Chancellor Palpatine - Blog Posts

Palpatine: Do you want to know what the chips actually do?

Fives:

Palpatine: They're going to brainwash you and make you kill the jedi

Fives: Why are you telling me this?

Palpatine: Because no one will ever believe you

Palpatine: Do you want to know what the chips actually do?

Fives:

Palpatine: They're going to brainwash you and make you kill the jedi

Fives: Why are you telling me this?

Palpatine: Because no one will ever believe you

Same energy.

Imao

Chapter 10 of burc’ya kadale ~ Friendly Fire

Has been posted on ao3!

So, I kinda love rendering armor now.

“Collateral Morals” pt.3

Commander Thorn x Senator Reader

The door to the medcenter’s private lounge hissed shut behind you.

Thorn stood by the window, shoulders square, helmet tucked under his arm. He hadn’t moved since your approach—not even when you softly said his name. He just stared out over the Coruscant skyline like it held all the answers he didn’t want to give.

“You didn’t have to say any of that,” you murmured.

He didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t have heard it.”

“I did.”

Silence. The kind that suffocates instead of soothes.

“I almost died today,” you said, quieter now. “And I wasn’t afraid—not until I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

That got him. His jaw clenched, his hand flexed slightly around the helmet.

Still, he didn’t turn.

You stepped closer.

“I know what I am to Palpatine,” you said. “I know what I am to the Senate. But I also know what I am to myself. And I decide who I fight for. Who I—”

You stopped yourself.

He finally turned.

His gaze locked on yours, unreadable. But there was fire under it. Desperation held at bay by sheer force of discipline.

You reached up slowly and brushed your fingers across his cheekbone.

Then you kissed his cheek—softly, gently—just a press of lips and intent.

He inhaled like it hurt. Like that tiny moment cracked something deep in him he’d welded shut for too long.

You barely had time to step back before his hand caught your wrist.

“Don’t,” he warned, voice hoarse.

“Don’t what?” you asked, eyes searching his. “Don’t remind you you’re human? Don’t care about the man who’s taken a thousand blaster bolts for people who’ll never say thank you?”

His grip on your wrist tightened—but not in anger.

In surrender.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t gentle.

It was weeks—months—of denial and fury and silent longing crashing into one devastating moment. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you flush to him, mouth slanting against yours with heat and hunger and restraint just barely breaking.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the chest plate of his armor.

He pulled back only slightly, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged.

“This can’t happen,” he whispered. “Not with the world watching.”

“No one’s watching right now.”

Another breath.

Another pause.

“Stars help me.”

And then he kissed you again—this time slower, deeper, with the kind of reverence that felt like goodbye…but tasted like finally.

⸻

You didn’t see Thorn for the rest of the night.

He left with a muttered apology and a promise to update the security perimeter. Left you standing in that medcenter hallway with your lips tingling and your heart pounding like it had just broken orbit.

By morning, he was back to his place at your side—precise, professional, and maddeningly unreadable.

But you felt it. Every time he stood too close. Every time his fingers brushed yours when he handed over a datapad. Every time you looked up from your notes and found him already watching you.

The morning dragged with briefings, follow-up reports, and a thousand quiet, political fires to douse. The media was frothing at the mouth, both condemning and romanticizing the assassination attempt. Holonet headlines split between calling you reckless and righteous. Some claimed the attack was staged.

None of that mattered.

Because your speech on clone rights was in twenty-four hours, and everything would either change or implode.

Which is why, after dodging three lobbyists and an overzealous committee head, you found yourself in the Chancellor’s private garden, seated across from him in the dappled sunlight of the Senate’s oldest courtyard.

“You never were good at letting people protect you,” Sheev said lightly, sipping his tea. His guards, including Fox, stood discreetly in the background. Yours stood just as close. Thorn, like a shadow.

“I don’t need protection,” you replied, tone too sharp. “I need the truth.”

Sheev smiled—soft, amused, a little tired. “Ah. There she is.”

You frowned. “You always say that. What do you mean by it?”

His eyes flicked toward yours, and for the briefest moment, something ancient passed between you. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… knowing.

“You forget, my dear,” he said quietly, “I’ve known you since before you even knew who you were.”

You blinked. “Sheev…”

“I warned you this bill would make enemies.” He set his cup down gently. “And still you press forward. Still you speak for them, even when they cannot speak for themselves. That’s why I… care. Why I sent the guards before you even asked.”

You didn’t respond right away. A breeze lifted the hem of your shawl. Thorn shifted behind you, ever-present, ever silent.

“Sheev… Why do you always look out for me, really?” you asked at last, softly.

His smile was small, secretive. “A legacy. A spark. Perhaps… the only one left who remembers who I was before all this.”

He reached out and gently patted your bandaged arm. “So take care, my dear. The brighter you burn, the more shadows you cast.”

Later that evening, as you reviewed the final draft of your speech, you felt the tension coil tighter in the room.

Thorn stood by the window, pretending to review security updates. But you knew he wasn’t reading them.

“I’m still doing it,” you said, not looking up from your datapad.

“I know.”

“And you’re still going to try and stop anyone from hurting me.”

“I’ll kill them first.”

You glanced up.

Thorn’s face was blank. But his eyes weren’t.

You stood and walked toward him, datapad forgotten.

“This doesn’t scare you?” you asked. “What’s about to happen?”

“I’ve been bred for war,” he replied. “But you… you’re marching into something I can’t shoot my way out of.”

You stepped closer.

He didn’t move.

“They’ll come for you after this,” he said. “They’ll smear you. Silence you. Maybe worse.”

“I don’t care.”

He looked down at you, jaw tight.

“I do.”

There was no kiss this time. No heat. Just quiet. Just that fragile thing neither of you could name anymore.

Then he whispered, almost against his will,

“If I lose you… I lose the only good thing I’ve ever had.”

⸻

The Chamber was filled with a hundred murmuring voices, thousands of glowing pods drifting through its cavernous air like stars in orbit—an artificial galaxy of opinions, power, and politics.

You stood at its center.

Not on a podium.

Not behind the usual barrier between you and them.

You requested to speak from the floor, where soldiers stood during war briefings. Where men like Thorn bled for a Republic that still debated whether they were people or property.

The moment your pod activated and floated to the center, the chamber dimmed. Silence rippled outward. The Chancellor looked down from his high throne, unmoving. The Senators stared, curious.

And Thorn?

He stood by the wall behind you, a silent sentinel, his helmet clipped to his belt. He watched you like the entire galaxy depended on it.

Because maybe it did.

You exhaled slowly, adjusted the mic, and began.

“I stand before you today not as a politician,” you said, “but as a citizen of the Republic… and as someone who refuses to look away any longer.”

A few murmurs. Standard fare. You kept going.

“The Republic abolished slavery. We enshrined freedom and autonomy into our laws. And yet—every single day—we send a slave army to die for us.”

That got attention.

Real, shifting, heavy attention.

You could feel it in the air. The stirring. The discomfort.

“I have seen firsthand how the clones live. How they are bred, trained, deployed—and discarded. And I ask you this: when did we decide that genetically engineered soldiers were somehow less deserving of the rights we promised every sentient being in this galaxy?”

One senator stood abruptly. “These are dangerous accusations!”

“They are truths,” you countered, voice ringing clear. “I am not here to shame the army. I am here to shame us. They serve with honor. We lead with cowardice.”

