled.

By a Jedi Master older than most civilizations.


Despite everything…

It worked.

That was the frustrating part.

Somewhere between the blindfolded duels and the swamp gymnastics, something changed.

The Force felt clearer.

Stronger.

Easier to touch.

At first I had strained to lift a single boulder.

Months later I could hold several in the air without losing focus.

Balance came naturally now.

My awareness expanded in ways that were difficult to explain. I could feel motion before it happened, sense disturbances in the Force like ripples spreading across water.

Even the meditation started making sense eventually.

Though I still preferred doing it right-side-up.

One evening near the end of the year, I stood in a quiet clearing as several heavy stones floated slowly around me.

The Force moved smoothly through my thoughts.

Effortless.

Calm.

Across the clearing, Yoda watched quietly. Then he nodded once. "Progress, you have made."

I lowered the stones gently to the ground.

"Does that mean the training gets less weird now?"

Yoda considered that question for a moment.

Then he smiled.

"Hmm."

Which was not comforting.


The hidden chamber was not technically secret.

It was just… extremely inconvenient to reach.

Which, in the Jedi Temple, amounted to roughly the same thing.

The room sat three maintenance corridors below one of the Temple's lesser-used archive wings, accessible through a door that required a Force-sensitive to gently nudge a very specific locking mechanism that hadn't been serviced since the High Republic.

In other words, no one ever came here.

Which made it perfect.

Maris leaned against the wall beside the console, arms crossed while watching me prepare the projection array. Her expression carried the casual boredom of someone about to check in on a galactic criminal empire like it was a routine homework assignment.

Which, in fairness, it had become.

"You know," she said, "most Padawans spend their evenings meditating."

I adjusted the focusing ring on the projection node. "Most Padawans don't also secretly run a shadow government. And you hate meditating."

"I don't hate it. I'm just really bad at it. Which makes me angry."

"You really want me to give the whole, anger leads to blank speech?" I asked, cocking a brow as I finally turned to face her."

"We already crossed that bridge." Maris smirked, her eyes flashing a familiar sickly yellow for a moment. I'm not sure exactly how attached she was to the Dark Side of the Force, but she's never killed any children, or anyone on our side, so I'm giving it a pass.

I sat down across from her and placed my hands on the twin interface pylons.

The devices were not Sith technology.

Technically.

They were just… aggressively modified holocomm relays designed to amplify Force projection. Which does not make it Sith!

The idea was simple.

Instead of physically traveling across the galaxy to check on our empire, Maris and I could project our consciousness into our command units.

Specifically:

The PROXY droids currently impersonating Darth Sol and Darth Nox.

Very efficient.

Very convenient.

Extremely hard to make. But, not as hard as doing it ourselves. Safety first! I mean, just look at what happened to Luke.

Maris rolled her shoulders slightly and settled into the opposite seat. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

We closed our eyes.

The Force flowed outward.

Distance folded.

Awareness stretched across hyperspace.

For a moment there was only the strange sensation of existing between places.

Then—

The world snapped back into focus.

I blinked once.

Except the blink came through photoreceptors.

Ah.

Right.

I was in the droid again.

The command chamber overlooking the bustling streets of Mos Eisley stretched out before me through armored transparisteel windows.

Ships rose and fell through the hazy desert sky.

Trade convoys moved through the docking lanes.

Markets buzzed with activity.

For a city that had once been the armpit of the Outer Rim, it was… thriving.

Beside me, Maris's PROXY unit tilted its head slightly as her consciousness settled into the machine.

"Still weird," she muttered.

"Agreed."

A tactical holo lit up across the chamber as the day's reports scrolled past.

Trade revenue.

Shipping manifests.

Security summaries.

I stared at the numbers.

Then stared a little longer.

"Huh."

Maris glanced over. "What?"

I gestured at the display. "Why are we good at this?"

Because we were.

That was the alarming part.

Mos Eisley had transformed over the past year.

The slave markets were gone.

Abolished within the first month of our occupation.

Turns out if you execute a few slavers publicly and confiscate their assets, while wrangling a few more into forced labor, the rest of them become very open to career changes.

Smuggling still existed, of course.

But it was… regulated.

Taxes were collected.

Violence had dropped dramatically.

Local merchants actually preferred operating under our administration.

Which was not something I had planned.

I had expected chaos.

Crime wars.

Maybe the occasional uprising.

Instead—

We had somehow created a functional government.

Maris studied the data feed with mild interest. "Because we're benevolent dictators."

That felt like an oversimplification.

But only slightly.

A second report window opened automatically.

Tusken trade caravans moving through the northern dunes.

Resource exchange agreements.

Security patrol routes coordinated with local tribes.

I leaned back slightly in the command throne. "When we made contact with the Tuskens I expected… you know. More chanting, stick-throwing, and back-stabbing. I honestly didn't think they'd actually work with us this long."

"Yeah." Maris shrugged. "They like us."

"Why?"

"You respected their territory."

"That can't be the only reason."

She gestured at the report. "You also paid them."

"I did?"

"Yeah. We had a lot spoils from slavers and Jabba's palace to go around."

That probably helped.

A new presence entered the chamber behind us.

Heavy metal footsteps.

I didn't even need to turn around.

"Statement: It is pleasing to see our glorious leaders have returned."

I glanced back as the towering assassin droid approached the holo table.

HK-55 inclined his head slightly. "Observation: Several assassination reports require your approval."

Of course they did.

HK activated a new holographic display.

Profiles appeared one by one.

Crime bosses.

Slavers.

Former lieutenants of Jabba the Hutt.

"Report: Target One attempted to organize a resistance cell among the remaining criminal elements. I terminated him and his associates."

The image shifted.

"Report: Target Two attempted to re-establish slave trafficking through an off-world smuggling ring. I eliminated the ring."

Another shift.

"Report: Target Three attempted to poison the water supply in protest of our new governance structure. His remains have been displayed publicly as a deterrent."

I stared at the report feed.

Then slowly looked at Maris. "…maybe slightly less benevolent."

She tilted her head. "Still pretty effective."

That was the disturbing part.

Everything was working.

Crime had plummeted.

Trade had increased.

Even the moisture farmers out in the wastes were reporting improved security.

Which meant our empire—the one we had started as half a joke. The one we ran through remote-controlled droids while attending Jedi training—was somehow becoming one of the most stable governments in the Outer Rim.

I leaned back in the throne again, staring out across the thriving spaceport of Mos Eisley.

We might actually be good at this.


The office of the Supreme Chancellor overlooked the endless cityscape of Coruscant.

From the towering windows of the Republic Executive Building, the capital world stretched to the horizon in every direction—layer upon layer of durasteel towers, air traffic lanes, and glittering lights that never truly dimmed.

It was a view that many found inspiring.

Palpatine found it… useful.

He stood with his hands folded behind his back, gazing out over the skyline while the morning's reports scrolled across the holo-displays behind him.

The one-year armistice had ended.

Technically it had expired three hours ago.

Practically speaking, it had never meant very much to begin with.

Still.

The illusion of peace had served its purpose.

A soft chime echoed through the office as another report arrived.

Palpatine turned slowly, robes shifting quietly as he approached the central console.

The holographic display expanded.

Fleet movements.

Manufacturing projections.

Strategic deployments.

Across the galaxy, war machines were waking.

The Confederacy of Independent Systems had not been idle during the ceasefire.

On Geonosis, droid foundries now operated day and night.

Factories across Separatist space produced endless ranks of battle droids, tanks, and warships.

The numbers rose steadily across the projection.

Millions.

Then tens of millions.

The Confederacy had been preparing.

Of course they had.

Palpatine had made certain of it.

Another report appeared beside the first.

Republic fleet mobilization.

The Senate had finally authorized full deployment of the navy.

Star Destroyers and cruiser groups were leaving their anchorages.

Defense forces that had once served as local patrol fleets were being reorganized into battle formations.

The Republic was awakening to war.

Palpatine studied the projections calmly.

To an outside observer, the situation might have appeared alarming.

The galaxy stood on the brink of its largest conflict in centuries.

Trade routes would burn.

Worlds would fall.

Entire systems would be drawn into a spiral of violence that would reshape the Republic forever.

But Palpatine felt no alarm.

Only quiet satisfaction.

The conflict had taken longer to ignite than he would have preferred.

Several… unexpected complications had delayed the inevitable.

The Mandalorian crisis.

The clone citizenship debate.

Certain political disruptions that had forced him to accelerate parts of his plan.

But in the end, the momentum of history was difficult to stop.

Across the holo-display, the final report arrived.

Separatist fleets mobilizing under the command of Count Dooku.

Palpatine allowed himself a small, private smile.

His former apprentice had performed admirably.

The Confederacy now possessed the military strength necessary to threaten the Republic.

And the Republic, in turn, had finally accepted the need for war.

Two great powers.

Both led, in their own ways, by the same man.

Palpatine dismissed the reports with a flick of his hand.

The holograms faded.

Outside the window, traffic continued to stream between the towering skylanes of Coruscant, blissfully unaware that the galaxy had just crossed a threshold.

For months the Republic had existed in a strange state of uncertainty.

A cold war.

Political maneuvering.

Threats and negotiations.

But that fragile balance had ended.

Now the real work would begin.

Armies would clash.

The Jedi would be drawn deeper into the conflict.

Fear would spread through the Senate.

And in the chaos of war, power would consolidate exactly where it needed to be.

Palpatine turned back toward the window.

Below him, the endless city of Coruscant glittered beneath the midday sun.

His reflection stared back faintly from the transparisteel.

Patient.

Satisfied.

Everything was unfolding exactly as he had foreseen.

The Clone Wars had begun.

This time, for real.


The hangar of the Jedi Temple was louder than usual.

Which was saying something.

Normally the place buzzed with maintenance crews, departing Jedi missions, and the constant hum of Republic transports moving through the vast open bays.

Today it sounded like a war had decided to move in.

Gunships idled in launch lanes.

Republic officers rushed between command consoles.

Pilots shouted across loading ramps while astromech droids rolled frantically through the chaos.

Everywhere I looked, ships were preparing for departure.

Which meant one thing.

The war had officially started.

I stood near the edge of one of the launch platforms, trying very hard not to look like someone quietly recalculating the timeline of the entire Clone Wars.

Because things had definitely shifted.

But not too much, I hope.

Not yet.

Across the hangar floor, Jedi commanders gathered near a tactical display while officers briefed them on the situation developing across the Mid Rim.

The projection above the table showed a familiar name.

Christophsis.

Ah.

There it was.

The first big battle of the war.

I watched the display for a moment, arms folded while ships continued roaring overhead.

Separatist forces had launched a full-scale invasion of the crystal world.

Droid armies.

Blockade fleets.

Orbital bombardment.

The Republic response had been immediate.

Jedi commanders were already being assigned.

Two figures stood near the center of the tactical platform.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood with his usual calm composure, listening patiently as a Republic officer outlined the battle plan.

Beside him, Anakin Skywalker leaned over the display with the focused intensity of someone who had just been handed a war and was already thinking three reckless steps ahead.

Anakin's new prosthetic hand gleamed faintly under the hangar lights as he gestured toward one of the fleet formations.

The officer speaking to them looked mildly terrified.

Which felt appropriate.

A few meters away, Ahsoka Tano stood beside a stack of supply crates, watching the preparations with the tense energy of someone about to experience their first real battlefield.

She looked excited.

Also slightly concerned.

Which was the correct emotional balance when being deployed under Anakin Skywalker.

Next to her, Maris Brood leaned against the side of a transport ramp with her usual expression of casual disinterest.

If anything, she looked mildly annoyed that the war had started without consulting her schedule.

An officer stepped onto the platform and raised his voice. "Final deployment assignments!"

Several Jedi turned toward him.

"Commanders for the Christophsis relief operation: Jedi Master Kenobi and Jedi Knight Skywalker."

That checked out.

The officer glanced down at his datapad. "Padawan learners assigned to accompany them: Tano, apprentice to Skywalker—"

Ahsoka straightened immediately.

"—and Brood, apprentice to Kenobi."

Maris gave a lazy two-finger salute.

So far everything was tracking perfectly with the opening of the show. Barring our wildcard, Maris.

Which was both comforting and deeply concerning… not just because Maris is Maris. Because it meant the timeline was still mostly intact. And I had absolutely no idea how much damage my earlier decisions had done to it.

Or if it was for the better or worse.

Imagine going back in time to fix things, and somehow making it worse. Yikes.

I was still processing that thought when a familiar voice spoke quietly beside me.

"Going with them, you are."

I turned my head slowly.

Yoda stood there, leaning calmly on his gimer stick.

I blinked. "Master?"

He nodded toward the transport where Obi-Wan and Anakin were now boarding. "Observe the war, you must."

That sounded ominous.

"Learn, you will."

Also ominous.

"Assist them, you may."

Ah.

There it was.

My deployment orders.

I exhaled slowly.

Oh good. Nothing like a bit of war to prepare you for war. Hey Master, maybe in hindsight, I should have been spending less time lifting rocks with my mind, and more studying battle strategies, or something.

Okay. Calm down. Focus. You've seen the movie, you're prepared. Now. What are we working with?

Separatist blockade.

Crystal city siege.

Supply lines cut off.

Anakin pulling something reckless to break the stalemate.

And—

Right.

The tactical droid.

What, was that in the movie or was that in the Ryloth episode? Kriff. There was a lot of stuff I was going to need to predict. Preferably without accidentally breaking the timeline even further.

I rubbed the back of my neck and started walking toward the transport.

Behind me, Yoda chuckled softly.

Which was still not comforting.

The boarding ramp had already lowered when I reached the ship.

Ahsoka stood just inside the hatch, watching the hangar activity with wide eyes while Maris sat casually on a crate beside her, twirling a hydrospanner she had probably stolen from somewhere.

Both of them looked up as I approached.

"Well," Ahsoka said. "This is happening."

Maris tilted her head slightly. "War's starting."

"Apparently."

I stepped onto the ramp as the engines began powering up.

The hangar lights reflected off the polished hull of the transport while crew members rushed to clear the launch lanes.

Funny.

The last time the three of us had been on a ship together, we had stolen it.

Then immediately used it to fly across the galaxy to the ancient Sith homeworld.

