Clone Oc - Blog Posts

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! HE LOOKS SO GOOD I CAN’T BELIEVE IT!!! I LOVE HIM SO MUCH!!!

he legit looks like his armor has the same weight and thickness as the cgi clones in Attack of the Clones. The colors are spot-on. I know the helmet and pauldron were a bit of a bother, since they’re custom. You did such an amazing job translating the art into a figure!!! I’m in awe!!! The weathering on the leather parts is even a different texture from the weathering on the plastoid parts! You made my dorky dad of a Commander look like such a badass!! I can’t wait to do my own photo shoot with him!!

Finished custom for @theartgremlin

A commission of @fatally-splendid ‘s OC Teeth!!!

A commission of @fatally-splendid ‘s OC Teeth!!! It goes by neuter pronouns and is a very shy fren <333

If you’re interested in commissioning me, please DM!

tiny Locks 🫶

OH MY GOSH!!! HE HAS CATERPILLAR ARMOR!!!!!!!!

hey guys this is faun, my clone commando oc and i love him dearly

he is a simple guy who loves little creatures so much. also big creatures. he loves all animals. if he was not forced to be a solider, he would be a biologist :)

EDIT: he also has a toyhouse profile btw if you want to read more about him! <-

Dice deserves hugs 🥺

Dice is the grompy, confrontational, very sad and lonely medic oc of the 501st belonging to @itszerohz

YEAAAHHH STRIKEOUTTTT

Clone OC named Strikeout who I made for a story w/ @iceaxeflynn! He’s so special to me

Hehehe have some self indulgent art

The Rust Buckets meet the bad batch(this time just wrecker)

Record loves explosives almost as much as Wrecker does

Jon is lost on his giant of a brother and Bart is exhausted

“Crimson Huntress” pt.4

Summary: A rogue ARC trooper and a ruthless Togruta bounty hunter form an uneasy alliance, dodging Jedi, Death Watch, and their pasts as war rages across the galaxy.

The stars outside the cockpit stretched like silver thread.

K4 stood behind her with arms folded, posture straight as ever, while R9 whirred and beeped irritably at the navicomputer.

CT-4023—no name yet, not really—was in the back compartment, hunched over a collection of scavenged armor plates and paint canisters. The former Death Watch gear had been repainted, reshaped, stripped of its past. Now it gleamed black and silver, and he was adding gold trims by hand.

Thin lines along the gauntlets. A thin gold ring around the helmet’s visor. Lines across the chest plate that traced down to the waist, like some stylized sigil not yet realized.

Sha’rali leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. She tilted her head slightly, examining his work with a curious smirk.

“You’re getting good with that brush,” she said. “You ever consider art school?”

CT-4023 snorted softly, not looking up. “Didn’t really have elective credits in Kamino.”

“You’re making it your own. That’s important.” Her voice turned thoughtful. “But it’s missing something.”

He paused, brush held in mid-air. “What?”

She tapped the side of the helmet. “A sigil.”

“A what?”

“A mark. Something to show people who you are.” She strode in and rapped a knuckle against the chest plate. “This says ‘I’m not Death Watch.’ Good. Now it needs to say you. Your legend. Your kill mark.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a little dramatic.”

“You’re in a dramatic profession.”

K4 entered, setting a tray of caf and protein ration cubes on the workbench like a disapproving butler.

“Don’t encourage her,” the droid said flatly. “She’s referring to ‘kill marks’ again. Last time, she convinced a Rodian to fight a massiff pack for aesthetic purposes.”

“That Rodian survived,” Sha’rali said.

“Barely. Missing two fingers now.”

CT-4023 chuckled, leaning back slightly. “So what are you suggesting? I kill a Nexu or something?”

Sha’rali’s grin widened. “I was thinking bigger.”

R9 gave a loud, gleeful chirp.

K4 straightened. “She means a rancor.”

CT-4023 blinked.