Palpatine did not react.

Not visibly.

But you saw his fingers fold together slowly, precisely.

You turned slightly, catching Thorn’s eyes briefly. He gave you the smallest of nods.

“They are not expendable. They are not tools. They are men. Brothers. Sons. Heroes. And they deserve recognition, freedom, and the right to choose their own futures.”

You reached into your sleeve and produced a small datapad.

“This bill—The Sentient Rights Amendment—will enshrine personhood into law for all clone troopers, mandating post-war compensation, choice of discharge, and full citizenship.”

Outrage. Cheers. Scoffs. A wave of sound rolled over the chamber.

You let it.

You wanted it.

Because silence had kept them enslaved for too long.

You looked straight at the Chancellor’s pod.

And for once, his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“I have been warned. Threatened. Nearly killed. But I will not stop.”

Your voice dropped slightly, but the words struck harder than ever.

“Because if we cannot recognize the humanity in those who fight for us… then perhaps we never had any to begin with.”

The mic shut off.

Silence fell once more.

And in that breathless moment, your eyes found Thorn again—still unmoving, but his hand had curled into a fist against his thigh.

Not out of rage.

Out of hope.

And maybe… something dangerously close to pride.

⸻

The door to your private quarters sealed behind you with a soft hiss.

Your fingers trembled—not from fear, but adrenaline still crackling in your veins like an aftershock. You’d done it. You’d stood before the entire Senate and spoken the truth, every brutal syllable. No sugarcoating. No diplomacy. Just raw, righteous fire.

Your hand reached for the decanter near the bar, but before you could pour, you sensed him.

Thorn. Silent. Present. A force of nature in your periphery.

“I didn’t ask for a shadow tonight,” you said over your shoulder, keeping your voice light. “Unless you’re here to drink with me.”

“You were nearly killed last week,” he replied. “You’re not getting one night off from protection because you’re feeling brave.”

You finally looked at him.

He stood just inside the doorway, helm tucked under one arm, red kama dark in the low lighting. His face unreadable—always unreadable—but his eyes had that sharp, glowing heat that you were beginning to recognize. Something he kept buried. Something you kept digging up.

“You heard it all?” you asked, quieter now.

He nodded once.

“What’d you think?”

Thorn didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. Each one sounded louder than it should have. Maybe because your heart wouldn’t stop pounding. Maybe because you wanted to hear him move, like confirmation that he was real.

When he stopped in front of you, barely a foot away, you could smell the faint trace of durasteel and citrus polish that always clung to him.

“You speak like a weapon,” he said, voice low. “You make people listen. You make them feel.”

That wasn’t what you expected. “I make them angry.”

“You make them remember they still have souls.”

There it was again—that crack in the armor. That flicker of something he refused to name. But it was closer now. Closer than ever.

You looked up at him, suddenly too aware of the space between you.

And the fact that neither of you was stepping back.

“Thorn,” you said softly, unsure what was about to happen.

He leaned forward, head tilting just slightly until his forehead almost touched yours. Almost.

“I remember everything,” he murmured. “Every time you test me. Every time you look at me like you’re daring me to slip.”

“I don’t mean to—”

“You do.”

A beat of silence.

Your breath caught.

And his gloved hand reached up, slow, steady—cupping your cheek like he was touching something sacred. He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. But his thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, and your resolve shattered like glass beneath his calloused touch.

“I can’t be what you want,” he said, jaw tight. “Not while this war is still burning.”

“I don’t need perfect,” you whispered. “I just need you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch.

And for a single, stolen moment, his walls collapsed.

You pressed your lips to his—not out of seduction, but desperation.

And Thorn… let it happen.

Then returned it.

Firm. Unapologetic. Hands gripping your waist like a man starved of something only you could give.

When he finally pulled away, breath ragged, his forehead rested against yours.

“This doesn’t change who I am,” he warned.

“I wouldn’t want it to.”

“You’re going to make this impossible, aren’t you?”

You smiled, eyes still closed. “That’s kind of my thing.”

⸻

The Senate floor was still echoing with the aftermath of your speech. The proposed bill—once a bold declaration—was now a detonated explosive, and the shockwaves had begun to rattle the Republic’s most carefully constructed pillars. Some senators were emboldened. Some were enraged. But most… were afraid.

And fear was Sheev’s favorite thing.

So when you received his personal request for a private meeting—no guards, no aides—you didn’t hesitate. You knew what it meant.

This wasn’t a request.

This was a reckoning.

Sheev stood at the broad window overlooking the City, hands clasped behind his back, as though he were observing a galaxy already in his grasp. His robes shimmered faintly in the dim light. For once, he didn’t mask the edge in his voice when you entered.

“You should have listened when I told you to let this go,” he said.

You crossed your arms. “I’ve never listened to you when it mattered. Why start now?”

He turned to face you slowly, expression carved from marble. “This bill has made enemies of powerful people. Systems that were once on our side are pulling their support. You’re fracturing the illusion of control. Of order.”

“Good,” you said coolly. “Maybe they’ll finally see that this war isn’t order—it’s manipulation. It’s slavery with a shinier name.”

A flash of irritation crossed his face. “You are standing on the edge of a very thin wire, my dear. And I am the one who decides if you fall.”

Your gaze sharpened, steel beneath silk. “So don’t catch me next time?”

He blinked. Slightly caught off guard.

You took a step forward. Not threatening—but unshaken.

“You want to protect me, Sheev. Because once, we were friends. You watched me rise in this Senate. Watched me set rooms on fire with my words. And maybe—maybe—there’s a part of you that remembers what it felt like to believe in something before power hollowed you out.”

His mouth twitched. A rare, dangerous smile.

“I protect what I can control,” he said simply.

You tilted your head. “Then that explains it. Why you’re finally done protecting me.”

Silence settled like dust between you.

Then, you let the words fall from your lips like the cut of a knife:

“You’re not the puppet anymore. You’re the master. No more hidden hands. No more cloaks and whispers.”

His face remained neutral, but something shifted behind his eyes. The faintest flicker. Not surprise—no, he was beyond that. But perhaps a recognition. Of danger. Of defiance.

You stepped closer, voice quiet but sharp as a vibroblade.

“You want strings? Find another doll. Because I won’t dance for you. Not in chains. Not ever.”

For a moment, he just stared.

Then he chuckled, low and slow.

“You’re braver than most,” he said softly. “But bravery is so often mistaken for foolishness. And foolish senators tend to meet… premature ends.”

You didn’t flinch.

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to be loud enough that the whole galaxy hears me before I go.”

You left the Chancellor’s office with your jaw set and heart hammering. The air outside the Senate complex felt thinner somehow. Like the planet knew. Like something knew.

There was a weight on your chest as you descended the polished steps, the kind you couldn’t reason away. Thorn wasn’t waiting for you—he had been pulled to another meeting, a reassignment shuffle. You were supposed to be protected. But at the Chancellor’s request… you’d come alone.

Your speeder sat sleek and silent in the private loading dock. You didn’t notice the subtle shimmer of tampered wiring along the undercarriage. Didn’t feel the wrongness in the air as you keyed in the start code.

Too angry. Too rattled. Too sure of yourself.

You rocketed upward into the Coruscant skyline.

And then everything ruptured.

Not in fire—not at first. It was more like the air being ripped apart. Then heat. Then white light and spinning glass and screaming metal and a blinding flash that swallowed the world.