Now we were deploying to a war zone.

I dropped into one of the passenger seats as the ramp sealed behind us.

The engines roared louder.

Outside the viewport, dozens of Republic ships were already lifting into the air.

Ahsoka sat across from me, tightening the straps on her gear while trying to look like someone who had definitely done this before.

Maris leaned back against the wall, completely unconcerned.

The transport shuddered as it lifted off the hangar floor.

I watched the cityscape of Coruscant begin shrinking through the viewport.

Honestly?

I wasn't sure which of our field trips was going to end up being more dangerous in the long run.


BAAAAAAAH!

BAAAAAAAH!

BAAAAAAAH-DA-DA-DAAAAH!

BAAAAAAAH-DA-DA-DAAAAH!

BA—Okay, that's enough of that. The Clone Wars have officially begun! Please stay tuned to find out what happens to our intrepid heroes. Or, as always, you can read ahead on my Patreon, and find out what happens to our intrepid heroes right now. Your choice!

My Patreon

Chapter 36: Siege of the Crystal World

The stars stretched—and then snapped.

Hyperspace released us almost as quickly as it launched us. At least that's how it felt like.

The bridge of the assault cruiser settled into realspace with a low hum, the kind that vibrated through the deck plates and up into your bones. Familiar. Grounding.

I stood near the viewport, hands clasped behind my back in what I hoped looked like "calm Jedi composure" and not "teenager trying very hard not to panic."

For half a second, everything was quiet.

Christophsis hung ahead of us—faceted, crystalline, gleaming in pale blues and whites like someone had taken a planet and decided subtlety was optional.

Pretty.

Deceptively so.

Then the rest of the view caught up.

Ships.

A lot of ships.

No—too many ships.

A wall of gray metal and cold geometry stretched across orbit. Munificent frigates. Recusant destroyers. Support vessels tucked neatly into formation like they'd been rehearsing this exact moment for weeks.

Which, judging by the way they were already angled toward us—

Yeah. They had.

Oh.

Oh no.

This was not going to end well.

The silence shattered.

"Contact front! Multiple contacts—no, correction, hundreds—"

"Enemy formation is already locked—"

"Shields up! Shields up!"

"Where's our escort screen?!"

The bridge erupted into motion. Clone officers snapped into action with practiced efficiency that still somehow managed to feel… new. Like they were following instructions they understood perfectly, but had never actually had to use under this kind of pressure.

Because they hadn't.

Because this was it.

First real battle.

First real everything.

And we had shown up late to our own war.

The cruiser lurched slightly as power diverted to forward shields. Blue light rippled across the viewport as deflectors came online, just in time for the first distant flashes of turbolaser fire to start painting space in ugly green streaks.

No warning shot.

No dramatic speech.

Just immediate, efficient violence.

I leaned forward a fraction, squinting at the blockade, trying to pick out shapes, patterns—familiarity.

Because I knew this.

I knew this.

Right?

I watched the shows, the movies. Played the video games. Read the comics. The problem was, knowing something in theory and seeing it in person were two very different experiences.

In my head, it had just been a really cool scene.

In reality… well, it was still cool. Just also incredibly dangerous.

"Enemy targeting solutions are active!"

"They've already locked our approach vector!"

"Evasive pattern Aurek—no, wait—"

"Who authorized that formation?!"

Good question.

I had idea.

And neither did anyone else. Everyone was scrambling.

Ships drifted a hair too far apart. Angles were slightly off. Response times just a fraction too slow. It wasn't incompetence—it was worse.

It was inexperience.

We looked like an army that had spent a year arguing about payroll and only remembered we were supposed to be soldiers about five minutes ago.

Across the viewport, a Separatist cruiser adjusted position with clean, surgical precision, sliding into place to cover a gap before we could even exploit it.

Yeah.

They'd been practicing.

I exhaled slowly, trying to keep my expression neutral as the realization settled in deeper.

This wasn't going to be a clean opening victory.

This wasn't going to be heroic and triumphant and vaguely inspirational with a swelling score in the background.

This was going to be messy.

Costly.

And painfully educational.

A flicker of movement caught my eye—another Republic cruiser drifting just a little too far out of alignment. A second later, a line of green fire lanced toward it, forcing it to veer hard, breaking formation even more.

Chain reaction.

Of course.

Of course it was a chain reaction.

"Adjust port batteries! Cover that flank!"

"We're losing cohesion!"

"No kidding—"

I pressed my lips together, watching the opening exchange spiral just enough to confirm what my gut had already been screaming at me.

Yep.

This was that battle.

The blockade.

The bad start.

The part where everything that could go wrong politely raised its hand and said, "Me first."

A strange, almost hysterical part of my brain supplied the helpful observation that at least I hadn't died yet.

Always good to keep standards realistic.

The ship shuddered as distant impacts rippled through the formation—not ours, not yet, but close enough that the vibrations carried.

Close enough that it wouldn't stay "not us" for long.

I straightened slightly, forcing my shoulders back, trying to look like someone who belonged on a warship instead of someone who had, until recently, been scrubbing scorch marks off Temple walls.

Yoda had thrown me into this.

Which meant, on some level, he thought I could handle it.

Which was either encouraging…

…or deeply concerning.

Another volley lit up the void, closer this time, and the bridge lights dimmed a fraction as power redistributed again.

Around me, the clones moved with growing coordination, finding their rhythm in real time, adapting on the fly.

They'd get there.

They were good.

Just not yet.

Not at the start.

And unfortunately for all of us—

We were very much at the start.

I stared out at the blockade, at the perfectly arranged enemy fleet waiting for us like we'd just walked into the middle of their plan.

Because we had.

"Yeah," I muttered under my breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

"This is going exactly how I remember."


The moment the shooting started, it became painfully obvious that no one had agreed on how to do a war.

Which meant someone had to.

Anakin stepped forward before the thought even fully formed, already pointing at the forward display as green fire streaked past the viewport.

"Break the line there—left flank, concentrate fire on that cluster, then push through the gap."

There wasn't a gap.

But there would be a gap.

Probably.

A clone officer hesitated just long enough to be noticeable, fingers hovering over controls like they were waiting for permission from a higher authority, a better plan, or maybe divine intervention.

Anakin gestured sharper. "We're not waiting for them to shoot us into a better formation. Move."

The officer moved.

Good.

Momentum mattered. Confidence mattered. Looking like you knew what you were doing mattered, even if what you were doing was aggressively improvising.

Especially then.

Behind him, Obi-Wan Kenobi stepped up beside the command console, posture straight, voice calm in a way that suggested he had already accepted this was going to be a long day.

"Perhaps," Obi-Wan began, hands folding neatly into his sleeves because of course they did, "we might consider establishing a defensive formation before committing to an advance."

Translation: stop doing whatever that is.

Anakin didn't look away from the battle. "If we stop moving, we become targets."

"We are already targets."

"Then we should be difficult ones."

A turbolaser blast flashed close enough to wash the bridge in green light. The ship shuddered, not quite a hit, but close enough to feel like a warning shot from the universe itself.

Anakin pointed again, faster now. "Angle the cruisers—no, tighter than that. You're leaving a hole big enough to fly a—" He stopped, recalibrated. "—a very large ship through. Fix it."

"General," a clone officer cut in, strained but controlled, "enemy ships are adjusting to mirror our movement."

Of course they were.

Of course they were competent.

That would have been too easy otherwise.

"Then stop being predictable," Anakin shot back. "Stagger the line. Randomize your vectors."

There was a brief, almost comical pause.

"Randomize… how, sir?"

Anakin opened his mouth.

Closed it.

That was a great question.

"…less predictably."

The officer blinked once, then nodded like that was a completely normal and actionable instruction.

Somewhere to his right, Obi-Wan made a quiet, long-suffering sound that translated perfectly to this is my life now.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said, still calm, still reasonable, which somehow made it worse, "there is a difference between initiative and… whatever it is you are currently doing."

"Winning."

"We are not winning."

"We're about to start."

Obi-Wan turned slightly, giving him a look that had stopped negotiations, ended arguments, and probably once convinced a hostile diplomat to apologize for existing.

It did absolutely nothing here.

Anakin gestured toward the viewport. "They're in a fixed formation. That's a weakness."

"It is also a strategy."

"Strategies can be broken."

"And so can fleets that charge directly into them."

That felt pointed.

Another volley streaked past, closer this time, forcing a Republic cruiser to veer off, disrupting the already fragile alignment. The formation wobbled like it had just been introduced to the concept of consequences.

Anakin watched it happen, jaw tightening.

Fine.

If the fleet wouldn't behave like a single unit, then he'd just have to force it to act like one.

He leaned toward the command console again. "Signal all forward elements—on my mark, we push straight through the center line. Maximum forward shields, concentrate fire, don't stop."

Obi-Wan turned fully now. "We are not doing that."

"We are absolutely doing that."

"We most certainly are not—"

The hologram flickered to life in front of them.

Perfect timing.

Because of course the enemy commander would choose this exact moment.

The blue figure resolved into Admiral Trench, all spindly limbs and composed posture, like a creature that had never once in its life felt rushed, stressed, or even mildly inconvenienced.

Anakin immediately disliked him.

"Jedi Generals," Trench said, voice smooth, polite, and carrying just enough amusement to make it insulting. "How kind of you to arrive precisely where I expected you."

Of course he had.

Of course this wasn't a surprise.

This wasn't a battle.

This was a welcome party.

Anakin folded his arms, staring at the hologram like he could win the engagement through sheer irritation. "You could've tried not being there."

"A missed opportunity, certainly," Trench replied. "However, I find preparation tends to yield… favorable outcomes."

As if to demonstrate, several Separatist ships shifted in perfect synchronization, tightening their formation, closing angles, cutting off escape vectors that had existed approximately three seconds ago.

On the display, Republic ships adjusted in response—

Too slow.

Just a fraction too slow.

It was like watching someone try to copy a dance they'd only seen once.

Trench inclined his head slightly. "Your fleet coordination is… admirable, given the circumstances."

That pause did a lot of work.

Anakin's eye twitched.

"Shields to full forward!" he snapped. "All ships, commit to the push—now!"

"Anakin—" Obi-Wan started.

"We wait, we lose initiative."

"We charge, we lose ships."

"We're losing ships anyway!"

That landed.

Because it was true.

Because another cruiser just took a hit, flaring bright as shields struggled to compensate.

Because standing still wasn't working.

Because nothing about this was working.

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to the display, recalculating, adapting, already shifting from prevention to mitigation.

"Very well," he said at last, tone resigned in the way of someone who had just accepted that events were about to become significantly more complicated. "If we are to proceed with your plan, we will at least attempt to do so with some degree of coordination."

That was as close to approval as it was going to get.

Good enough.

Anakin leaned forward slightly, focus narrowing as the chaos sharpened into something usable.

"On my mark," he said, voice cutting clean through the noise of the bridge, "we go through them."

"Will you, now?" The hologram of Trench watched, unbothered. More like he was interested. Like this was all part of a larger equation that was still balancing in his favor.

Best of luck to him. Anakin Skywalker wasn't known for being predictable on his best of days.

Still.

Probably best not to give a sneak-peek.

"Why is he still on our channel?" Anakin demanded, pointing at the communication officer. "Cut the comms!"

"Yes, sir!" The clone quickly followed through.

"It has been a true pleasure, Master Jedi." Trench tilted his head, leaving without further cutting remarks.

An etiquette leader.

Anakin hated it. "I don't like him."

Obi-Wan's response came dry and immediate. "That makes two of us."

Well.

At least they agreed on something.

Now… where were they?

"Mark."


The hangar bay was loud in a way that made thinking feel optional.

Engines whining. Clamps releasing. Clones moving with purpose in every direction at once like someone had kicked an anthill and handed it a military budget.

Which was reassuring.

Because nothing said well-organized military operation like everyone sprinting.

Ahsoka stood just off the main flow of traffic, arms crossed, trying very hard to look like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

This was fine.

She was a Padawan now.

Padawans went to battles.

Padawans stood in hangars while ships launched and everything shook and people yelled important things.

That was… a normal part of training.

Probably.

She adjusted her stance slightly as another transport roared past overhead, the gust tugging at her montrals. No one else reacted. Clones didn't even flinch.

Right.

It's okay. She's okay. She just has to act like she's done this before.

Even if the last time she were in a hangar like this, it didn't involve an active war.

Across from her, Maris Brood leaned against a supply crate like she'd been born there and was mildly disappointed by the decor.

Completely still.

Completely unimpressed.

Like the chaos was happening for her entertainment.

Which, knowing Maris, it might as well have been.

Ahsoka glanced at her, then at the third member of their extremely official and definitely supervised group.

Ben.

…was staring into space.

Not in a thoughtful, meditative Jedi way.

In a concerningly specific way.

Like he was watching something no one else could see and wasn't particularly happy about it.

Ahsoka narrowed her eyes slightly.

That was new.

Ben did a lot of things.

Deep, silent contemplation was not one of them.

He usually narrated his bad ideas out loud.

"Okay," she said, pushing off the wall and stepping closer to both of them, because someone here had to act like a functioning member of the Jedi Order. "So what's the plan?"

Maris didn't even look at her. "Don't die."

…Right.

Good.

Solid.

Very actionable.

Ahsoka waited a beat.

"…Anything more specific than that?"

"No."

Of course not.

Ahsoka turned to Ben, because statistically, he had to be more helpful than that.

He was still staring.

Still not blinking enough.

That was definitely not reassuring.

"Ben?"

"We're going to try a direct assault," he said, voice distant and annoyingly calm, like he was reading off a report no one else had been given, "fail, land anyway, get pinned down, and—"

Ahsoka blinked.

"…what?"

That didn't sound like a plan.

That sounded like a summary.

A bad one.

"Sorry." Ben's gaze flickered, like he'd just remembered they were standing there. "I have a bad feeling about this."

There it was.

That phrase.

Ahsoka had heard it enough times to know it meant anything from mild inconvenience to everything is about to go catastrophically wrong.

She just didn't know which one this was.

Maris, however, went still in a different way.

Not relaxed.

Focused.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at Ben, head tilting just a fraction.

Oh.

She recognized that.