Sha’rali gave an exaggerated shrug. “If you want a real sigil, you’ve got to earn it. Nothing screams ‘I survived’ like carving your crest from the hide of a rancor.”

“That is an excellent way to get him killed,” K4 said without pause.

R9 let out a string of beeps, none of them polite.

“He thinks it’d be entertaining,” K4 translated.

CT-4023 glanced between the two droids, then back to Sha’rali. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious,” she said. “Unless I’m not. Which is almost always.”

He shook his head. “How would you even find a rancor?”

Sha’rali turned, tapping a few keys on the ship’s console. A bounty notice flickered up on the screen, the text in rough Huttese.

BOUNTY NOTICE

Location: Vanqor

Target: Rampaging Rancor (Unauthorized Biological Transport)

Payment: 14,000 credits, alive or dead.

Bonus: Removal of damage caused to Hutt mining facility.

“Lucky day,” she said.

CT-4023 stared at her, incredulous. “You’re joking.”

“Perfect combo. Get paid and get a sigil.”

“Get killed,” K4 corrected. “Get eaten.”

R9 chirped encouragingly and rolled in a little celebratory circle.

The clone leaned back in the seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I haven’t even picked a name yet, and you want to throw me at a rancor.”

“That’s how legacies are made,” Sha’rali said. “Trial by teeth.”

He gave her a long look, then glanced at the armor he was customizing. The gold, the sleek silver lines. A life being rewritten.

“…If I die,” he muttered, “you better name me something cool.”

Sha’rali grinned like a wolf. “Deal.”

K4 sighed heavily and walked off. “This is going to end in flames and evisceration.”

Behind him, R9 beeped again—gleefully.

⸻

The ship set down hard against a craggy plateau overlooking the remains of the Hutt mining facility—scorched earth, collapsed scaffolds, and deep claw marks in durasteel walls. Sha’rali stepped off the ramp with her helmet tucked under one arm, cloak snapping behind her in the dry wind. CT-4023 followed, fully armored and now gleaming with fresh black, silver, and just enough gold to catch the sun.

R9 trailed behind, scanning the area with his photoreceptor. K4 lingered at the ramp, arms crossed.

“I do not approve of this location,” the droid muttered.

Sha’rali grinned over her shoulder. “You don’t approve of most places.”

“This one smells of feral biology and lawsuits.”

They descended into the ruins, weaving past shattered mine carts and burned-out equipment. Sha’rali crouched near a huge claw mark in a support column, then ran gloved fingers across the torn metal.

“Definitely a rancor,” she muttered. “But…”

“But what?” CT-4023 asked.

She glanced at him, then pointed toward the perimeter fence—what was left of it. Several posts had been knocked flat at an angle far too low for an adult rancor.

“It’s small. Or young.”

“Can a baby rancor really do this much damage?”

“If it’s scared enough,” she said, standing. “But if this is the one that got loose from transport, it’s barely out of its nesting pen. Hardly worth a fight.”

He frowned. “So no sigil?”

Sha’rali’s smirk returned. “You don’t earn your legacy punching toddlers. We’ll find you a real beast.” She tossed him a wink. “For now, let’s bag this one and get paid.”

A low growl interrupted her.

They both turned. From the remains of a collapsed control station emerged the rancor—gray-skinned, covered in soot and oil, no taller than Sha’rali’s shoulder. The creature bellowed a shrill, unsure roar and pawed at the ground with thick, oversized claws.

“…Adorable,” Sha’rali whispered.

“Not the word I’d use,” CT-4023 muttered, raising his blaster.

Before either of them moved, a sound cracked across the ruin—a slow, deliberate clap.

“Now that was real sweet. But I don’t think that beast belongs to either of you.”

Both bounty hunter and clone whirled.

Cad Bane stood atop a rusted crane boom above them, wide-brimmed hat casting long shadows, twin blasters already drawn and idle at his sides.