Your speeder broke apart mid-air. Rigged. Remote-triggered.

There was no time to scream. No time to brace.

You were weightless.

Then…

Nothing.

⸻

He didn’t run.

He walked with iron in his spine and a hollow in his chest. Walked like a man who already knew, but needed to see with his own eyes before the earth gave out under him.

Fox was there. No words exchanged.

They didn’t need to be.

She was already gone when they pulled her out of the wreckage. No pulse. No miracles. Just wrecked beauty and blood on marble skin.

Thorn stood over the body, jaw clenched, fingers shaking ever so slightly as he reached out and brushed a piece of charred hair from her forehead.

“I was right behind you,” he said hoarsely. “I was coming.”

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t move.

Just stood there, muscles locked in silence, until a nurse gently placed her hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He nodded once. Then left the room like a man retreating from a war he’d already lost.

⸻

Later That Night Fox stood before Chancellor Palpatine.

“She’s dead,” Fox said, his voice low, unreadable.

Palpatine stood with his back to the towering windows, the light of Coruscant’s endless skyline gleaming coldly on his robes. He didn’t turn.

“I know,” he said quietly.

There was no satisfaction in his voice. No cunning, no venom. Just… stillness.

“She was my niece.”

Fox froze.

Palpatine finally turned to face him, eyes shadowed but bright—burning with something deeper than grief.

“Not by blood most would count,” he said. “But I raised her like my own. Protected her. Watched her grow into that firebrand of a woman.” He inhaled slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. “She defied me to the last breath. As I expected.”

Fox’s throat worked. “Then why—?”

“I didn’t order this,” Palpatine interrupted sharply, the chill in his voice sharp as a blade. “I warned her to stop because I knew it was coming. I heard whispers. But I never gave the command.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I want the one who arranged it,” Palpatine said, voice dropping to a deadly low. “I want them found. I want them dragged before me, crawling, broken, pleading for death.”

He stepped closer to Fox, and though his posture was composed, the darkness behind his gaze crackled.

“She was mine. And my blood has been spilled.”

He paused. The mask of the Chancellor slipped just enough for the monster beneath to bleed through.

“Tell Thorn,” he said, voice like a storm about to break, “that if he truly loved her—he will find the ones responsible… before I do.”

Fox nodded stiffly, spine straight. “Yes, Chancellor.”

“And Fox,” Palpatine said, voice lowering once more, “when we find them… there will be no mercy.”

⸻

Previous Part

“Crossfire” pt.3

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

You weren’t supposed to be in the clones barracks.

But you rarely went where you were supposed to.

The corridors were quiet, the hum of the ventilation system steady in your ears. Most of the troopers were off-duty or deployed, leaving the barracks feeling like a ghost shell of itself. You moved like you belonged—fluid, confident, precise. The kind of presence that drew attention and made others question their instincts.

Then—

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The voice stopped you mid-step.

Commander Cody stood in the hallway, brow furrowed, arms crossed. His armor was half-off—pauldrons gone, chest plate open, undersuit exposed to the dim light. He looked tired. Suspicious.

And maddeningly attractive.

You offered him your best smile. “Missed the smell of plastoid and repressed emotions.”

Cody didn’t laugh. He didn’t blink. “Answer the question.”

“I came to see a friend.”

“Name.”

You stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “Commander Cody.”

Cody’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t move. “You vanished. No comms. No explanation.”

“And yet here I am,” you whispered, voice lower now. “Alive. Still on the right side… mostly.”

He stared you down. “You don’t belong in this sector.”

“You gonna arrest me?” you asked, chin tilted up, a faint challenge in your tone.

“I should.”

“But you won’t.”

Silence. Charged and heavy.

He looked at you then—really looked. Not as a mission asset or potential threat. Just… you.

You took a step closer, reaching out and brushing your fingers against the edge of his unarmored shoulder. “You gonna keep pretending you don’t like when I do this?”

He didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.

But he didn’t answer either.

And that said more than enough. You pulled your hand away from Cody slowly, leaving a ghost of heat behind.

“Still pretending?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

But when you turned to leave, his voice stopped you again.

“Don’t make me choose between you and the Republic.”

You paused.

Then, without looking back: “You might have to.”

⸻

Meanwhile – Jedi Temple, Council Chambers

Master Kit Fisto stood in the center of the room, arms folded behind his back, expression solemn. “She’s not just reckless. She’s evasive. Deceptive. She’s manipulating soldiers. Getting close in ways that compromise their judgment.”

Mace Windu’s eyes were cold steel. “I’ve seen the reports. She shouldn’t have been on Teth in the first place. And then she vanishes with a Force-sensitive child?”

Yoda hummed, tapping his cane. “Proof, you lack. The Chancellor’s word, she has.”

Kit pressed forward. “I watched her outside 79’s. The way she moved. The way she spoke to the clones. She’s not interested in loyalty. She’s interested in influence.”

Obi-Wan, leaning forward, tapped the table gently. “I won’t pretend she isn’t… complicated. But she’s fought beside us. Risked her life for the Republic. There’s more to her than subterfuge.”

“She’s dangerous,” Mace said firmly. “And she has access to our inner circles through the Chancellor. That makes her a risk.”

“Or a tool,” Obi-Wan countered. “If used wisely.”

“A tool for who, I wonder,” Kit muttered.

Yoda’s eyes narrowed, deep in thought.

“The Chancellor’s friend, she is,” he murmured. “But in shadows, much hides. Watch her, we must.”

⸻

The smell of caf hung heavy in the air. Trays clattered, boots thudded, and clone chatter rose in a dull, tired murmur. The war never stopped—but moments like this made it feel like it slowed.

Rex sat at the edge of a table, arms crossed, a half-eaten ration bar forgotten on his tray.

Across from him, Kix, Fives, Jesse, and Tup were deep in a low conversation, and even though they weren’t exactly trying to hide it, the minute Kix glanced Rex’s way, the silence tightened.

He noticed.

“What?” Rex asked flatly, his tone already edged.

Kix looked reluctant. Jesse grimaced. Fives looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Tup leaned forward and said it bluntly: “She was here last night. Sector C-9.”

Rex’s spine straightened. “What?”

“Commander Cody’s floor,” Kix clarified, stirring his caf. “No clearance. No escort. Just… strolled in.”

“Unannounced,” Jesse added, a bit more cautiously. “Didn’t cause trouble, but still. It’s odd.”

“She’s got a pattern,” Tup said. “Getting close to officers. Playing coy. Smiling at everyone like she knows a secret.”

Fives grinned. “I’d let her manipulate me.”

“Of course you would,” Kix muttered.

“She’s a distraction,” Tup continued. “And a dangerous one. What’s she even doing here again? She’s not military.”

“She’s useful,” Jesse countered. “She’s worked with us before. She gets results.”

“She disappears without a trace and comes back with clearance from the Chancellor,” Kix said quietly. “No chain of command, no protocol. It’s off.”

Rex didn’t speak for a moment, staring down at his tray like it held answers.

Then, softly: “Where is she now?”

Fives looked up from his drink, smirking. “Why? Planning on asking Cody?”

Rex stood up without another word.

⸻

You were leaning against the rusted edge of a shipping container in the lower levels, checking a concealed blaster’s sight when you heard footsteps behind you.

“Didn’t know I needed a guard dog,” you said without looking. “Let me guess—Cody ratted me out?”