Of course she did.

Because apparently while Ahsoka had been on Coruscant dealing with Jedi Masters, crushing guilt, and Anakin being Anakin, these two had been off on Korriban developing a whole new category of concerning behavior.

Ahsoka folded her arms tighter.

That was so unfair.

She left them alone for one month—okay, maybe multiple months, she didn't keep track (yes, she did)—and now they had secret looks.

Secret tones.

Secret… whatever that was.

"I have bad feelings all the time," she pointed out. "What happens me, if figuring out what to do with it. Hey, maybe you can try that? Hint, hint."

Ben didn't respond immediately.

Which, again, was not normal.

Usually he would have already made a joke.

Or three.

Or something wildly inappropriate for the situation.

Instead, he just kept looking… past everything.

Like the hangar, the ships, the noise—none of it was the thing he was actually paying attention to.

"…This one's a specific bad feeling," he said finally.

That did not help.

At all.

Ahsoka exhaled slowly through her nose, shifting her weight as another wave of clones rushed past them toward a waiting gunship.

Specific bad feeling.

Great.

Love that.

"Okay," she said, because someone had to translate this into something useful, "how specific?"

Ben opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it again.

"…No."

Ahsoka stared at him.

Maris snorted quietly.

"Oh, that's reassuring," Ahsoka muttered.

Another transport lifted off nearby, the roar filling the hangar as it angled toward the open bay and the battle beyond. For a moment, the light from outside spilled in—green flashes, distant explosions, the kind of view that made it very clear this was no longer a training exercise.

Right.

War.

That thing they were doing now.

She looked back at Ben, then at Maris, who had gone back to looking bored, like this was all beneath her and also somehow exactly what she expected.

Ahsoka felt something very specific settle in her chest.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

More like—

She missed something.

Not the mission.

Not the orders.

Something else.

Somewhere between Korriban and here, Ben and Maris had stepped sideways into a conversation she hadn't been part of, and now they were speaking in half-sentences and looks, and she was stuck asking for context like a tourist.

Which, frankly, was rude.

"Next time you two go off on a mysterious Force adventure," she said, tone tight, "I'm coming with you."

Maris didn't look up. "No, you're not."

Ben, at least, had the decency to look slightly guilty.

Which meant Ahsoka was absolutely right.

Great.

Fantastic.

Love that for her.

Another klaxon blared overhead, sharper this time.

Deployment.

The word passed through the hangar without anyone actually saying it.

Clones moved faster.

Ships powered up.

Whatever this was—bad feeling, specific doom, secret knowledge—it was about to become very real, very quickly.

Ahsoka uncrossed her arms, rolling her shoulders once.

Fine.

If they weren't going to explain, she'd figure it out the traditional way.

By being there when it went wrong.

She shot Ben one last look. "Next time, you lead with the part where we don't fail."

He didn't answer.

Which somehow made it worse.

Maris pushed off the crate, finally standing upright, stretching like this was mildly inconvenient instead of the start of a battle. "Relax. Worst case, we die."

Ahsoka stared at her.

"…That is not relaxing!"

Maris shrugged. "It is for me."

Of course it was.

Of course this was her team.

Ahsoka took a breath, then another, squaring herself as the nearest gunship signaled for boarding.

War.

Bad feelings.

Cryptic nonsense.

No plan.

Perfect.

She started toward the ship anyway.


The corridor was quiet.

Not actually quiet—nothing on a warship was ever quiet—but quiet in the way that mattered. No shouting. No engines screaming directly overhead. No clones sprinting past like the fate of the Republic depended on how fast they could run in a straight line.

Just the low hum of the ship and the distant, constant reminder that somewhere outside, people were already trying to kill each other.

Which made it the perfect place to panic responsibly.

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at nothing in particular and everything at once, trying to organize a timeline that refused to sit still.

Blockade. Push through. Land anyway. Ambush.

Failure.

Pinned down.

And that wasn't even the part that bothered me.

Footsteps approached—steady, unhurried.

Of course.

I didn't look up as Maris Brood stopped next to me. She didn't ask why I'd pulled her aside. Didn't ask what was wrong.

She just waited.

Because she already knew there was something.

Which, honestly, was becoming a problem.

I pushed off the wall, running a hand through my hair. "Okay, so. Hypothetically."

"Mm."

That was her "continue" noise.

"Hypothetically," I went on, pacing once, because standing still made this feel more real, "if someone had a very specific feeling about how this battle is about to go—"

Her eyes were already on me.

Focused.

Great.

No easing into it, then.

"—not like a vague 'this might be bad,'" I added, gesturing vaguely, "but more like 'we are about to follow a very unfortunate sequence of events.'"

There was a beat.

Maris didn't blink. "Can we not do that sequence of events, then?"

Straight to solutions.

I appreciated that.

"I would love that."

"Then don't let them."

I stopped pacing.

Turned to look at her.

She was completely serious.

No sarcasm. No edge. Just a perfectly reasonable suggestion, like I'd just informed her the ship was on fire and she'd responded with "put it out."

"It's not that easy."

"It literally is." She pushed off the wall, stepping closer, arms folding as she tilted her head at me. "You just start yelling earlier."

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Because the worst part was—

She wasn't wrong.

That was absolutely a strategy.

A terrible one.

But also… not entirely invalid.

I exhaled slowly, scrubbing a hand over my face. "Okay, yes, in theory, I could just walk onto the bridge and start shouting that everything is about to go badly, but there are… complications."

"Like?"

"Like I don't technically have clearance to interrupt two Jedi Generals mid-battle to tell them their plan isn't going to work."

Maris shrugged. "That's not a real problem."

"It becomes a real problem when they ask me how I know it's not going to work."

"Say it's the Force."

"It is the Force," I said, then immediately regretted how true that sounded.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

Right.

Because now it sounded like I actually meant that.

Which… I did.

Just not in the way everyone else would assume.

I gestured vaguely, trying to backtrack without actually backtracking. "It's just—specific. Too specific. There's a difference between a bad feeling and… a step-by-step preview of everything going wrong in order."

Maris considered that.

Then, very slowly, a small, sharp smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.

Oh no.

That was the "this is interesting" expression.

"You know what happens."

That was not a question.

I pointed at her. "That tone right there? That's exactly why I didn't open with that."

"Because it's true."

"Because it sounds insane."

"Both."

Fair.

I looked past her, down the corridor, like the right answer might be hiding somewhere between two identical gray walls.

It wasn't.

What I had was a half-remembered sequence of events that had already started drifting off-script the moment we arrived early, with clones, and an entire political situation that technically shouldn't exist yet.

Which meant any attempt to "fix" things could very easily make them worse.

Butterfly effect.

My old enemy.

I sighed. "We try to push through the blockade. It works—kind of. We land anyway. There's an ambush plan. It fails. We get pinned down."

Maris didn't interrupt.

Didn't react.

Just watched.

Which was somehow worse.

"And that's just the part I'm confident about," I added. "After that, things get… less reliable."

"Because we're here."

"Because we're here," I agreed.

Because we'd already changed things.

Because this wasn't the same timeline anymore.

Because I was trying to predict a story that was actively rewriting itself around me.

Maris tapped her fingers lightly against her arm, thinking.

"Okay," she said finally. "So we don't do the ambush."

I stared at her.

"That's… surprisingly reasonable."

"I have those moments."

"Rare, but appreciated."

She ignored that. "We warn them."

"And they ask how we know."

"We say it's the Force."

"We say it's the Force," I echoed, because apparently that was my life now. "And when they ask for details?"

Maris's expression didn't change.

"Make something up."

I let out a short, incredulous breath.

"You're suggesting I lie to Jedi Masters. On a battlefield. About a Force vision."

"Yes."

"…You say that like it's a normal thing."

"It can be."

I stared at her.

She stared back.

Completely unbothered.

Of course she was.

Of course this was her solution.

And the worst part?

It might actually work.

Not because it was a good plan.

But because in the middle of a battle, with everything falling apart, someone confidently insisting "the Force says this is a bad idea" might be just enough to make people hesitate.

And hesitation was all it took to change a sequence.

I dragged a hand down my face again.

This was a terrible idea.

This was absolutely a terrible idea.

"…I might have to start yelling earlier," I admitted.

Maris's smile sharpened slightly. "There it is."

I pointed at her again. "If this goes badly, I'm blaming you."

"If this goes badly, you were already going to."

Also true.

I pushed off the wall, straightening.

Somewhere in the distance, another klaxon sounded—deployment getting closer, the window for doing anything about this shrinking by the second.

No more time to overthink it.

Which, historically, was when my best decisions happened.

"Okay," I muttered. "We try it your way."

Maris arched a brow. "My way is 'be loud.'"

"Then I'll be loud."

"Earlier."

"Earlier," I agreed.

She nodded once, satisfied, like we'd just finalized a perfectly reasonable strategy instead of committing to whatever this was.

I took a breath.

Let it out.

Right.

Step one: interrupt trained war leaders mid-battle.

Step two: convince them their plan was bad.

Step three: somehow make things better.

Simple.

Easy.

Completely impossible.

I started down the corridor anyway.

Because apparently, my options were:

A) do nothing and watch everything go wrong in order

or

B) start yelling earlier.

…Yeah, no, she had a point.


War, Obi-Wan decided, was remarkably impolite.

Not in the abstract sense—war was many things, most of them unpleasant—but in the very immediate, very personal sense of no one was following the plan.

Which was unfortunate.

Because he had, in fact, made one.

It hadn't been a perfect plan, of course. Perfection tended to require cooperation from all parties involved, and the Separatists had proven distressingly unwilling to provide that. Still, it had been a good plan. Sensible. Structured. Built on the comforting assumption that the Republic fleet would behave like a fleet and not an enthusiastic collection of individuals doing their best.

That assumption, in hindsight, might have been optimistic.

"Close the gap on the right flank," he instructed, voice level despite the way the formation on the display continued to… drift. "You're leaving yourselves exposed."

"Sir, we're adjusting, but the—"

The cruiser to their right lurched out of position, forced into a sharp evasive maneuver as a line of green fire stitched across where it had been moments before.

—yes.

That.

"Understood," Obi-Wan amended, because it would be rude to pretend things were going better than they were. "Do try to remain intact while doing so."

Across the bridge, clone officers moved with precision that was admirable, if slightly delayed. Orders were followed. Corrections were made.

Just not quite fast enough.

Not quite cleanly enough.

Not yet.

Because this was their first real battle.

Because training exercises did not typically involve being shot at by a well-prepared enemy fleet.

Because experience, inconveniently, required surviving long enough to acquire it.

On the forward display, the Separatist formation shifted again—smooth, deliberate, almost elegant in its efficiency. Ships moved like parts of a single organism, each adjustment covering a weakness before it could be exploited, each line of fire intersecting with the next in a web of controlled destruction.

No hesitation.

No confusion.

No wasted motion.

Obi-Wan felt a flicker of reluctant admiration.

It was, objectively, very well done.

It was also deeply inconvenient.

"Reinforce forward shields," he continued, already adjusting, already abandoning the original structure in favor of something more… flexible. "Angle the cruisers—no, not like that. Slightly inward. Yes, there."

Better.

Not good.

But better.

A flash of light bloomed on the edge of the display—another Republic ship taking a hit, shields flaring under the impact.

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly through his nose.

This was the part they did not include in the briefings.

Not the danger—everyone expected danger—but the mess of it.

The way a formation unraveled not all at once, but piece by piece, each small correction creating two more problems somewhere else.

The way timing slipped.

The way coordination frayed.

The way an enemy who knew exactly what they were doing could turn those small imperfections into something far more serious.

"General," a clone officer reported, voice tight but controlled, "enemy ships are concentrating fire on our forward elements."

"Yes, I can see that," Obi-Wan replied mildly, eyes tracking the pattern. It was difficult to miss. "They are doing so with rather impressive consistency."

Consistency was, regrettably, a strength.

"Signal the rear cruisers to advance," he added, adjusting again. "We'll redistribute pressure—if we cannot outmaneuver them, we may at least inconvenience them."

It was not the most inspiring strategy.

But it was a practical one.

Beside him, Anakin Skywalker was doing something that could generously be described as taking initiative.

Less generously, it could be described as attempting to solve the problem by applying more of himself to it.

"Forward ships, with me," Anakin called, leaning into the command console like sheer proximity would make the plan more effective. "We push straight through—don't give them time to adjust."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly.

Ah.

That plan.

Of course.

Because when faced with a well-organized defensive formation, the most logical response was to charge directly into it.

With enthusiasm.

There was, admittedly, a certain simplicity to it.

"Anakin," he said, tone carefully measured, "we might consider—"

Another volley struck close, the ship shuddering as the shock rippled through the hull. Not a direct hit, but near enough to remind everyone involved that proximity was a poor substitute for safety.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes again, gaze flicking back to the display.

The formation was holding.

Barely.

The enemy was adapting.

Effortlessly.

And the Republic fleet—

Was learning.

Rapidly.

Painfully.

But learning.

He adjusted his stance slightly, hands folding into his sleeves as he recalculated for what felt like the tenth time in as many minutes.

The original plan was gone.

Entirely irrelevant now.

Replaced by something far less elegant and far more immediate.

Respond.

Adapt.

Repeat.

"Very well," he said at last, because despite everything, Anakin was not entirely wrong. Momentum did matter. Initiative did matter. And at present, they possessed very little of either. "If we are to proceed with this… approach, we shall do so with as much coordination as circumstances permit."

Translation: if we are going to do this, we are going to do it properly.

Or at least, as properly as possible under the circumstances.

"Signal all ships," he continued, voice steady, projecting calm whether or not it was entirely warranted. "On General Skywalker's mark, we advance together. Maintain formation as best you are able, and do try not to collide with one another. It would be most embarrassing."

A faint pause followed.

Then, a chorus of acknowledgments.

Good.

They were listening.

That was something.

Outside, the battle raged on—precise lines of green fire cutting through the void, Republic ships shifting, adjusting, holding together through determination if not yet through experience.

Obi-Wan watched it all, tracking movement, predicting trajectories, staying just a step behind an opponent who had begun the engagement several steps ahead.

Unfortunate.

But not insurmountable.

He had been in worse situations.