“You were in the barracks,” Rex said.

You turned to face him, expression unreadable. “I was.”

“Why?”

You met his stare. “Why do you care?”

Rex’s jaw clenched. “Because I don’t know what side you’re playing anymore.”

You gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Does it bother you that I was with Cody? Or that you weren’t the one I came to see?”

He didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought,” you said, stepping closer. “You liked it better when I was gone.”

“I liked it better when I trusted you.”

The space between you was close now. Tense. Alive.

“I never asked for your trust, Captain,” you whispered. “But you gave it. And now you’re scared you’ll have to take it back.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he stepped back.

“Stay away from my men,” he said, voice low.

You tilted your head. “Or what?”

“You won’t get another warning.”

Then he turned and left.

You watched him go, pulse steady, mask in place—but somewhere beneath it, something twisted just a little tighter.

⸻

Mace Windu stood before a star chart, arms folded, as Kit Fisto entered and closed the door behind him.

“She’s sowing division among the clones,” Kit said without preamble. “I’m hearing it from troopers. Rumors. Questions.”

“Even Skywalker’s men?”

“Especially them.”

Mace nodded grimly. “She’s destabilizing morale.”

“Yoda still thinks she may serve a purpose.”

“He’s wrong,” Mace said. “The Chancellor’s got her in his pocket. She’s not our ally—she’s his spy.”

“And if she’s in the field again?” Kit asked.

Mace’s eyes narrowed.

“We keep watching. And when she slips—we move.”

⸻

The city outside glowed gold with the rising sun, but inside the Chancellor’s office, everything felt cold and deliberate. You stood still as Chancellor Palpatine circled slowly, hands clasped behind his back, voice smooth as silk.

“There’s a mission,” he said. “One only you can be trusted with.”

She didn’t flinch. “Who’s involved?”

“Master Windu. General Kenobi. Their men. You will join them as my personal attache.”

A pause.

“Officially, you’ll be assisting in clearing the last remnants of a Separatist stronghold on Erobus,” he continued. “Unofficially, there are certain… elements beneath the facility I want destroyed without the Jedi ever knowing they existed. Do you understand?”

She nodded once. “And if they suspect me?”

He gave a soft, chilling smile. “Then perhaps it is time they learned to trust my allies. You will prove yourself invaluable.”

She didn’t like it. She rarely did. But she knew better than to argue.

⸻

The dropship roared through Erobus’s dead sky. Wind carried the smoke of a long-dead battlefield. The reader sat apart from the Jedi and the clones, her gaze fixed out the narrow viewport.

General Kenobi was in quiet conversation with Commander Cody. Windu sat in silence, fingers steepled in meditation. The clones around her — the 212th — watched her like she was an animal in a cage. Not openly hostile. Just… unsure.

She didn’t blame them.

“Never thought we’d see you again,” Cody muttered as he walked past her toward the front. “You just have a habit of showing up where things are about to explode?”

She smirked. “And you have a habit of being too pretty for your own good.”

He raised a brow but kept walking.

Windu had acknowledged her presence with a nod. Kenobi had raised a brow, but said nothing. This time, there was no need to pretend. She was here by Palpatine’s orders—but acting as if she belonged among them.

They moved quickly, carving through what little resistance remained. The reader fought without flourish—blasters precise, movement efficient, lethal. She noticed how Windu watched her more than he watched the enemy. Not with distrust. With… calculation.

The mission moved fast. She fought alongside the Jedi and the troopers, not quite one of them, but not an outsider either. Not anymore.

She planted explosives in corridors no one else entered. Disabled systems no one else noticed. And when Windu asked too many questions, she deflected with just enough truth to keep suspicion from blooming.

She was the perfect tool.

When the fighting ended and the skies were silent again, the group began regrouping for departure.

But Windu stayed behind.

She stood at the edge of the rubble, arms crossed, staring at the still-burning wreckage. Windu approached silently, his presence calm and weighted.

“You were too comfortable in there,” Windu said.

She tilted her head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You knew where to strike. What to look for.”

“And?”

His gaze sharpened. “And you’ve done this before.”

She hesitated.

Then said, “I’ve done a lot of things.”

He studied her. Then, in a voice low and almost too calm: “Why do you work for him? Palpatine?”

She didn’t blink. “Because I’m too afraid not to.”

That stunned him — not because she said it, but because of how honest it was.

“You hesitated,” he said simply.

She glanced at him, unbothered. “I’m always hesitant when explosives are involved.”

She exhaled, the smoke curling from the wreckage catching in the light. “The clones… they trust blindly. They don’t see the game being played around them. They deserve better.”

Windu’s voice was low. “So why play the game?”

She was quiet for a moment, then: “Because I’m not brave enough not to.”

Windu stepped closer. “The Chancellor—does he own your fear?”

She met his eyes, finally lowering her hood. “He owns everyone’s fear. I just know better than to pretend otherwise.”

Silence hung heavy between them.

Then Windu said, “You care about them. The clones.”

“I care about them,” she added quietly. “The clones. Maybe that’s the problem.”

Windu was silent for a long time. “Then maybe you’re not the threat we thought you were.”

“But I still am a threat,” she said, soft and sharp.

He didn’t argue. “So is everyone these days.”

They stood side by side, the flames crackling around them. For the first time, Windu didn’t look at her like she was a threat. He looked at her like someone caught between survival and sacrifice—like he understood.

Finally, he said, “Let’s get back.”

As they walked toward the ship, the reader didn’t look back. But deep down, a new kind of fear was blooming—because for the first time, someone from the Council believed in her.

And she didn’t know how long she could keep surviving if that belief ever turned to betrayal.

⸻

The storm had passed, but the sky was still dark.

Republic shuttles hummed, crates clanged, clone troopers barked orders as the camp disassembled around her. The reader stood near the edge of the landing pad, helmet in one hand, half-listening to the static on her comm.

“Classified orders from the Chancellor.” That’s what the officer had said. “Immediate departure. Debrief in person.”

She should’ve walked straight to the shuttle. But she lingered. And he found her.

Cody.

He walked up slow, arms crossed, boots crunching gravel beneath him. His armor was dusted in ash and plasma scarring. She glanced at him but didn’t speak first.

“I figured you’d disappear again,” he said.

“Still might.”

He nodded. “You always do.”

There was no anger in his tone. Just… tired honesty.

She looked up at him fully then. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t know what to trust,” he replied, voice low. “You fight beside us. Then vanish. You show up under the Chancellor’s banner with Jedi clearance and secrets you don’t share.”

“I’m doing what I was asked to do.”

“By him.”

She stepped closer. “If I was working against you, you’d already be dead, Cody.”

He didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you’re on our side.”

Silence fell between them, heavy as armor.

“I’m not the enemy,” she said finally.

“No,” Cody said, his eyes locked on hers. “But you’re not really one of us either.”

She looked away first. Her jaw clenched, throat dry. “I didn’t come here to explain myself.”

“Didn’t think you did.”

But as she turned to go, his voice followed her — quieter this time, almost uncertain:

“You care about the men. I see that. But whatever it is you’re caught in… don’t let it destroy you.”

She stopped, just for a second. Looked back over her shoulder, the weight of unspoken words between them.

“Too late,” she said.

Then she walked away, boarding the shuttle bound for Coruscant — bound for the Chancellor.

And Cody stood there long after she was gone.

⸻

The doors hissed shut behind her, sealing out the sounds of the city. Inside, the chamber was dim, silent, and airless—more a tomb than an office.

Chancellor Palpatine stood alone by the wide viewport, hands folded behind his back. The galactic skyline stretched endlessly beyond him, golden and glittering, but he never looked at it. His gaze was fixed far beyond, somewhere the reader couldn’t see.

She approached without speaking. She knew better.

After a long pause, he spoke.

“You completed your task on Erobus.”

“Yes.”

“And General Windu now believes you to be… sincere.”

“More or less.”

He turned to face her, that ever-calm expression carved into something unreadable. His voice stayed velvet-smooth.

“And yet I’m hearing troubling things. From the Temple. From officers in the field. About your behavior.”

Her brow lifted. “My behavior?”

“The clones,” he said simply. “Your… fondness for them. Particularly certain commanders.”

A silence settled between them.

He stepped closer.

“They are tools,” he said, tone soft but cold beneath. “Weapons. Instruments of war. Their purpose is clear. Yours is not.”

She straightened slightly. “I care about them.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “A mistake. One that risks unraveling everything I’ve placed you into position to accomplish.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You’ve done enough to sow doubt,” he snapped, his voice a sudden blade. “Among the Jedi. Among the troops. You’re being watched. And unless you want to be removed from this game completely, you will stop.”

He let the silence linger, then added with that familiar, venom-wrapped charm:

“No more flirting. No more attachments. No more secrets from me.”

She met his gaze. “You put me in the middle of this war like I’m a pawn.”

“You’re not a pawn,” he said. “You’re a scalpel. Sharp. Precise. And replaceable, if dulled.”

Her jaw clenched. But she said nothing.

He studied her a moment longer, then turned back to the window.

“You’ll be summoned soon. Another operation. One that cannot afford distraction. Stay focused, my dear. Or next time I will send someone else.”

She left without another word, the cold of the chamber clinging to her bones.

⸻

Sunlight filtered through the vast windows, casting long rays across the silent chamber. The Jedi Council had assembled in full, tension clinging to the space like smoke.

Obi-Wan stood near the center, arms tucked into his robes. Kit Fisto paced with measured steps, green tendrils swaying. Luminary Unduli remained seated but rigid, her eyes dark and sharp. Mace Windu watched all of them, silent but alert.

Chancellor Palpatine stood calmly before them, hands folded, robed in deep crimson. The ever-smiling face of the Republic.

“We have reason to believe she’s gone underground,” Kit said at last, stopping mid-step. “Not just off-world—off-grid. She’s not been seen on Coruscant in days.”

Yoda’s ears lifted slightly. “Certain, are you?”

“She hasn’t reported in to her handler. Even the Chancellor can’t locate her,” Obi-Wan added, glancing at Palpatine.

Palpatine smiled thinly. “She works alone. That’s her strength. She’s unpredictable, yes, but not disloyal.”

“With respect, Chancellor,” Ki-Adi-Mundi interjected, “you yourself said her role was to assist the Jedi and the Senate. If she’s acting without instruction, she may no longer be operating in the Republic’s best interest.”

Palpatine’s smile didn’t falter. “She has always completed her missions. Always served the Republic’s cause—even if her methods were… unconventional.”

“She disappears when it suits her,” Luminary said coolly. “We do not know her true allegiance.”

“Nor her past,” Kit added. “Only that she is dangerous. Charming, yes. Tactical. But too close to too many of our clone officers.”

A silence fell again—this time heavier.

“She has gained the respect of some among us,” Mace finally said. “She confided in me. Her concern for the clones felt genuine.”

“And yet,” Kit said, “she manipulates that very concern to gain access and loyalty. I have seen it.”

Palpatine’s expression darkened slightly. “She has been instrumental in your victories. On Teth. On Erobus. She has risked her life for your cause, and for mine.”

“She serves your purpose, Chancellor,” Luminary said carefully. “But does she serve ours?”

Yoda’s voice cut through the room, quiet and calm. “Much we do not see. Dangerous, it is, to distrust allies too easily. But more dangerous still to trust without clarity.”

Palpatine exhaled slowly, placing his hand over his heart. “When she returns—and she will—you’ll see where her loyalties lie. Until then, I advise patience.”

The Council murmured among themselves. Some nodded. Some frowned. Some, like Kit Fisto and Ki-Adi-Mundi, exchanged long, skeptical glances.

The meeting dissolved soon after, but the air remained heavy with unease.

And somewhere far beyond Coruscant’s towers and temples, the reader moved unseen, far from both Jedi and Chancellor.

⸻

The bar was unusually quiet for a Friday night. Clones leaned against the counter, some still half-dressed from field drills, others fresh from debriefs, beer and synth-whiskey in hand. Laughter echoed in pockets. But the air carried something else too—unease.

Rex sat at a table near the back, helmet on the seat beside him. Cody dropped into the chair opposite, his brow drawn tight. They both had the look of men who’d been chasing shadows.

“She’s not answering her comms,” Rex muttered, swirling the drink in his hand. “Not to me, not to anyone.”

“Chancellor doesn’t know where she is either,” Cody said under his breath. “I checked through back channels. Even her client records went dark.”

Rex leaned back. “This isn’t like her.”

Cody didn’t answer right away. He stared at the tabletop for a beat too long. Then:

“Isn’t it?”

That hit Rex like a shot to the ribs. He sat up straighter. “What are you saying?”

“She’s not one of us, Rex. You know that. She comes and goes. Answers to people we don’t even see. And half the time, she’s in our barracks or our war rooms like she belongs there.”

“She helped us.”

“She also got close to a lot of us. Real close.”

Rex scowled. “You jealous?”

Cody shot him a sharp look. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Jesse dropped into a nearby seat, nursing a bruised jaw and a half-drained bottle. “You two talking about her again?”

“We’re trying to figure out where she is,” Rex said.

“Probably off charming someone new,” Jesse smirked. “Girl like that doesn’t disappear unless she’s got a good reason. Maybe she’s doing something for the Chancellor again.”

“Or for herself,” Cody said darkly.

Fives leaned in from the next table, ever the one to eavesdrop. “I heard she was seen boarding a Separatist freighter.”

“What?” Rex snapped.

“Some civvie transport crew in the outer systems. Said they saw someone matching her description getting on with a kid. Republic IDs, but separatist ship. Weird, right?”

Kix joined them, arms folded. “That’s not all. Some of the 212th are saying she had unrestricted access to classified battle plans. And now she’s vanished. Doesn’t look good.”

“Dangerous woman,” Tup murmured from the side. “Real dangerous. She’s been playing the long game. With us. With the Jedi. Maybe even the Chancellor.”

“She’s not a manipulator,” Rex growled. “She’s not the enemy.”

But his voice wavered for the first time.

Cody looked at him—hard, quiet.

“I want to believe that too, vod. But she didn’t just disappear. She chose to.”

A long silence fell over the table.

In the corner, Fives just smirked. “Hot, though. Definitely hot.”

Everyone groaned.

But beneath the laughter, doubt ran deep.

And in the back of Rex’s mind, a seed had been planted. One he couldn’t shake.

⸻

There was a kind of quiet in hyperspace she never got used to.

It wasn’t silence—ships hummed, wires buzzed, engines thrummed low like a heartbeat. But it was a strange, hollow quiet. The kind that filled the space behind your ribs when you were running from something, but didn’t know what yet.