Admittedly, not many.

And rarely quite so quickly.

The ship trembled again, more distant this time, as the fleet began to align—imperfectly, unevenly, but with intent.

Forward.

Into the blockade.

Into the fire.

Obi-Wan allowed himself the smallest, most private sigh.

Yes.

This was going to be one of those battles.


There were, broadly speaking, two kinds of plans.

The first kind were the ones you made ahead of time. Thought out. Structured. Sensible. The kind that involved formations and contingencies and calm, measured responses to developing situations.

The second kind were the ones that actually worked.

Anakin Skywalker stared at the tactical display, watching the Separatist formation move like it had been choreographed by someone who hated him personally.

Clean lines. Overlapping fields of fire. Ships covering each other's blind spots like they'd been doing this for years instead of hours.

Every time the Republic adjusted, the blockade adjusted faster.

Every time they pushed, the enemy absorbed it and redirected the pressure somewhere worse.

It was efficient.

It was controlled.

It was very annoying.

"Forward elements are losing cohesion," a clone officer reported. "We're taking sustained fire across the line."

Anakin could see that.

Feel it, too—the steady, mounting pressure of something slipping out of control, not all at once, but piece by piece. Ships drifting too far apart. Timing just slightly off. Openings forming where there shouldn't be any.

They weren't breaking.

Not yet.

But they weren't winning, either.

And if this kept going?

They wouldn't have to.

The blockade would do it for them.

Anakin leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing at the display, tracking the pattern.

Because there was a pattern.

There was always a pattern.

The enemy formation wasn't just holding—it was guiding them. Letting the Republic push in certain places, closing down others, shaping the battlefield into something predictable.

Something controlled.

Something they could finish.

Unless—

Unless you stopped playing by the pattern.

His gaze flicked across the formation again, faster this time, not looking for structure, but for weakness.

Not a gap.

They wouldn't leave a gap.

But a point of strain. A place where the precision mattered most—where disrupting it would cause everything else to start unraveling.

There.

Two cruisers, slightly offset. Covering a junction point where multiple firing lines intersected. Tight coordination. Minimal margin for error.

Perfect.

Anakin straightened. "All forward ships, with me."

There was a brief pause—just long enough for that to register as a new instruction, not a continuation of the old one.

"We're breaking through."

On the other side of the bridge, Obi-Wan Kenobi went very still.

That was usually a sign.

Anakin pressed on anyway.

"Direct line," he continued, already mapping it out in his head. "We hit them here, full force. Don't slow down, don't spread out—we punch through before they can adjust."

"General," a clone said carefully, "that position is heavily defended."

"Yes," Anakin agreed.

That was the point.

If it wasn't, it wouldn't matter.

Behind him, Obi-Wan stepped closer, voice lowering just enough to be conversational, which was never a good sign. "Anakin, we might consider a more measured—"

"They're controlling the fight," Anakin cut in, not looking away from the display. "Every move we make, they're already ready for it. So we stop giving them moves to predict."

A beat.

Silence, except for the distant hum of the ship and the not-so-distant sounds of things exploding.

"…By doing something unpredictable," Obi-Wan said.

"Exactly."

"That is one word for it."

Anakin allowed himself the faintest hint of a grin. "It's a good plan."

"It is certainly a plan."

Good enough.

"Signal the fleet," Anakin ordered. "We go on my mark."

Acknowledgments came in, one after another—some immediate, some a fraction slower.

Hesitation.

Understandable.

They could see the same thing he could.

Which was to say, they could see exactly how much firepower they were about to fly directly into.

Anakin's focus sharpened, the rest of the bridge fading slightly as the Force settled around him—threads of motion, of timing, of possibility stretching forward into something just clear enough to follow.

Not safe.

Definitely not safe.

But possible.

"Now."

The fleet moved.

Not perfectly.

Not cleanly.

But together.

Republic ships surged forward, engines flaring as they abandoned their careful, failing formation in favor of something far more aggressive.

Far more direct.

Straight into the heart of the blockade.

For a moment—just a moment—it looked like a terrible idea.

Then the Separatists adjusted.

Of course they did.

Precision shifted. Firing lines realigned. The formation flexed to absorb the impact—

—and for the first time since the battle began, it wasn't seamless.

A fraction too slow.

A fraction too tight.

Enough.

"Keep going!" Anakin snapped, already pushing forward, already committing past the point where hesitation would mean death. "Don't let them reset!"

Green fire lanced past, closer now—too close—but the forward ships held, driving into the narrow point between the cruisers, forcing space where there wasn't meant to be any.

A Republic cruiser took a direct hit to the shields, flaring bright as it powered through instead of pulling back.

Another drifted out of position, clipped by a glancing shot that sent it spinning just enough to break the line.

Formation—gone.

Structure—gone.

But momentum?

Momentum was everything.

The gap widened.

Not cleanly.

Not safely.

But it widened.

And suddenly—

They were through.

Not all of them.

Not perfectly.

But enough.

Behind them, the blockade twisted, trying to re-form, to close the breach, but it was already too late. The Republic fleet had punched a hole straight through the center, leaving the careful, controlled formation fractured in their wake.

For a few precious seconds, the battlefield belonged to chaos.

Anakin let out a slow breath, tension bleeding out of his shoulders as the immediate pressure eased.

It worked.

Of course it worked.

It was his plan.

Around him, the damage reports started coming in.

"Multiple ships reporting heavy shield loss."

"Two cruisers with hull breaches—damage control teams responding."

"Formation integrity at—" a pause, like the officer wasn't entirely sure how to phrase it, "—significantly reduced."

Anakin winced.

Right.

That part.

Behind him, Obi-Wan was very quiet.

Which was never a good sign.

"That," Obi-Wan said finally, in the tone of someone who had reached a conclusion and was deeply unhappy about it, "was reckless."

Anakin turned slightly, gesturing back toward the display where the broken blockade still struggled to recover. "It worked."

A beat.

Obi-Wan's gaze shifted to the same display, taking in the damage, the scattered formation, the very real cost of that success.

"…Partially," he allowed.

Anakin tilted his head, conceding the point with a small shrug. "Partially is still better than not at all."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly, like he was reconsidering several life choices at once.

"Yes," he said at last, with the air of a man who had accepted the inevitable. "I suppose it is."

Which, as far as Anakin was concerned, meant the plan had been a complete success.


The first thing I noticed was that we hadn't died in space.

Which, given the last five minutes, felt like an achievement worth acknowledging.

The second thing I noticed was that we had very much not solved the problem.

The gunship rattled as it descended through the atmosphere of Christophsis, turbulence kicking just hard enough to make it clear the pilot was doing their best and the situation was doing its worst. Around us, other ships cut through the sky in staggered, uneven lines—some too fast, some too slow, all of them carrying the very strong energy of we made it through and now we have no plan for what happens next.

Which, to be fair, was accurate.

I leaned slightly to the side, peering out through the viewport as the cloud cover thinned—

—and there it was.

The city.

Occupied.

Entrenched.

Prepared.

"…oh, that's bad," I muttered, because sometimes the obvious needed to be said out loud for emotional closure.

Beside me, Maris Brood didn't react immediately. Which meant she was looking at the same thing I was and coming to the same conclusion, just faster and with less need to narrate it.

Droid forces lined the outer districts in clean, organized formations—defensive perimeters already established, patrol routes already in motion. Heavy artillery sat positioned at key approach points, angled upward just enough to remind anyone arriving that they had, in fact, planned for this exact scenario.

For us.

Specifically.

I squinted slightly, leaning forward as the gunship banked, giving me a better angle—

—and there.

Command position.

Elevated.

Central.

A Neimoidian-shaped problem with a flair for overconfidence.

Whorm Loathsom stood exactly where I remembered him being.

Of course he did.

Of course this was happening like this.

Of course the enemy commander was already in place, already dug in, already waiting for us to show up like we'd RSVP'd to our own ambush.

Yep.

This was going exactly how I remembered.

Which was deeply unfortunate, because what I remembered was:

This part sucks.

The gunship jolted as it hit a pocket of rough air, stabilizers whining as the pilot fought to keep us level. Below, the city didn't get any less prepared the longer I looked at it.

If anything, it got worse.

More droids moving into position.

More guns tracking upward.

More very clear indications that we had arrived late to a fight that had already been set up without us.

"You're doing that thing again."

I blinked, dragging my attention away from the incoming disaster and over to Maris.

She was watching me now instead of the battlefield, arms loosely crossed, expression somewhere between curious and mildly judgmental.

Which, coming from her, was basically concern.

"I hate this thing," I said immediately.

Because I did.

I really did.

This was the worst possible version of foresight.

Not helpful, vague warnings like danger approaches or trust in the Force.

No.

I got play-by-play spoilers for how everything was about to go wrong.

And then I got to live through them anyway.

Maris tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. "Let me guess. This is where it gets worse."

I gestured vaguely out the viewport. "This is where it was already worse, and now we're here to experience it in person."

"Fun."

"Immensely."

The gunship dropped lower, the city rising up to meet us in sharp angles and hard edges. I could see the landing zones now—or what passed for landing zones when the alternative was don't land and die in the air.

Republic forces were already touching down in scattered positions, deployments uneven, coordination… aspirational.

Clones moved fast, securing what ground they could, setting up defensive lines that looked a lot like please don't shoot us immediately.

Which, again, fair.

They were doing their best.

Their best just happened to be colliding headfirst with a situation designed to punish exactly that.

I exhaled slowly, bracing a hand against the side of the gunship as we came in for landing.

Okay.

So.

Recap.

Enemy entrenched.

Artillery ready.

Command structure intact.

Republic forces disorganized from the breakthrough.

And me, standing here with a very clear memory of how badly this could go if we followed the script.

No pressure.

Maris shifted beside me, glancing back out at the city, then at me again. "So. What's the play?"

Ah.

Yes.

The part where I was supposed to do something about it.

I considered, briefly, lying.

Saying something vague and Jedi-like.

We'll adapt.

We'll trust in the Force.

It will be fine.

Unfortunately, I had already established a pattern of honesty, and now I was stuck with it.

"We are," I said slowly, "about to walk directly into a fortified position with poor coordination, limited intel, and an enemy who has already accounted for our arrival."

Maris nodded once. "Okay."

"That's the plan."

"That's a bad plan."

"That is an objectively terrible plan."

The gunship hit the ground with a solid thud, the ramp already starting to lower as blaster fire echoed in the distance—sharp, immediate, very real.

Showtime.

Maris uncrossed her arms, rolling her shoulders like she was preparing for a mild inconvenience instead of a full-scale battle. "So we fix it."

I glanced at her.

Then at the city.

Then back at her.

"…we fix it," I echoed, because apparently that was what we did now. We showed up to disasters and decided they were optional.

The ramp dropped fully, light spilling in along with the distant chaos of a battlefield already in progress.

I took a step forward, then paused, because there was one very important detail that needed to be acknowledged before we committed to this.

"If I start yelling," I said, glancing sideways at her, "just go with it."

Maris didn't even hesitate. "I always do."

That was somehow more concerning than reassuring.

Blaster fire cracked closer now.

Clones shouted.

Droids answered.

And somewhere out there, a very smug Neimoidian was probably feeling extremely confident about how this was all about to go.

I stepped off the gunship and into the middle of it anyway.

Because apparently, my job today was to take a perfectly good sequence of terrible events—

—and ruin it.


The command post was… organized.

Not calm.

Not quiet.

Definitely not safe.

But organized in the way everything else wasn't.

Ahsoka Tano stepped inside and immediately felt the difference. Outside had been noise and chaos and try not to get shot while figuring out where anything is. Inside was movement with purpose—clones moving between stations, reports being called out, holomaps updating in real time as the battle shifted by the second.

It looked like control.

Which was comforting.

Right up until you noticed how fast everything was changing.

"…Forward line's holding, but barely."

"Reinforcements are three minutes out—assuming they don't get shot down."

"Recalculating artillery spread—"

Ahsoka kept her posture straight, expression neutral, walking in like she absolutely belonged here and had not, ten minutes ago, been wondering if she was about to die in space.

Fake it.

That was the strategy.

Fake it until someone told her to leave.

Or until she accidentally did something that revealed she had no idea what she was doing.

Either one.

A clone in blue-marked armor glanced up as she approached—visor tilting just slightly, like he was reassessing something.

Clocked.

Immediately.

Of course he did.

Captain Rex had the distinct presence of someone who noticed things for a living, and right now, the thing he was noticing was her.

New.

Unproven.

Very obviously not a General.

"Commander," he said, tone respectful but measured, like he was testing the word to see if it fit.

It did not.

But she appreciated the effort.

Ahsoka folded her hands behind her back, nodding once like she'd been doing this for years instead of not even officially being assigned yet. "Captain."

Good.

Short.

Confident.

Minimal opportunity to say something wrong.

Rex studied her for half a second longer.

Adjusted.

Just like that.

No hesitation, no challenge—just a subtle shift in posture, in tone, recalibrating expectations from experienced leadership to new variable to account for.

It was almost impressive how fast it happened.

"Situation's unstable," he said, turning slightly to gesture at the holomap. "Enemy's dug in deeper than expected. We're holding position, but we're not pushing them back yet."

Translation: this was bad, but not immediately catastrophic.

Progress.

Beside the central display, another clone looked up from his station—armor marked in orange, posture just a fraction more rigid, like discipline had been welded directly into his spine.

Commander Cody gave her a brief nod. "We're coordinating with General Kenobi's position. Once the line stabilizes, we can start advancing."

Ahsoka nodded back, because that sounded like something a person who knew what they were doing would agree with. "Good."

Yes.

Excellent contribution.

No notes.

Behind her, the air shifted slightly.

Not physically.

Something else.

Subtler.

More… concerning.

Several clones straightened just a little, movements tightening in a way that had nothing to do with discipline and everything to do with instinct.

Ahsoka didn't need to turn around to know why.

Maris Brood had entered the room.

She wasn't doing anything.

That was the problem.

She just stood there, looking vaguely disinterested in the entire concept of war, like this was all mildly inconvenient and not worth her full attention.

And somehow, that was worse.

One of the nearby clones shifted his stance, just slightly, like he'd decided standing exactly where he was might be a poor life choice.