She leaned back in the pilot’s seat, one leg propped on the console, the other jittering restlessly beneath her. The co-pilot’s chair beside her was tilted back, a blanket bunched across it, and a sleeping kid tucked beneath it—her “asset,” according to the encrypted file the Chancellor had burned into her comms a month ago.

Force-sensitive. About eight. Big eyes. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made her nervous.

She hadn’t given him a name. He hadn’t offered one.

He just followed her like a shadow, never crying, never resisting. He watched her like he was trying to memorize her—every twitch of her fingers, every sigh she let slip when she thought he wasn’t listening. Sometimes, she felt like he was the one babysitting her.

It should’ve made her skin crawl. Instead, it just… got under it. Slipped in sideways. Left a permanent chill.

She was supposed to wait for new instructions. No contact. No Republic. Not even the Chancellor wanted her sending outbound transmissions.

“Too risky,” he’d said. “Stay buried. Until I call for you.”

That was fine.

She didn’t want to hear from him. Not after what he’d made her do.

So she flew. Drifted between systems, one jump ahead of suspicion. Took the kid to Felucia—quiet jungles, strange colors. Then to Naboo. Then to Kashyyyk. The Wookiees didn’t talk much, and when they did, they didn’t ask questions. She liked that.

The kid liked it too.

He smiled when the wind hit his face, laughed when the vines swung low enough for him to climb. He meditated with the elders under the great trees, palms flat, eyes closed, lips moving in languages he didn’t know.

She didn’t know what to do with him.

She could fight men twice her size, break into a warship, and disappear from Coruscant’s grid in under five minutes—but kids?

Force-sensitive, fragile, unpredictable kids?

Not her forte.

Still, she bought him warm food when he was hungry. Sat with him when the nights were too loud. Pulled the blanket up over him when he nodded off mid-jump.

And he… trusted her.

Gods help him.

And Then.

The transmission came mid-jump. An old code. Buried deep.

She opened it. Expected orders. Coordinates. Updates.

Instead, she got this:

“Terminate the asset.”

Just that.

No signature. No voice message. Just those three words in bloodless text.

She sat still for a long time, the cockpit lights casting pale gold across her features.

No.

Her hand hovered over the console. She could delete it. Pretend she never saw it.

Or… she could do exactly what he said.

She looked at the boy—still sleeping, thumb tucked near his mouth, his little body curled like a comma in the co-pilot’s seat.

He trusted her. Even after everything. Even knowing nothing.

And she—

She didn’t know how to kill him.

She didn’t want to.

Her fingers slowly lowered.

She encrypted the message. Buried it. Then cut off all outbound comms completely. Even the backup ones Palpatine thought she didn’t know he’d installed.

And for the first time since she agreed to this job, she felt something like resolve settle in her chest.

She wasn’t going to kill the kid.

Not for Palpatine. Not for anyone.

She’d disappear again. Go dark. Real dark.

And figure it out on her own.

⸻

Three months later and the smell of dirt never really left her hands.

Didn’t matter how long she scrubbed them, how hot the water was, how much Wookiee soap she used—the scent was baked in now. Like soot after fire. Like blood under your nails.

The kid was currently chasing a flock of half-feral featherbeasts across the field, shrieking with laughter while they squawked and ran in all directions like headless idiots. He’d tied one of her spare bandanas around his head and called himself “The King of Beaks.” She wasn’t sure if it was a game or a cult.

She squinted up at the twin suns and groaned, wiping sweat from her brow with a dirt-stained sleeve.

“This was a mistake.”

The house—if you could call it that—was lopsided and half-sunken into the earth like it had given up on being vertical. The roof leaked when it rained, which was often. The windows were warped. There was a trapdoor in the pantry she hadn’t opened yet because, frankly, she was afraid of what lived down there.

They’d been here for three months.

Three whole, uninterrupted months of staying hidden, staying off-grid, and pretending to be something other than what they were: a wanted merc with blood on her hands, and a stolen Force-sensitive child the Chancellor wanted dead.

The farm had been unoccupied when they arrived. Or rather, she’d made it unoccupied.

The farmer hadn’t been too keen on visitors, and even less keen on handing over his property to a stranger with a shifty smile and a blaster behind her back. But things got violent, as they do. He tried to gut her with a farming tool. She shot him in the throat. It was a short negotiation.

The kid never asked where the farmer went. He just helped her drag the body into the woods and asked if they could keep the loth-cat that came with the barn.

She said yes. It bit her the next day.

She’d done a lot of things in her life.

Assassinations. Espionage. Slicing into blacksite servers, seducing corrupt senators, starting bar fights, finishing wars.

But nothing had prepared her for running a farm.

Nothing.

The equipment was older than some planets she’d been to. The power converters buzzed at night like they were haunted. One of the water tanks screamed every time you flushed the toilet. The crops didn’t grow right, mostly because she forgot to plant them in any kind of order. She tried eating something she thought was edible last week and spent two hours curled up next to the loth-cat vomiting and hallucinating moisture ghosts.

She was not thriving.

But the kid was.

He’d put on weight. Color came back into his cheeks. He laughed now. Asked her questions about the stars. Sat cross-legged on the porch with his eyes closed, humming softly, moving stones with his mind and smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She watched him from the porch sometimes.

And felt something awful bloom behind her ribs.

Attachment, she thought. Stupid.

Later that night, they sat under the stars on the porch steps, sipping warm synth-milk and watching the night bugs dance in the grass.

“You ever think about going back?” he asked, voice soft.

She didn’t look at him.

“Back where?”

He shrugged. “Where people are.”

She sighed, tilting her head back to look at the sky. The stars looked close tonight. Like she could pick one and climb inside it.

“I’ve never been great with people.”

“You like me.”

“…You’re barely people.”

He giggled, and she smirked. Then, after a pause—

“Do you think they’re still looking for us?” he asked.

The smile faded from her lips.

She didn’t have the heart to tell him yes.

That some of them never stopped.

She reached over and ruffled his hair instead. “We’ll be alright.”

For now.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.4

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

Warnings: Death

⸻

The moonlight over Sundari always looked colder than it should.

Steel towers pierced the clouds like spears. And though the city gleamed with the grace of pacifism, you could feel it cracking beneath your boots.

You stood just behind Duchess Satine in the high chambers, your presence a silent sentinel as she addressed her council.

Another shipment hijacked.

Another uprising quelled—barely.

Another rumor whispered: Death Watch grows bolder.

When she dismissed the ministers, Satine stayed behind, standing at the window. You didn’t speak. Not at first.

“I feel them watching me,” she finally said, voice quiet. “The people. As though they’re waiting for me to break.”

You took a slow step forward. “You haven’t broken.”

“But I might,” she admitted.

You remained still, letting the quiet settle.

“You disapprove,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I disapprove of what’s coming,” you said. “And what we’re not doing about it.”

Satine turned fully. “You think I’m weak.”

“No.” Your voice was firm. “I think you’re idealistic. That’s not weakness. But it can be dangerous.”

“You sound like my enemies.”

You stepped closer, voice low. “Your enemies want you dead. I want you prepared.”

Her jaw tensed. “We don’t need weapons to prepare. We need resolve.”

“We need warriors,” you snapped, the edge of your heritage flaring. “We need eyes on the streets, ears in the shadows. Satine, you can’t ignore the storm just because your balcony faces the sun.”