Another avoided eye contact entirely.

A third looked at her, paused, and then very deliberately looked somewhere else.

Maris didn't acknowledge any of it.

She just leaned against a nearby console, arms crossing, expression flat.

Ahsoka had known her for years.

This was normal.

Apparently, it was not normal for everyone else.

"…she does that," Ahsoka offered, because it felt like an explanation was needed.

Rex glanced past her, taking in Maris with the same quick, assessing look.

There was a pause.

Then, very calmly, "Noted."

Adjustment number two.

Somewhere to Ahsoka's left, Ben Kryze was doing something far more dangerous than intimidating trained soldiers.

He was thinking.

Specifically, he was staring at the holomap like it had personally offended him, eyes tracking movements that hadn't happened yet, jaw set in a way that suggested he was actively fighting the urge to say something.

Which meant—

Oh no.

He was doing the thing.

Again.

Ahsoka sidestepped slightly, lowering her voice as she leaned closer. "Don't."

"I'm not—" Ben started, then stopped, because even he didn't believe that.

His gaze flicked across the display again—enemy positions, artillery arcs, Republic movement—

—and he winced.

That was never a good sign.

"You're about to," she pressed.

"I'm trying not to."

"That has never worked."

"That's not fair."

"That's accurate."

Ben dragged a hand down his face, like he was attempting to physically remove the problem. "Okay, but what if I just—hypothetically—suggest that maybe we shouldn't, I don't know, advance directly into that very obvious kill zone?"

Ahsoka followed his gaze.

There was, in fact, a very obvious kill zone.

Marked by overlapping fields of fire.

And several large guns pointed directly at it.

"…that does seem bad," she admitted.

"Right?"

"But also, how do you know that?"

Ben froze.

Exactly.

Rex's attention shifted back toward them—not suspicious, not confrontational, just… aware.

Listening.

Because of course he was.

Because this was his job.

Ben straightened slightly, expression smoothing over into something that aimed for "calm Jedi insight" and landed somewhere around "person about to lie very badly."

"The Force," he said.

Ahsoka closed her eyes briefly.

Of course.

Of course that was the answer.

Behind them, Maris didn't even bother pretending to be subtle. "He means he has a bad feeling."

Ben pointed at her without looking. "Thank you for the assist."

"You're welcome."

Rex watched the exchange, helmet tilted just enough to suggest he was filing this under unusual, but not immediately problematic.

Another adjustment.

"Noted," he said again, turning back to the holomap. "We'll factor that in."

Ahsoka blinked.

That—

That worked?

Ben blinked too, looking just as surprised.

"…that worked," he muttered.

Maris shrugged. "You started yelling earlier."

Ahsoka stared at both of them.

Then back at the holomap.

Then at the clones, already adjusting positions, already integrating that information into their planning like it was just another variable to account for.

Professional.

Efficient.

Completely unfazed by the fact that their "intel" had just come from a teenager with a suspiciously specific bad feeling.

Okay.

Sure.

That was fine.

Everything was fine.

Ahsoka straightened slightly, folding her hands behind her back again, trying very hard to look like she had expected all of this.

Around her, the command post moved with purpose—clones adapting, recalculating, preparing for the next phase of a battle none of them had ever fought before.

And somehow—

They were making it work.

Which meant she had exactly one job.

Keep up.

And maybe try not to look new while doing it.


The plan, Obi-Wan reflected, was excellent.

Which was, unfortunately, not always a reassuring quality.

He stood at the center of the forward command post, hands folded neatly into his sleeves, studying the holomap as it rendered the city in clean lines and helpful simplifications—enemy positions marked, Republic forces indicated, projected movements traced in calm, confident arcs.

On the display, everything made sense.

Which was precisely why it warranted suspicion.

"We advance along the outer districts," Obi-Wan Kenobi said, indicating the projected path with a small, measured gesture. "Draw their attention forward. Once they commit to the engagement, a secondary force moves through the interior—here—cutting behind their lines and collapsing their formation."

A classic maneuver.

Textbook, even.

It relied on coordination, timing, and the assumption that the enemy would respond in a predictable manner.

All very reasonable things to expect in a well-ordered engagement.

All very optimistic things to expect in the current one.

Still, it was sound.

More than sound—it was likely their best available option given the circumstances.

To his right, Anakin Skywalker leaned slightly closer to the display, eyes tracking the movement with clear interest. "We split their focus, hit them from two sides, and force them to overextend."

"Precisely."

Anakin nodded once. "I like it."

Of course he did.

It involved forward momentum.

And hitting things.

To the left, Commander Cody was already adjusting unit placements, integrating the plan into something actionable, while Captain Rex coordinated timing windows with quiet efficiency.

Professional.

Capable.

Learning very quickly how to turn theory into survival.

It was, all things considered, coming together rather well.

Which, again, was concerning.

A small movement at the edge of the group drew Obi-Wan's attention.

Ben Kryze had raised his hand.

Not dramatically.

Not urgently.

Just… politely.

As though they were in a lecture hall and not in the middle of an active battlefield.

Every eye in the room shifted toward him.

There was a brief pause.

Obi-Wan inclined his head slightly. "Yes?"

Ben hesitated.

Which, in itself, was unusual.

Then, carefully, "What if… we didn't do that?"

Silence.

Not long.

But noticeable.

Anakin turned his head, brow furrowing. "Why?"

A reasonable question.

Ben gestured vaguely toward the holomap, like the answer might be somewhere on it if he waved at it enough. "Oh, you know. Bad feeling. I'm not saying it's a trap."

A beat.

"But I'm not not saying that, either."

Ah.

One of those.

Obi-Wan regarded him for a moment, considering.

The boy had demonstrated… unusual instincts thus far. Vague, perhaps, but not entirely without merit. And the Force did, on occasion, express itself in precisely this manner—impressions without clarity, warnings without explanation.

Inconvenient.

But not to be dismissed outright.

He turned his gaze back to the holomap, studying the projected paths again, this time with that suggestion in mind.

An ambush.

It would, admittedly, be a logical counter.

Allow the Republic to advance.

Encourage the maneuver.

Then collapse inward once they were committed.

Yes.

That was certainly possible.

Not guaranteed.

But possible.

Behind Ben, Maris Brood spoke up, tone as casual as if she were commenting on the weather. "I also have a bad feeling."

Obi-Wan's eyes flicked briefly in her direction.

Of course she did.

Of course they both did.

There was something faintly concerning about the consistency of that.

To the side, Ahsoka Tano shifted slightly, glancing between them and the map. "…I don't," she admitted, after a moment, "but now I'm nervous."

An understandable progression.

Anakin crossed his arms, looking between the three of them, expression caught somewhere between skepticism and reluctant consideration. "So the plan is bad because you have a bad feeling."

"That is the current argument," Obi-Wan said mildly.

Another pause settled over the group, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful—each of them weighing instinct against structure, intuition against necessity.

The map remained unchanged.

The situation remained unchanged.

And the alternatives…

Were limited.

Obi-Wan exhaled softly, decision settling into place not with certainty, but with the quiet acceptance that certainty was, at present, unavailable.

"It is a risk," he allowed.

Ben brightened slightly, like that was the opening he'd been hoping for.

"However," Obi-Wan continued, before that could develop into anything further, "it is also a calculated one. We are aware of the possibility. We will account for it as best we can."

Ben's expression did something complicated—half relief, half that did not fix the problem at all.

Maris didn't look surprised.

Ahsoka looked exactly as nervous as she'd just claimed to be.

Anakin, on the other hand, gave a short nod, decision made. "We go with the plan."

Of course they did.

Because it was a good plan.

Because it was the best plan available.

Because sometimes, even knowing something might go wrong did not provide a viable alternative.

Obi-Wan allowed himself a small, private sigh.

Yes.

This was all entirely reasonable.

"We proceed," he said, voice calm, steady, carrying easily across the command post. "Maintain communication, watch for any deviations in enemy movement, and be prepared to adapt."

In other words:

When this inevitably becomes more complicated, do try to survive it.

Around him, the clones moved immediately, orders acknowledged, preparations set into motion with practiced efficiency.

The plan that definitely would not work—

—was now, officially, in motion.

Obi-Wan clasped his hands behind his back, gaze lingering on the holomap just a moment longer.

It was still an excellent plan.

Which remained, he suspected, the problem.

What was that old saying? No plan survives first contact.


The clones moved like a machine.

Not in the droid way.

Not stiff. Not predictable.

Worse.

They were fluid.

They adapted on the fly, shifting positions, covering angles, communicating in clipped, efficient bursts that somehow conveyed everything they needed to know without wasting a single second. It was like watching a hundred different people all share the same brain—

—which, okay, technically, they kind of did.

That didn't make it less unsettling.

I leaned against the edge of the command post, arms crossed, watching them move with the kind of focus that would've made Master Yoda proud and given me a migraine.

Because somewhere in all of that?

There was a problem.

Not a visible one.

Not a tactical one.

A story one.

A memory scratching at the back of my brain like an itch I couldn't reach.

Traitor.

There was a traitor.

Somewhere.

My gaze drifted across the room—clone troopers at their stations, moving in and out, checking weapons, updating positions, relaying orders. Helmets on, helmets off, identical faces, identical voices, identical—

Kriffing everything.

How was anyone supposed to tell them apart?

No, that wasn't fair.

They were different. Subtle differences in posture, tone, the way they carried themselves. Captain Rex stood like someone who expected things to go wrong and had already planned for it. Commander Cody had that tighter edge, like discipline was the only thing holding the entire situation together.

Individuals.

People.

Just… copy-pasted first.

Which made my job infinitely worse.

I narrowed my eyes slightly, tracking one of the sergeants as he crossed the room, helmet tucked under his arm. Standard armor, no particularly distinct markings, expression focused, movements efficient.

Normal.

Completely normal.

Which meant absolutely nothing.

Because that was the problem.

Normal didn't mean safe.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, a half-remembered scene tried to surface—blaster fire, confusion, someone turning at the wrong moment, something going very, very wrong.

A name—

Almost had it.

Sly?

…Was it Sly?

That didn't sound right.

That sounded like a background NPC who gave you a fetch quest and then died in Act Two to establish stakes.

Kriff.

I dragged a hand down my face, staring harder at the clones like if I just looked long enough, one of them would spontaneously develop a "Hi, I'm the traitor" sign.

Nothing.

Just more competence.

More efficiency.

More men who were about to follow orders into a plan I was about eighty percent sure was going to go sideways.

Which, okay, that part wasn't new.

But the why of it?

That was bothering me.

The traitor was a sergeant.

That much I was sure about.

Not an officer. Not a captain. Not someone high enough to be obvious.

Mid-level.

Trusted enough to have responsibility.

Low enough to be overlooked.

Which narrowed it down to—

I scanned the room again.

—way too many kriffing people.

Fantastic.

"Problem?" Maris Brood's voice cut in from my left, flat as always, like she was asking about the weather instead of my rapidly unraveling sanity.

I didn't look at her. "What makes you say that?"

She leaned against the console beside me, following my line of sight out across the command post. "You're staring at them like one of them insulted you personally."

"That implies I know which one."

"Fair."

I exhaled slowly, arms tightening across my chest. "There's a traitor."

That got her attention.

Not visibly.

But I knew her.

The slightest shift.

"Source?" she asked.

I tapped the side of my head. "Vague, unreliable, possibly outdated Force vision stuff."

"…great."

"Right?"

Maris considered that for about half a second. "Do we know who?"

"If I did, this would be a much shorter conversation."

She hummed, eyes drifting over the clones again, just as unreadable as before. "Rank?"

"Sergeant."

Another pause.

"…that's not helpful."

"I'm aware."

I pushed off the wall slightly, pacing a step forward, then back, gaze flicking from one trooper to the next like I was trying to solve a puzzle where all the pieces looked exactly the same.

Because I was.

And I was losing.

Badly.

"Name?" Maris asked.

I hesitated.

"…maybe Sly?"

She turned her head just enough to look at me.

"That's not a real answer."

"I didn't say it with confidence."

"You didn't say it with anything."

"I said it with desperation."

"Ah. That explains it."

I scrubbed a hand through my hair, glaring at absolutely nothing. "There are too many moving parts. Too many things we've already changed. The timeline's basically held together with duct tape and bad decisions at this point."

Maris nodded once. "So even the parts you do know—"

"—are now unreliable," I finished.

Which was just great.

Love that for me.

Somewhere across the room, a group of clones moved out, receiving orders, falling into formation with the kind of precision that made it very clear they trusted the people giving those orders.

Trusted the system.

Trusted each other.

And one of them—

One of them might not deserve that.

My jaw tightened slightly.

Okay.

Fine.

If I couldn't identify the exact who, then I could at least narrow the when.

Ambush.

That was the part that kept coming back to me.

The plan.

The very good, very logical, very probably compromised plan.

My gaze drifted toward the holomap again, where the projected movements were still being finalized.

If something was going to happen…

It would happen there.

Which meant—

I exhaled slowly.

"Guess I'll just have to watch everyone," I muttered.

Maris snorted quietly. "That sounds sustainable."

"I didn't say it was a good plan."

She shrugged. "At least you're consistent."

Yeah.

That was one word for it.

Across the command post, the clones kept moving—focused, efficient, completely unaware that one of their own might be a problem I couldn't even properly define.

And me?

I just stood there, watching them, trying to spot the one piece that didn't fit.

So far?

Everything fit perfectly.

Which, honestly—

That was the most suspicious part.


Night on a battlefield wasn't quiet.

That was the first lie.

It just felt quiet.

I sat on the edge of a low durasteel barricade, elbows on my knees, looking out over the distant glow of enemy lines. Red lights blinked in the dark where droid patrols moved in clean, predictable paths. Artillery platforms hummed faintly as they charged, low and constant, like the planet itself had decided to start growling.

Behind us, the Republic did the same thing—just… more human about it.

Clones moved through the camp in steady patterns, checking weapons, reinforcing positions, running final drills like this was just another exercise and not the night before everything went wrong.

Because of course it was.

That's when everything always went wrong.

To my left, Ahsoka Tano sat cross-legged on the ground, quieter than I'd ever seen her. No pacing. No commentary. No "this is probably fine" energy.

Just… still.

To my right, Maris Brood leaned back against the barricade, arms crossed, staring out at the same battlefield like she was waiting for it to do something interesting. Though I could see the tension hidden in her posture that she disguised with nonchalance.

For once?

Nobody had anything clever to say.

Ahsoka broke first. "This is really happening."

She couldn't believe it.

Even when she was seeing it with her own eyes. I knew the feeling.

Maris didn't look at her. "Yeah."

That was it.

That was the entire emotional exchange.

Honestly, it was pretty emotionally expressive for Maris.

I huffed out a quiet breath, gaze drifting across the horizon again. Droids out there. Clones back here. Jedi in the middle pretending we had control over any of it.

This was a bit different than Tatooine.

For one, I wasn't the one charging.

Which was honestly the worst part.

I hate being on the back foot.

It felt wrong.

Like I'd walked into a fight already losing and nobody had bothered to tell me the rules. But as much as I hated it, it wasn't going to even come close to how much they were going to hate cornering me.

That part?

That part I could work with.

Ahsoka shifted slightly beside me, hugging her arms a little tighter, eyes still locked on the distant lines. "We've trained for this."

"Mm," Maris said, noncommittal.

Ahsoka glanced at her. "Thanks for your wise words of encouragement, Padawan Brood."

"You're welcome, Padawan Tano. That'll be fifty credits."

"Wow."

Maris shrugged.

I let the conversation drift past me, attention pulling somewhere else—something quieter, sharper. The kind of focus that settled in right before things went sideways.

The kind that said:

Pay attention.

The battlefield stretched out in front of us, both sides waiting, both sides pretending they weren't about to try and kill each other in a few hours.

Somewhere out there, a trap might be waiting.

Somewhere back here, a traitor might be watching.

And here I was.

In the middle of it.

Again.

"Hey," Ahsoka said suddenly, nudging my arm lightly. "You've been doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The brooding thing."

"I don't brood."

"You absolutely brood."

Maris didn't even open her eyes. "He broods."

"Traitor," I muttered. "Your literal last name is Brood."

She smirked faintly. "Yeah. Wanna switch? It might suit you better."

Hmm.

Ben Brood.

I shook my head, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth despite everything.

Yeah.

Okay.

This?

This was normal.

Sitting on the edge of a battlefield with my two best friends, making bad jokes while everything around us geared up for war.

Totally normal.

No notes.

My hand drifted down to my belt almost absently, fingers brushing past the familiar shape of my lightsaber—and stopping.

Because right.

New toy.

I pulled the Darksaber free instead, turning it slightly in my grip.

Flat blade.

Black as void.

Still felt weird, even just holding it.

I'd always wondered about this thing.

Specifically—

How it handled blaster fire.

Because normal lightsabers? Easy. Angle, timing, reflect.

This?

This looked like it had opinions.

"Well," I muttered under my breath, thumb hovering over the activator, "no time like the present."

Ahsoka glanced over. "You're not about to do something stupid, are you?"

"Stupid is as stupid does."

"What does that even mean?"

"That I won't know if it's stupid or not until I've done it."

I thumbed the switch.

The blade ignited with a sharp, distinct snap-hiss, a line of black energy cutting into the night, edged in white like reality itself had decided to outline the problem.

For a second, everything felt… different.

Quieter.

Heavier.

Like the weapon wasn't just there—it was aware in a way that made the Force around it shift slightly, like it didn't quite fit but refused to leave.

Huh.

That was—

Interesting.

I gave it a small experimental swing, watching the way the edge moved, the way it pulled just slightly, like it wanted to go somewhere specific and I was just along for the ride.

Okay.

Yeah.

I could work with that.

Ahsoka stared at it. "… I want one."

"Get your own!"

"Sharing is caring, Ben."

"Yeah, that never made sense to me." I admitted, absentmindedly swinging the Darksaber, trusting the Force not cut myself. "If you really cared about something, why would you share it, when you could keep it to yourself. Forever."

Maris cracked one eye open, glancing at the blade. "You're going to get attached."

"Probably."

"That'll end well."

"It never does."

I angled the Darksaber slightly, looking back out over the battlefield, the black blade reflecting nothing, absorbing everything.

Droids in the distance.

Clones behind us.

A plan that definitely wouldn't work.

A problem I couldn't quite name.

And a war that was, finally, about to start for real.

I exhaled slowly, grip tightening just a fraction.

"Let's see how this goes," I murmured.

Because, really—

What could possibly go wrong?


Nothing. They all lived happily ever. In fact? Everyone got lightsabers, and cool Force Powers. Even the clones! And instead of killing each other, they all went on a marathon for charity. General Grievous came in first place! Who knew he was so good at running away?

...

...

...

Not buying it, huh?

Good instincts. I guess you'll have to stay tuned to find out what happens next. Either that, or check me out on Patreon, and read ahead.

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Chapter 37: The Spy in the Ranks

The plan was elegant.

Which was usually the first sign it was about to go catastrophically wrong.

Christophsis stretched around us in glittering facets of blue crystal and shattered urban canyons, the city's reflective towers turning the entire battlefield into a maze of mirrored light and shadow. It would have been beautiful if it wasn't currently filled with blaster fire.

Clone troopers moved through the ruined streets with professional efficiency, white armor flashing between the jagged crystal structures as they advanced to their assigned positions. Orders crackled across the comm network in clipped bursts of military shorthand.

Forward assault group pushing the avenue.

Secondary flanking unit advancing through the eastern plaza.

Everything exactly where it needed to be.

Which meant we were officially doing Obi-Wan's plan.

The forward assault had already started. Up ahead, blaster fire erupted in long, angry streaks as the clones made contact with the Separatist line. Blue bolts cut through the air, splashing against barricades and sending battle droids tumbling backward in sparks and smoke.

The droids responded instantly, marching forward in rigid ranks to meet the attack.

Perfect.

Textbook.

The enemy's attention was exactly where we wanted it.

Captain Rex crouched beside a broken crystal column, scanning the street through the visor of his helmet while the rest of our group gathered behind cover.

"Forward group has them engaged," he reported calmly. "Secondary unit, prepare to move."

Ahsoka stood a few meters away, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet like a runner waiting for the starting signal. Her twin green lightsabers ignited with a sharp snap-hiss, casting shifting light across the reflective crystal walls.

She looked confident.

She looked ready.

She also looked like someone who had been a Padawan for roughly five minutes.

Maris leaned against the ruined remains of a shattered storefront, arms folded while she watched the battle with the bored expression of someone waiting for a bus.

Her lightsaber wasn't even ignited yet.

I shifted the Darksaber in my grip.

The weapon hummed softly, the blade a thin bar of midnight edged with white light. Even after months of carrying it, the thing still felt slightly unreal in my hand.

The legendary weapon of Mandalore.

Now currently being used by a fourteen-year-old Jedi initiate in the middle of his first war.

History was weird like that.

Rex raised two fingers.

"Move."

We moved.

Clones surged out of cover in coordinated bursts, sprinting through the narrow crystal-lined streets while the forward assault kept the droids' attention locked straight ahead. Blaster fire flashed overhead as we cut through a side corridor toward the enemy flank.

Everything unfolded exactly the way it was supposed to.

Thirty seconds of pure, flawless execution.

Droids marching forward to meet the frontal attack.

Republic forces sliding into position behind them.

The ambush forming like a closing fist.

Ahsoka vaulted over a broken barricade ahead of me, landing in a smooth crouch as she deflected a stray blaster bolt back into a B1's chest. The droid collapsed in a shower of sparks while she kept moving, voice sharp over the battlefield noise.

"Second squad, push up! Keep them facing the front!"

Clones obeyed instantly, sliding into firing positions as the trap tightened.

Maris walked straight through the middle of the chaos.

Not running.

Not rushing.

Just walking.

A pair of battle droids turned toward her, raising their rifles.

Her lightsaber ignited with a crimson snap and both droids fell apart before they finished turning.

No wasted movement.

No hesitation.

Just efficient dismemberment.

I followed close behind, the Darksaber cutting through a droid that stepped into my path. The black blade hummed through metal like it barely existed, leaving the torso sliding off the legs a second later.

Okay.

Maybe this plan was actually—

The first thing that felt wrong was the artillery.

I didn't notice it consciously at first.

Just a subtle shift in the rhythm of the battlefield.

A distant boom echoed across the crystal plaza.

Then another.

Then another.

Too fast.

Way too fast.

I glanced toward the distant ridge where the Separatist artillery had been positioned.

One of the massive cannons rotated.

Not toward the forward assault.

Toward us.

My stomach dropped.

"That's—"

The cannon fired.

The shell screamed overhead and detonated against a crystal tower twenty meters behind our position. The explosion shattered the structure in a violent cascade of blue shards that rained down across the street.

Clones dove for cover as the crystal fragments slammed into the pavement.

That didn't make sense.

They shouldn't even know we were here yet.

Another artillery cannon rotated.

Then another.

Every single one turning toward our position.

Not reacting.

Pre-aimed.

The next shell landed directly in the street ahead of us, blasting a crater through the pavement and throwing three clones backward in a cloud of smoke and crystal dust.

Ahsoka skidded to a stop, staring toward the artillery ridge. "That's not right!"

She was correct.

It wasn't.

The battle droids reacted next.

Except they didn't react the way they were supposed to.

Instead of continuing to press forward against the frontal assault, the rear ranks stopped marching.

Then they turned.

Not confused.

Not scrambling.

They pivoted in perfect unison.

Facing us.

Hidden panels along the crystal walls slid open with mechanical precision.

Blaster cannons unfolded from concealed emplacements.

Rows of them.

The first volley hit a second later.

Blue bolts filled the street in a blinding crossfire that forced every clone in our unit to dive for whatever cover they could find. Crystal pillars exploded under the barrage while blaster fire raked the entire plaza.

A kill box.

Perfect overlapping fields of fire.

Artillery behind us.

Gun emplacements on both sides.

Droids closing from the front.

The ambush hadn't failed.

It had never existed.

This wasn't a trap reacting to our movement.

This was a trap waiting for us to arrive.

Ahsoka leapt onto a broken platform and began deflecting blaster bolts with both sabers, her movements fast and aggressive as she shouted over the chaos.

"Fall back two meters! Use the columns for cover!"

A clone beside her caught a bolt in the shoulder and went down hard. She yanked him behind the pillar without missing a beat, one saber flashing up to redirect another shot back into a droid's face.

Maris stepped into the open like she was bored.

Blaster bolts screamed toward her.

Her lightsaber ignited and suddenly the air around her turned into a spinning wall of red light.

Bolts ricocheted in every direction.

Two battle droids lost their heads.

Another one exploded when its own shot came back at it.

She walked forward through the crossfire with the calm indifference of someone taking an evening stroll.

I moved the other direction, the Darksaber carving through a B2 super battle droid that charged our position. The blade bit through durasteel joints with a vicious hiss before I kicked the falling machine into the line of incoming droids.

Rex slid into cover beside me, rifle snapping up to fire controlled bursts down the street.

"Flank collapsed!" he barked into his comm. "We're pinned!"

Pinned was putting it mildly.

Artillery detonated behind us again, the blast wave rattling the crystal walls and filling the air with glittering shards.

Another hidden cannon opened fire from the rooftop above.

Blaster bolts hammered the street in precise, overlapping arcs.

Too precise.

Too perfect.

I blocked a shot aimed for my chest and froze for half a second.

The timing.

Everything about this was wrong.

The artillery had rotated before we revealed ourselves.

The droids had repositioned instantly.

The gun emplacements had been waiting with clear firing lanes.

Not just ready.

Waiting for us specifically.

Not reacting to the plan.

Reacting to the exact moment we arrived.

The exact moment.

The Darksaber hummed in my hand as I stared down the street, watching another wave of droids march toward our position.

A cold knot twisted in my stomach.

They didn't just know the plan.

They knew the timing.

Not just the strategy.

Not just the route.

The exact second we would be here.

Blaster fire slammed into the crystal pillar beside me, showering the ground with glittering fragments.

Rex shouted another order across the comm network while clones scrambled to stabilize the collapsing line.

But the realization had already settled into place like a final puzzle piece snapping into alignment.

This wasn't a lucky guess. This wasn't battlefield intuition. This wasn't even something I needed my old (admittedly rusty) memories of an animated series I watched as a kid, to figure out.

This was math.

Simple, brutal math.

Someone had told them.

Somewhere in this army of identical white armor and disciplined soldiers…

Someone had told the Separatists exactly when we would attack.

There was a spy.


Blaster fire followed us the whole way back.

Not the cinematic kind either. No heroic last stand, no dramatic music swelling in the background. Just the ugly, chaotic kind where everyone ran for whatever piece of cover hadn't exploded yet.

A shell detonated somewhere behind us, the blast wave rattling the crystal columns and sending a rain of glittering shards down the street. The ground shook under my boots as clones scrambled across the broken pavement, dragging wounded brothers behind cover while the rest of the unit poured suppressive fire downrange.

Christophsis had this weird way of reflecting light. Every blaster bolt turned into a dozen streaks bouncing across the crystal walls, the whole battlefield flickering like some kind of homicidal disco ball.

Rex dropped into cover behind a fractured pillar, rifle already up as he fired a tight burst down the street. Three battle droids went down in quick succession before he shifted his aim and started barking orders into the comm.

"Second squad, fall back to the west barricade! Keep your spacing, don't bunch up!"

A pair of clones sprinted across the open ground under covering fire. One of them stumbled halfway there, catching a glancing hit that sent him crashing into the base of a crystal column.

Another trooper hauled him the rest of the way while Rex's rifle cracked again and again, each shot precise and controlled.

It was honestly kind of impressive watching him work.

The guy had just walked into a perfectly prepared ambush, lost the initiative, taken artillery fire from three directions, and now he was calmly reorganizing the entire unit while blaster bolts bounced off the scenery.

Leadership under fire.

The clones listened to him, too. No hesitation, no confusion. Orders came in short bursts over the comm and the troopers moved like parts of the same machine, falling back in controlled stages while keeping the droids from overrunning our position.

Which was good.

Because the plan had just exploded in our faces.