For a moment, you saw it in her eyes—that mix of fear and pride. Then she softened.

“I didn’t bring you here to fight my wars.”

“No,” you said. “You brought me here to keep you alive.”

A long silence. Then, in a whisper:

“Will you protect me even if I’m wrong?”

You reached forward, resting a gloved hand on her shoulder.

“I will protect you even if the planet burns. But I won’t lie to you about the smoke.”

She nodded, barely. Then turned back to the window.

You left her there.

⸻

The cracks ran deep beneath the capital. Whispers of Death Watch had grown louder, but so too had something darker. Outsiders spotted. Ships with no flags docking at midnight. Faces half-shadowed by stolen Mandalorian helms.

You walked the alleys in silence, cloak drawn, watching the people. They looked thinner. More afraid.

They felt like you did in your youth—when the True Mandalorians fell, and pacifists took the throne.

It was happening again.

Only this time, you stood beside the throne.

⸻

Sundari had never been louder.

Crowds surged below the palace walls. Explosions had bloomed like flowers of fire across the city. The Death Watch had returned—not as shadows now, but as an army, and you knew in your blood this wasn’t the cause you once believed in.

You stormed into the war room with your cloak soaked in ash.

Bo-Katan stood tense, arms crossed, her helmet tucked under one arm, jaw tight.

“Is this your idea of taking back Mandalore?” you growled. “Terrorizing civilians and letting offworlders roam our streets?”

Bo snapped, “It’s Pre’s idea. I just follow orders.”

“You’re smart enough to know better.”

She met your eyes. “And you’re too blind to see it’s already too late. This planet doesn’t belong to either of us anymore.”

Before you could reply, Vizsla strode in, flanked by his guards, armed and smug.

“Careful, old friend,” he said to you. “You’re starting to sound like the Duchess.”

You turned to face him fully. “She at least had a vision. You? You brought the devils of the outer rim to our door.”

“You think I trust Maul?” Vizsla scoffed. “He’s a tool. A borrowed blade. Nothing more.”

“You’ve never been able to hold a blade you didn’t break,” you said, stepping closer, voice low and dangerous. “And you dare call yourself Mand’alor.”

That was the final push.

Vizsla signaled for the guards to stand down. He drew the Darksaber—its hum filled the chamber like a heartbeat of fate.

“You want to test my claim?” he snarled.

You drew your beskad blade from your back, steel whispering against your armor.

“I don’t want the throne,” you said. “But I won’t let you stain the Creed.”

The battle was swift and brutal. Sparks lit the floor as steel met obsidian light. Vizsla fought with fury but lacked precision—he was stronger than he had been, but still undisciplined. You moved like water, like memory, like the old days on the moon—fluid, sharp, unstoppable.

He faltered.

And then—they stepped out of the shadows.

Maul and Savage Opress, watching from the high walkway above the throne room. Silent. Observing.

When Vizsla saw them, he struck harder, desperate to prove something. That’s when you disarmed him—sent the Darksaber flying from his hand, the weapon hissing as it skidded across the floor.

Vizsla landed hard. He panted, looking up—humiliated, bested.

You turned away.

But it wasn’t over.

Chains clamped around your wrists before you even reached the stairs. Death Watch soldiers—those loyal to Maul—grabbed you without warning. You struggled, but too many held you down.

Maul descended the steps of the throne, black robes fluttering, yellow eyes glowing like dying suns.

He walked past you.

“To be bested in front of your own… how disappointing,” Maul said coldly to Vizsla.

Vizsla staggered to his feet. “You’re nothing. A freak. You’ll never lead Mandalore.”

Maul ignited his saber.

He and Vizsla fought in a blur of red and black and desperate defiance. But Maul was faster. Stronger. Born in a storm of hate and violence.

You could only watch, forced to your knees, wrists bound, as Maul plunged the blade through Vizsla’s chest.

The Death Watch leader crumpled.

The Darksaber now belonged to the Sith.

Gasps rippled through the chamber.

Some kneeled. Others hesitated.

Then Bo-Katan raised her blaster.

“This is not our way!” she shouted. “He is not Mandalorian!”

Several warriors rallied to her cry. They turned. Fired. Chaos erupted. Bo and her loyalists broke away, escaping into the halls.

You remained.

You didn’t run.

Maul approached you slowly, the Darksaber glowing dim in his hand.

He crouched, speaking softly, dangerously.

“I see strength in you,” he said. “Not like the weaklings who fled. You could live. Serve something greater. The galaxy will fall into chaos… and only the strong will survive.”

He tilted his head.

“Tell me, warrior—will you live?”

Or…

“Will you die with your honor?”

“Kill me”

Maul hesitated for a moment, before ordering you to be taken to a cell.

The cell was dark.

Damp stone and the smell of old blood clung to the air. You sat in silence, bruised and bound, staring at the flicker of light outside the bars. A sound shifted behind you—soft, delicate, out of place.

Satine. Still regal, even in ruin. Her dress torn, her golden hair tangled, but her spine as straight as ever.

“You’re still alive,” she said softly, voice hoarse from hours of silence.

You looked over, slowly.

“For now.”

There was a pause between you, heavy with everything you’d both lost.

“You should’ve left Mandalore when you had the chance,” she murmured.

You shook your head. “I made a promise, Duchess. And I keep my word.”

Satine gave a humorless smile. “Even after all our disagreements?”

You smiled too. “Especially after those.”

She lowered her head. “They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?”

You looked her in the eye.

“Not if I can stop it.”

⸻

They dragged you both from your cell.

Through the palace you once helped defend. Through the halls still stained with Vizsla’s blood. The Death Watch stood at attention, masks blank and cold as ever. Maul waited in the throne room like a spider in his web.

And then he arrived.

Kenobi.

Disguised, desperate, but unmistakable. The moment Satine saw him, her composure nearly cracked.

You were forced to kneel beside her, chains cutting into your wrists.

The confrontation played out as in the holos.

Maul relished every second.

Kenobi’s face was a war in motion—grief, fury, helplessness. You watched Maul drag him forward, speak of revenge, of his loss, of the cycle of suffering.

And then—like a blade through your own chest—

Maul killed her.

Satine fell forward into Obi-Wan’s arms.

You lunged, screaming through your teeth, but the guards held you fast.

“Don’t let it be for nothing!” you shouted at Kenobi. “GO!”

He escaped—barely.

And in the chaos, you broke free too, a riot in your heart. Blasters lit up the corridors as you vanished into the undercity, cutting through alleys and shadows like a ghost of war.

⸻

The city was choking under red skies.

Mandalore burned beneath Maul’s grip, its soul flickering in the ash of the fallen. You stood in the undercity alone, battered, bleeding, and unbroken. The taste of failure stung your tongue—Satine was dead. Your boys were scattered in war. You’d given everything. And it hadn’t been enough.

You dropped to one knee in the shadows, inputting a code you swore never to use again. A transmission pinged back almost instantly.

A hooded figure appeared on your holopad.

Darth Sidious.

His face was half-shrouded, but the chill of his presence was unmistakable.

“You’ve finally come to me,” he said, almost amused. “Has your compassion failed you?”

You clenched your jaw. “Maul has taken Mandalore. He murdered Satine. He threatens the balance we prepared for.”

Sidious tilted his head, folding his hands beneath his robes.