Ahsoka vaulted over the same piece of cover Rex was using, landing in a crouch as she deflected a pair of incoming shots. One bolt ricocheted off her blade and drilled straight through a B1's chestplate.

She glanced down the street toward the enemy line, eyes narrowed. "That went badly."

"Understatement," I muttered.

Maris walked up beside us like she'd just finished a casual afternoon stroll instead of cutting her way through half a platoon of battle droids.

Her saber flicked off with a soft snap as she leaned against the pillar.

"On the bright side," she said flatly, "we found the trap."

Crystal dust drifted through the air as another artillery round slammed into a building further down the block. The explosion sent a plume of smoke rolling across the battlefield while Rex switched to the comm again.

"Medics to sector three! We've got wounded near the eastern approach!"

A clone trooper slid into cover beside him, armor scorched across the chestplate. "Captain, we've got five injured, two critical!"

"Get them stabilized. We're pulling the line back another twenty meters."

More blaster fire cracked across the plaza.

More droids advancing through the smoke.

The whole battlefield had shifted into that messy, grinding phase where nobody really had the advantage anymore. Just two forces hammering each other while the terrain slowly turned into rubble.

And underneath all of it, that same cold realization kept digging deeper into my brain.

They hadn't just walked into a trap.

They'd walked into a trap that had been timed perfectly.

Not roughly right.

Exactly right.

I stepped around the pillar and walked straight over to Rex.

Blaster fire was still screaming past us. A clone shouted something across the comm network. Somewhere behind us, another artillery shell detonated hard enough to shake the ground.

Rex was in the middle of coordinating three different squads when I stopped beside him.

"There's a spy."

He didn't flinch.

Didn't snap around or demand an explanation or do any of the dramatic things people normally did when someone casually dropped the word spy in the middle of a battlefield.

He just kept firing downrange for another second before lowering the rifle slightly.

Then he looked at me.

Helmet visor tilting down just enough to study my face.

"You're making a serious accusation."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" I gestured toward the battlefield behind us. "They knew exactly when and where to hit us, and that doesn't strike you as the least bit suspicious?"

Rex said nothing.

Which wasn't a denial.

I pressed on.

"I'm just saying, we need to look into it. This kind of intel wouldn't be random." Another burst of blaster fire flashed down the street while I kept talking. "I mean, it's obviously not anyone too high up, but there still have to be some people in the know of what we're dealing with that might be able to fly under the radar."

My brain caught up with my mouth about half a second too late.

"Maybe… a sergeant?"

Silence.

Not the peaceful kind.

The oh no kind.

Rex turned his helmet fully toward me.

Just stared.

Behind him, clones were still moving through the street, dragging wounded into cover while others took up defensive positions along the crystal barricades. The battlefield noise kept roaring around us.

But Rex was very clearly focused on one specific fourteen-year-old idiot.

Because that had been weirdly specific.

Also…

Annoyingly plausible.

Ahsoka stepped up on my left, one eyebrow climbing slowly toward her hairline. Well, close enough, anyways. She technically doesn't have hair.

"So… what you're saying is, we have no idea who the potential spy is, but somehow we do know his rank?" Ahsoka sarcastically tapped her chin in thought. "Yes. I see. So obvious in hindsight. But please, Ben, for those of us who aren't as enlightened, how exactly do you know this?"

Maris appeared on my other side.

She didn't say anything.

She didn't need to.

The tiny, smug curve of her mouth said everything.

Right.

Damage control.

"…lucky guess."

Rex didn't answer immediately.

He just kept looking at me.

Not angry.

Not dismissive.

Just measuring.

I suddenly became very aware of the fact that clone troopers were bred specifically to evaluate tactical information under pressure.

And I had just handed one of them a very suspicious piece of information.

Ahsoka crossed her arms. "You're awfully confident about this."

"Not confident," I said quickly. "Observant."

She gave me a look that translated roughly to those are the same thing and you know it.

Maris finally spoke, her voice as dry as the desert on Tatooine. "Well, if he's wrong, we can always apologize to the hypothetical traitor later."

That did not help.

Rex shifted his rifle back into a ready position and fired two more shots down the street before speaking again. "I'll look into it."

The words were calm.

Professional.

Completely neutral.

But something had changed.

It was subtle.

The way he scanned the battlefield.

The way his helmet turned slightly when a squad of clones moved past our position.

A fraction longer watching them than before.

Not suspicion.

Not yet.

But awareness.

The idea was in his head now.

And once a soldier like Rex started considering the possibility of a spy…

Every movement started to matter.

Every order.

Every delay.

Every soldier.

Somewhere down the street, a squad of battle droids rounded the corner and opened fire again.

Rex raised his rifle.

"Fall back to the next barricade! Keep the pressure on them!"

Clones moved instantly, sliding into new firing positions while blaster bolts lit up the crystal canyon.

Ahsoka stepped beside me, sabers humming softly as she watched the troopers reposition. Her eyes flicked sideways. "You knew something."

Not a question.

Great.

I kept my gaze on the advancing droids. "Like I said. Lucky guess."

She didn't look convinced.

Maris, on the other hand, looked delighted.

Which probably meant my life was about to get more complicated.


The battlefield settled into that strange rhythm wars always seemed to find eventually.

The loud chaos faded into something more controlled. Blaster fire still cracked across the crystal streets, artillery still thumped in the distance, but now it came in waves instead of constant panic. Units rotated through firing positions. Medics worked on the wounded. Officers barked short, efficient orders over the comms.

The Republic had survived the ambush.

Barely.

But survival wasn't victory. It was just the part where you tried not to lose worse.

I leaned against the fractured edge of a crystal wall overlooking the temporary defensive line Rex had carved out across the plaza. Clones moved through the ruins with that same quiet efficiency they always had, white armor flashing between shards of blue crystal and burned-out barricades.

Every single one of them looked identical.

Which made spotting a traitor extremely inconvenient.

Somewhere in this army of perfectly disciplined soldiers was a man who had sold out his brothers.

And I had absolutely no idea which one.

The timeline wasn't helping.

Canon had made it look simple. Clone Sergeant (whose name I really wished I could remember) betrays the Republic, blows up the supply depot, Rex eventually figures it out, moral lesson about freedom versus loyalty, end episode.

Simple.

Except real life had this annoying habit of being more complicated than television.

Especially when I was standing inside the episode trying to derail it.

Which meant the supply depot was next.

The thought sat in the back of my skull like a countdown timer.

The supply depot explodes. The Republic loses critical supplies. The campaign gets worse.

Unless I stopped it.

Which would have been great.

If I had any idea how.

A squad of clones jogged past my position carrying ammunition crates toward the forward barricade. Their movements were crisp, efficient, identical down to the way their boots hit the pavement.

Disciplined.

Focused.

Exactly what Kamino had designed them to be.

I studied them anyway.

Body language.

Posture.

Anything.

If one of them was secretly sabotaging the entire army, there had to be some kind of tell.

Except there wasn't.

They moved like soldiers.

Worked like soldiers.

Talked like soldiers.

And if one of them happened to be a traitor?

He was apparently very good at it.

"Still doing the creepy staring thing."

Maris had appeared beside me without making a sound, arms folded as she watched another group of clones take up firing positions along the barricade.

"Research," I muttered.

"Uh-huh."

She tilted her head slightly, studying the battlefield with the same detached calm she applied to everything else.

"Found anything?"

"Not yet."

"Compelling."

Across the plaza, Rex was coordinating another defensive shift, his voice carrying clearly even through the constant background noise of the battle.

"Rotate third squad forward! Keep the pressure on the droids!"

Clones moved immediately, trading positions with the front line in a smooth exchange of covering fire.

Every motion practiced.

Every movement efficient.

Every soldier exactly where he was supposed to be.

Which made this entire situation deeply frustrating.

Because the mole wasn't stupid.

He wasn't going to stand in the corner twirling a mustache and holding a sign that said TRAITOR.

He was going to look exactly like every other clone here.

Which meant I had to find him before he moved.

I pushed off the wall and started walking.

The supply depot sat about three blocks behind our current defensive line, tucked inside a reinforced warehouse structure where the Republic had been stockpiling ammunition and rations since the landing.

Canon said it was already doomed.

But canon also hadn't accounted for me showing up and trying to break the script.

So maybe—

A clone stepped out of a side corridor ahead of me carrying a small equipment case.

Not unusual.

Except he hesitated.

Just for a second.

The movement was subtle. Barely noticeable. But it stuck out like a flare in the middle of the clones' otherwise perfect discipline.

He glanced toward the rear supply corridor.

Then started walking again.

My stomach tightened.

There.

That could be something.

I moved toward him.

He was heading straight toward the interior supply routes that eventually connected to the depot.

My pace quickened.

"Trooper."

He stopped immediately.

Turned.

Helmet visor staring down at me.

"Yes, sir?"

I studied him.

Armor clean.

Posture straight.

Equipment case in one hand.

Nothing obviously wrong.

Except—

"Where are you headed?"

"Delivering replacement power cells to the artillery team, sir."

Crisp answer.

No hesitation.

Completely reasonable.

My brain tried to poke holes in it anyway.

Artillery team… that direction?

Or the depot?

Or—

"Ben."

A hand clamped down on the back of my collar and yanked me two steps backward.

Ahsoka.

She planted herself between me and the trooper, crossing her arms while glaring down at me like I had just attempted something extremely stupid.

Which, in fairness, I might have.

"You're going to start a panic," she said. "We don't even know there is a traitor."

The clone stood there awkwardly while the two of us argued in front of him.

Maris leaned against a nearby pillar, watching the exchange with open amusement. "Or he's right and we're already too late."

Helpful.

Ahsoka shot her an annoyed look. "You're not helping."

"I rarely do."

The clone shifted slightly. "Should I—"

"Yes," Ahsoka said quickly. "Carry on, trooper."

He nodded once and continued down the corridor.

I watched him go.

Helmet disappearing behind a shattered wall.

Equipment case swinging lightly at his side.

Could have been him.

Could have been completely innocent.

And the worst part?

I had absolutely no way of knowing.

Ahsoka let go of my collar and crossed her arms again.

"You can't just start accusing clones randomly."

"I wasn't accusing him."

"You stopped him and interrogated him in the middle of a combat zone."

"Light questioning."

She stared at me.

Maris tilted her head slightly, watching the trooper vanish down the corridor.

"If he was the traitor," she said calmly, "he now knows Ben is looking for him."

"Exactly," Ahsoka snapped.

Which… okay.

That was a fair point.

The three of us stood there for a moment, the distant sounds of the battle echoing through the crystal streets while clones moved past us carrying supplies and ammunition toward the defensive line.

Every single one of them a possible suspect.

Every single one impossible to read.

My brain kept running the timeline over and over.

Supply depot sabotage.

It happened during the battle.

Not before.

Which meant the traitor was still going to move.

Soon.

Very soon.

I turned toward the supply corridor again. "We need to—"

The explosion rolled across the city like distant thunder.

Not massive.

Not the kind of earth-shattering detonation artillery made.

Smaller.

Sharper.

And in completely the wrong direction.

My stomach dropped straight through the floor.

The sound had come from behind the lines.

From the rear supply district.

From the direction of the depot.

Smoke began curling into the sky above the distant rooftops.

Maris glanced that way, unimpressed. "Well."

Ahsoka looked at me.

Then at the smoke.

Then back at me.

I just stared at the rising plume.

The countdown timer in my head had just hit zero.

"…we're too late."


The smoke was visible long before they reached the depot.

It climbed into the sky in thick black columns, curling above the crystal skyline of Christophsis like a signal flare announcing the Republic's worst possible day.

Ahsoka ran harder.

Blaster fire cracked somewhere ahead, sharp and chaotic, the sounds echoing off the reflective crystal buildings. The city turned every noise into ten different directions at once, which made the entire battlefield feel like it was collapsing in on itself.

Behind her, Rex and a squad of clones kept pace with efficient, pounding strides.

The moment the explosion had rolled across the district, Rex hadn't even hesitated.

"Response team with me!"

Now they rounded the final corner at a full sprint—

—and the depot came into view.

Ahsoka skidded to a stop.

The building was already burning.

Flames roared through the shattered loading bay, thick smoke pouring from blown-out windows while crates of ammunition and fuel cells cooked off inside the warehouse. Every few seconds another secondary explosion rattled the structure, sending fragments of metal and crystal spraying into the street.

A stack of supply crates detonated inside the building with a concussive boom that blew half the loading ramp apart.

Debris rained across the plaza.

Ahsoka ignited both sabers instantly.

"Move! Move!"

Clones surged past her, spreading out across the perimeter as the response team snapped into motion. Two troopers dragged a wounded soldier away from the burning entrance while another squad rushed forward with fire suppression gear.

The effort lasted about three seconds.

Then the battle droids attacked.

A column of B1s rounded the far street, blasters already raised as they opened fire on the chaos around the depot. The Republic response team had arrived exactly when the Separatists needed them distracted.

Perfect timing.

Of course it was.

Blue bolts slashed across the plaza, sending clones diving for cover while Rex snapped his rifle up and returned fire.

"Defensive line! Don't let them push through!"

Ahsoka moved before the words finished leaving his mouth.

She launched herself straight into the incoming fire.

Blaster bolts streaked toward her in a chaotic wave. Both sabers spun to life in a blur of green light, deflecting shots in every direction while she closed the distance.

One bolt ricocheted back into a B1's faceplate.

Another carved through the chest of the droid beside it.

She hit the ground running, flipping over a chunk of fallen debris and cutting through the first droid before it even finished raising its rifle.

Behind her, more blaster fire erupted as the clones engaged the rest of the squad.

Ahsoka ducked under a wild shot, spinning low and sweeping both sabers through a pair of B1 legs. The droids collapsed in a clattering pile of metal while she rolled back to her feet—

—and another droid exploded beside her.

Not from her.

From Maris.

The Zabrak girl walked into the fight like she'd been invited.

Her crimson blade flickered through the smoke with brutal precision, each movement short and efficient. A B1 raised its rifle and lost both arms before it finished the motion. Another droid fired once before its head separated cleanly from its shoulders.

No wasted energy.

No flair.

Just precise disassembly.

Ahsoka deflected another bolt back into a droid's torso and glanced sideways.

"You could hurry!"

Maris cut a B2 super battle droid's arm off and sidestepped the falling body.

"I am hurrying."

Which was technically true.

It just didn't look like it.

More explosions thundered inside the depot.

Ahsoka risked a glance toward the burning structure and her stomach tightened.

The sabotage had been surgical.

The loading bay had taken the first blast, ripping open the entrance and exposing the interior supply rows. Ammunition crates inside the warehouse were detonating in sequence now, each explosion triggering the next in a chain reaction that ripped deeper into the depot.

Someone had known exactly where to place the charges.

Exactly what supplies to hit.

Exactly how to turn one explosion into a cascading disaster.

Another squad of droids rounded the corner.

Ahsoka launched forward again, sabers spinning as she cut through the first two before they finished aiming.

Blaster fire flashed behind her as Rex and the clones held the line, their rifles barking in steady bursts that cut down the rest of the squad.

The street fell quiet for about half a second.

Then another ammunition crate exploded inside the depot.

The shockwave blasted a plume of fire out the shattered loading bay.

Ahsoka staggered back a step.

"Great," she muttered. "Just great."

Footsteps pounded across the plaza behind her.

Ben skidded into view a second later, breathing hard as he took in the burning structure.

For a moment he just stared.

The flames.

The collapsing roof beams.

The crates still exploding in a chain reaction that walked methodically through the building's interior.

His expression shifted.

Not surprise.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

Ahsoka followed his gaze back to the depot and felt the same cold realization settle in her chest.

This wasn't random destruction.

This was strategy.

The supplies in that building weren't just ammunition.

They were momentum.

Fuel cells.

Rations.

Replacement equipment.

Everything the Republic needed to keep pushing the offensive forward.

And now it was all going up in flames.

Ben exhaled slowly.

"He didn't just destroy supplies."

Ahsoka turned toward him.

"He crippled the campaign."

Rex stepped forward beside them, visor tilted toward the burning depot as another explosion rattled the street.

His voice came through the helmet comm, sharp and decisive.

"Lock the district down."

Clones immediately snapped to attention.

"No one in or out," Rex continued. "Every unit in this sector reports in. I want a full personnel count and equipment check."

The troopers scattered to carry out the order.

If there was a traitor in their ranks…

He wasn't leaving.

Not now.

Two clones appeared from the far end of the plaza a minute later, dragging a third trooper between them.

The captive struggled once before they forced him to his knees in front of Rex.

His helmet hit the pavement with a hollow clatter.

Dark hair.

Sharp eyes.

Sergeant Slick.

The plaza went quiet around them.

Ben stared at the kneeling clone for a long moment.

Then he rubbed his face. "…oh come on."


The fires at the depot were still burning.

Not as violently as before, but the damage was done. The warehouse was a skeletal ruin now—half the roof collapsed inward, flames licking through shattered supply racks while smoke rolled lazily into the crystal skyline of Christophsis. Clones moved through the wreckage with fire suppression units and med scanners, trying to salvage whatever hadn't already exploded.

Which, judging by the size of the crater where the loading bay used to be, wasn't much.

Slick knelt in the middle of the plaza with his hands bound behind his back.

Two clone troopers stood on either side of him, rifles lowered but ready. Another squad formed a loose perimeter around the scene, helmets turned inward with a kind of quiet, uncomfortable attention.

Nobody liked this.

Clones fighting droids made sense.

Clones fighting clones didn't.

Rex stood in front of the prisoner, helmet tucked under one arm. His expression had gone completely flat—the kind of calm that usually meant someone was very close to losing their temper.

Slick didn't look worried.

That was the part that stuck out.

He wasn't defiant either. Not angry. Not desperate.

Just… steady.

Like he'd already accepted how this ended.

The silence stretched for a few seconds while the smoke drifted through the ruined plaza.

Then I cleared my throat.

"Can I talk to him?"

Every head turned.

Rex stared at me.

Ahsoka stared at me.

Maris didn't bother hiding the small, deeply entertained smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

Rex folded his arms slowly. "This is a military interrogation."

"Right."

I gestured vaguely toward Slick.

"And I'm a Jedi."

Ahsoka leaned closer. "You're barely a Jedi."

"Details."

Rex didn't look amused.

Which was fair.

This was technically his prisoner. His investigation. His soldiers.

And I was a fourteen-year-old disaster magnet asking to have a private chat with the traitor who had just blown up half their supplies.

I shrugged slightly.

"Just five minutes."

Slick watched the exchange with mild curiosity.

The clones standing guard looked about as confused as everyone else.

Ahsoka pinched the bridge of her nose.

Rex looked at Slick.

Then at the burning depot.

Then back at me.

The silence stretched long enough that I briefly considered pretending I hadn't said anything.

Finally Rex exhaled slowly.

"Five minutes."

Ahsoka looked like she was reconsidering several life choices.

The guards stepped back but stayed close enough that they could intervene if things got weird—which, given my track record, was probably a good precaution.

Rex and the others moved a short distance away.

Not out of earshot.

But far enough to give the illusion of privacy.

I walked over and crouched down in front of Slick.

Up close, he looked younger than I expected.

Not by much—clones all technically were—but something about the expression in his eyes made him seem older than the rest of the soldiers around us.

Tired.

Resolute.

He studied my face for a moment.

Then he nodded slightly.

"You figured it out."

I leaned back on my heels.

"Too late."

"Yeah." His mouth twitched faintly. "You were always going to be too late."

The words didn't carry any smugness.

Just simple fact.

Behind us, the depot crackled and popped as another stack of ammunition burned itself out.

I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck.

"So… why?"

Slick tilted his head slightly.

"You already know."

"I know what happened." I gestured vaguely toward the burning warehouse. "I'm still curious why you thought this would help."

He held my gaze.

For a moment it looked like he might refuse to answer.

Then he exhaled slowly.

"We were created for one purpose."

The words came out calm.

Measured.

Not rehearsed, exactly—but something he'd clearly thought about for a long time.

"To fight a war we didn't choose."

Smoke drifted between us as he continued.

"No childhood. No future. Just orders." His voice hardened slightly. "The Republic calls us soldiers but they didn't even want us until they needed us."

His eyes flicked toward the clones standing nearby.

"At the end of the day, we're not the defenders of the Republic. We're the property of the Republic."

The words landed harder than the explosions earlier.

Not because they were shocking.

Because they were true.

Slick continued before I could respond.

"You know what Mandalore offered us?"

"I was there."

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

"Then you know."

Citizenship.

A place.

A future that didn't end on some battlefield halfway across the galaxy.

"At least they saw us as people," Slick said quietly. His gaze returned to mine. "The Republic didn't. Doesn't, even. You know they're still making more clones? No one's even sure if Mandalore will take the new ones."

I… honestly didn't even think about that.

Does that make me a bad person?

He shifted slightly against the restraints.

"So I made a choice."

The silence stretched between us again.

The fires crackled behind my back.

Clones moved quietly around the plaza.

I looked down at the ground for a moment.

Then back at him.

"You're not wrong."

That caught him off guard.

Just a flicker.

But it was there.

His brow furrowed slightly. "You're agreeing with me?"

"They should have had a choice." I shrugged. "You should have had a choice."

That part was easy.

Because it was true.

The Jedi talked a lot about compassion and justice and protecting the innocent.

But somehow an entire army of enslaved soldiers had slipped right through the moral review process.

Slick watched me carefully.

Waiting.

I exhaled slowly. "But you didn't free anyone today." The words felt heavier than I expected. "You got them killed."

His jaw tightened. "Freedom isn't free."

"Yeah." I nodded slowly. "It's not. It'll cost more than you ever knew you had."

I leaned forward slightly.

"But you don't get to spend other people to buy it."

The plaza had gone quiet.

Even the clones standing guard seemed to be listening now.

Slick held my gaze.

There was anger there now.

But also something else.

Recognition, maybe.

"You sound like someone who's going to change things."

The words weren't mocking.

Just observational.

I looked back at the burning ruins of the supply depot. "…I'm trying."

Another long silence passed.

Finally Slick nodded once. "Try faster."

The guards stepped forward then, one of them placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

Time was up.

They hauled him to his feet and started leading him away across the plaza.

Slick didn't resist.

Didn't look back.

I stayed crouched there for a moment, staring at the smoke drifting into the sky.

The conversation didn't feel like a victory.

Because it wasn't.

The depot was still gone.

The campaign was still crippled.

And Slick wasn't entirely wrong.

Which might have been the worst part.


The depot smoldered for hours.

By the time the worst of the fires were under control, the sun had already begun its slow descent behind Christophsis's crystal skyline. Smoke hung over the district like a dark fog, drifting between the reflective towers while recovery crews moved through the wreckage.

The depot itself was beyond saving.

Half the structure had collapsed inward. The rest looked like a hollowed-out skeleton of twisted beams and melted plating. Crates that had once held ammunition, fuel cells, ration packs, replacement parts—everything an advancing army needed to keep moving—were now charred fragments scattered across a cratered plaza.

The Republic had lost a lot more than a warehouse.

Command had already started sending updates through the comm network.

Supply chain disruption.

Offensive timetable delayed.

New logistical routes required.

Which was a very polite way of saying the campaign had just gotten a lot harder.

Clones moved through the ruins with quiet efficiency, cataloging what little could be salvaged. Most of them worked without speaking. The normal easy banter I'd heard earlier in the day had vanished somewhere between the explosions and the arrest.

Morale was a fragile thing.

Watching your own brother march away in restraints didn't help.

I sat on a piece of broken durasteel near the edge of the plaza, elbows resting on my knees while I stared out at the wreckage.

Part of me kept replaying the earlier conversation.

Slick kneeling in the smoke.

His voice when he said it.

We're property with better branding.

Yeah.

That one was going to stick around for a while.

Boots crunched over shattered crystal behind me.

I didn't need the Force to guess who it was.

Rex stopped beside me, helmet tucked under his arm again.

For a minute he didn't say anything.

Just looked out over the same ruined depot I was staring at.

"You knew something was wrong."

Not a question.

I rubbed the back of my neck.

"…yeah."

"That wasn't a lucky guess."

Also not a question.

I glanced sideways at him.

Rex's expression was carefully neutral, but the sharp focus in his eyes said he was putting pieces together.

Which, to be fair, was exactly what a good captain should be doing.

"…no."

He studied me for another few seconds.

Long enough that I wondered if I was about to get dragged into a very awkward conversation with military intelligence.

Instead, Rex simply nodded once.

Whatever conclusions he'd reached, he decided not to push further.

Maybe he figured a Jedi initiate having weird Jedi insights was normal.

Maybe he'd already decided I was strange and filed it under "not my problem."

Either way, he didn't ask the obvious follow-up question.

How did you know?

He just looked back toward the wreckage.

"We'll recover."

His voice carried the kind of quiet certainty soldiers used when things were going badly.

"Clones are good at adapting."

"I've noticed."

Another small pause passed between us.

Then Rex slipped his helmet back on.

Before he turned to leave, he looked down at me again.

"Still," he added, voice slightly muffled through the helmet. "Next time you get one of those feelings…"

I groaned quietly.

"…tell someone sooner."

"Working on it."

That earned a faint huff that might have been the clone equivalent of a laugh.

Then he walked off to rejoin his men.

I watched him go for a second before turning back toward the depot.

Footsteps approached again a minute later.

Lighter this time.

Ahsoka dropped down onto the durasteel slab beside me with a quiet clank of armor.

For a few seconds she didn't say anything either.

Just stared at the burned-out building.

Finally she nudged my shoulder with hers.

"You really did know."

Not accusing.

Just… processing.

I let out a slow breath.

"Not enough."

She turned her head toward me.

"How?"

I shrugged slightly.

"Force stuff."

Ahsoka squinted at me.

"Huh… can you be a little vaguer please?"

"I can talk like Yoda if you like."

She rolled her eyes.

"Ha ha."

"Sorry." I leaned back slightly, bracing my hands against the metal behind me. "If it's any consolation, it's not perfect foresight. Just a general idea of what's going to happen." I glanced over at her. "You know I'd never keep something from you if I thought you could help, right?"

Her expression softened slightly.

"I know."

She kicked a loose fragment of crystal across the pavement.

"…we did our best."

That was the problem with timelines.

In stories, foreknowledge made everything easy.

You knew the twist.

You stopped the disaster.

You saved the day.

Reality was a little more stubborn.

Another pair of footsteps approached from behind us.

Maris stopped at the edge of the broken slab, arms folded while she looked out over the ruins.

Her red eyes tracked the smoldering remains of the depot with clinical interest.

"You tried to change it."

I tilted my head back to look up at her.

"Yeah."

"Did it work?"

That one sat in the air for a moment.

I turned back toward the depot.

Smoke drifted lazily from the collapsed structure, glowing faintly in the fading sunlight. Clones moved through the wreckage below like small white figures against the blackened metal.

"No."

The word came out quiet.

Honest.

Then I exhaled slowly.

"…but it didn't go exactly the way it was supposed to, either."

That was the part that kept nagging at the back of my mind.

The timeline had resisted.

But it hadn't snapped back perfectly into place either.

Slick had still sabotaged the depot.

The campaign still took the hit.

But the path to get here…

That had changed.

And the further things drifted from the original version of events, the harder it became to predict what came next.

The future wasn't fixed.

Not completely.

But it pushed back.

Like trying to redirect a river with your hands.

You could move the water.

You could change the shape of the current.

But the flow always found a way forward.

And every time you tried to push it somewhere new…

Something else broke along the way.


Inevitably, I believe fate exists. I also believe free will, and choice exists. Our actions aren't preordained, but certain events are. But how we get to those events, how we feel about them, could change everything. That's usually why things like prophecies are so vague or misleading. It doesn't tell you if you're going to take a left, or a right, it just tells you where both paths converge. When you get there, the experiences you had along the way? All the little details, it all builds, snowballs, and something truly miraculous happens.

But, I digress.

I hope you all have a wonderful day, I hope that you all loved this chapter, and I truly hope that you stay tuned for the next one. And also, if you felt compelled to check out my Patreon, where you can now read up to ten whole chapters ahead, I hope you do. Who knows? It might be fate.

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