“I warned you sentiment would weaken you.”

“And I was wrong,” you growled. “I want him dead. I want them both dead.”

There was a silence. A grin crept onto his face, snake-like and slow.

“You’ve been… most loyal, child of Mandalore. As Jango was before you. Very well. I shall assist you. Maul’s ambitions risk unraveling everything.”

⸻

Maul sat the throne, the Darksaber in hand. Savage stood at his side, beastlike and snarling. The walls still smelled of Satine’s blood.

Then the shadows twisted. Power warped the air like fire on oil.

Sidious stepped from the dark like a phantom of death, with you behind him—armor blackened, eyes sharp with grief and rage.

Maul stood, stunned. “Master…?”

Sidious said nothing.

Then he struck.

The throne room erupted in chaos.

Lightsabers screamed.

Maul’s blades clashed against red lightning, his rage no match for Sidious’s precision. Savage lunged for you, raw and powerful—but you were already moving.

You remembered your old training.

You remembered the cadets.

You remembered Satine’s blood on your hands.

You met Savage head-on—vibroblade against brute force. You danced past his swings, striking deep into his shoulder, his gut. He roared, grabbed your throat—but you twisted free and drove your blade through his heart.

He died wide-eyed and silent, falling to the stone like a shattered statue.

⸻

Maul screamed in anguish. Sidious struck him down, sparing his life but breaking his spirit.

You approached, blood and ash streaking your armor.

“Let me kill him,” you said, voice shaking. “Let me avenge Satine. Let me finish this.”

Sidious turned to you, eyes glowing yellow in the flickering light.

“No.”

You stepped forward. “He’ll come back.”

“He may,” Sidious said calmly. “But his place in the grand design has shifted. I need him alive.”

You trembled, fists clenched.

“I warned you before,” Sidious said, stepping close. “Do not mistake your usefulness for control. You are a warrior. A weapon. And like all weapons—you are only as valuable as your discipline.”

You swallowed the rage. The grief. The fire in your soul.

And you stepped back.

“I did this for Mandalore.”

He nodded. “Then Mandalore has been… corrected.”

⸻

Later, as Maul was dragged away in chains and the throne room lay in ruin, you stood alone in the silence, helmet tucked under your arm.

You looked out at Sundari. And you whispered the lullaby.

For your cadets.

For Satine.

For the part of you that had died in that room, with Savage’s last breath.

You had survived again.

But the woman who stood now was no mother, no protector.

She was vengeance.

And she had only just begun.

⸻

You tried to vanish.

From Sundari to the Outer Rim, from the blood-slicked throne room to backwater spaceports, you moved like a ghost. You changed armor, changed names, stayed away from the war, from politics, from everything. Just a whisper of your lullaby and the memory of your boys kept you alive.

But you knew it wouldn’t last.

⸻

The transmission came days later. Cold. Commanding.

Sidious.

“You vanished,” his voice echoed in your dim quarters. “You forget your place, warrior.”

You said nothing.

“I gave you your vengeance. I spared your life. And now, I call upon you. There is work to be done.”

You turned off the holoprojector.

Another message followed. And another. Then…

A warning.

“If you will not obey, perhaps I should ensure your clones—your precious sons—remain obedient. I wonder how… stable they are. I wonder if the Kaminoans would let me tweak the ones they call ‘defective.’”

That was it. The breaking point.

⸻

The stars blurred past as you sat still in the pilot’s seat, armor old and scuffed, but freshly polished—prepared. You hadn’t flown under your own name in years, but the navicomp still recognized your imprint.

No transmission. No warning. Just the coordinates punched in. Republic Senate District.

Your hands were steady. Your pulse was not.

In the dark of the cockpit, you pressed a gloved hand to your chest where the small, battered chip lay tucked beneath the plates—an old holotrack, no longer played. The Altamaha-Ha. The lullaby. You never listened to it anymore.

Not after he threatened them.

He had the power. The access. The means. And the intent.

“Your precious clones will be the key to everything.”

“Compliant. Obedient. Disposable.”

You couldn’t wait for justice. Couldn’t pray for it. You had to become it.

Your fighter came in beneath the main traffic lanes, through a stormfront—lightning illuminating the hull in flashes. Republic patrol ships buzzed overhead, but you kept low, slipping through security nets with old codes Jango had left you years ago. Codes not even the Jedi knew he had.

You landed on Platform Cresh-17, a forgotten maintenance deck halfway up the Senate Tower. No guards. No scanners. Just a locked door, a ventilation tunnel, and a war path.

Your beskad was strapped to your back, disguised under a loose, civilian cloak. Blaster at your hip. Hidden vibrodaggers in your boots.

You knew the schedule. You had it memorized. You’d been preparing.

Chancellor Palpatine would be meeting with Jedi Masters for a closed briefing in the eastern chamber.

You wouldn’t get another shot.

The halls were quieter than expected. Clones patrolled in pairs—Coruscant Guard, all in red. You knew their formations. You trained the ones who trained them.

You didn’t want to kill them. But if they stood in your way—

A guard turned the corner ahead. You froze behind a pillar.

Fox.

You saw him first. He didn’t see you. You waited, breath caught in your throat. His armor gleamed beneath the Senate lights, Marshal stripe proud on his pauldron. Your boy. You almost stepped out then. Almost…

But then you remembered the threat. All of them were at risk.

You pressed on.

You breached the service corridor—wrenched the security lock off with brute strength and shoved your way in.

The Chancellor was already there.

He stood at the center of the domed office, hands folded, gaze distant.

He turned as you entered, as if he’d been expecting you.

“Ah,” he said softly. “I was wondering when you’d break.”

Your blaster was already raised. “They’re not yours,” you hissed. “They’re not machines. Not things. You don’t get to play god with their lives.”

He smiled.

“I gave them purpose. I gave them legacy. What have you given them?”

Your finger squeezed the trigger.

But then—

Ignited sabers.

The Jedi were already there. Three of them.

Master Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, and Kenobi.

They had sensed your intent.

You turned, striking first—deflecting, dodging, pushing through. Not to escape, not to run. You fought to get to him. To finish what you came to do.

But the Jedi were too skilled. Too fast.

Obi-Wan knocked the beskad from your hand. Plo Koon hit you with a stun bolt. You went down hard, your head cracking against the marble floor.

As you lost consciousness, the Chancellor knelt beside you.

He leaned in close.

“Next time,” he whispered, “I won’t be so merciful. If you threaten my plans again… your precious clones will be the first to suffer.”

⸻

Your eyes snapped open to the sound of durasteel doors hissing shut.

Your arms were shackled. Your weapons gone.

Fox stepped into the room, helmet under one arm.

He stared at you a long time.

“You tried to assassinate the Chancellor.”

You didn’t speak.

He pulled the chair across from you and sat down. He looked tired. Conflicted. But not angry.

“…Why?”

You met his gaze, finally. No fear. No hesitation.

“Because he’s a danger to you. To all of you.”

Fox narrowed his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You nearly killed Republic guards. You attacked Jedi.”

“I was trying to protect my sons,” you said, voice trembling. “I can’t explain it. You won’t believe me. But I know what’s coming. And I won’t let him use you—not like this.”

Fox looked down.

For a long moment, the room was silent.

Then quietly, almost brokenly:

“…You shouldn’t have come here.”

You gave a sad smile. “I never should’ve left Kamino.”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5