R9 emitted a rapid stream of hostile beeping.

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “Bane.”

“Sha’rali,” he said, voice smooth and mocking. “Still making a mess of the galaxy one body at a time?”

“Still dressing like an antique?”

He chuckled. “You got jokes. Still running with droids and damaged goods, I see.” His glowing red eyes flicked to CT-4023. “Or is this one just for decoration?”

CT-4023 subtly angled his stance. His grip on his blaster tightened, but Sha’rali lifted a hand.

“Easy,” she muttered. “Don’t give him a reason.”

“Oh, he won’t need one,” Bane said, leaping lightly from the crane and landing with a dusty thud. “I’ve got a claim on that rancor. Took the job same as you. Fair game.”

“We saw it first,” Sha’rali said. “We do the work, we take the creds.”

“You ain’t taken anything unless you’re faster than me, darlin’.”

“You remember what happened last time you called me that?”

“I do,” he said, drawing one blaster slowly. “Still got the burn mark.”

The baby rancor let out a pitiful moan, clearly confused by all the shouting and guns.

K4’s voice crackled over comms:

“Permission to vaporize the cowboy?”

“No,” Sha’rali said under her breath. “Yet.”

CT-4023 stepped forward, his voice quiet but direct. “You want a fight, you’ll get one. But if you’re smart, you’ll back off.”

Bane cocked his head. “Oh? Clone with a backbone. That’s new.”

“He’s not a clone anymore,” Sha’rali said. “He’s mine.”

Bane smiled faintly. “That’s cute.”

Then, blasters lifted. The air tensed.

The baby rancor screamed—and bolted.

“Dank ferrik,” Sha’rali muttered, grabbing CT-4023 by the arm. “Move!”

They took off after the fleeing beast, Bane shouting curses as he followed. Blaster fire cracked overhead. The chase had begun.

The baby rancor might have been small, but it was fast.

It barreled through the cracked remains of Vanqor’s refinery sector, sending up sprays of dust and ash with every thundering step. Sha’rali sprinted after it, cloak flying behind her, boots slamming down on twisted metal and scorched duracrete.

Behind her, CT-4023 kept pace easily, blaster ready—but not firing. Too risky. The beast was unpredictable, and so was the Duros hot on their trail.

Cad Bane vaulted down from a higher walkway with his typical fluid grace, twin LL-30s gleaming in the sunlight.

“Back off, Bane!” Sha’rali barked, skidding around a collapsed wall.

“You first,” he called, voice rich with laughter. “Or is this the kind of job where you just chase things and look good?”

CT-4023 fired a warning shot at the ground near Bane’s feet. “You want a reason, you’ll get one.”

The Duros twirled a pistol on one finger and grinned. “There he is. Knew there had to be some spine under all that polish.”

A sudden roar cut through the banter as the rancor skidded into a half-collapsed loading dock. It turned with alarming agility and slammed its bulk into a rusted hauler, flipping the entire vehicle like it was made of paper.

“Definitely not harmless,” CT-4023 muttered.

“Good instincts,” Sha’rali said as she ducked behind a support beam. “Next time, don’t wait so long to shoot.”

“I was assessing the threat.”

“You’re always going to be outgunned, clone. Don’t wait for the threat to assess you.”

The rancor tore through crates of crushed ore, dust clouding the air. Bane fired a pair of stun rounds that went wide, one of them shattering against a crate beside Sha’rali’s head.

“Watch it!” she snapped.

“Your face’ll heal just fine,” Bane called. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’re still mad about the throat thing, huh?”

CT-4023 blinked. “Throat thing?”

Sha’rali grinned.

He gave her a sharp look, breathing hard as they ducked behind another broken wall. “You seem to know every bounty hunter.”

“Networking. I get around.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Before she could respond, the rancor burst through the wall just ahead of them. It had a piece of durasteel stuck to its horned crest and a smear of blood on one shoulder—but it wasn’t limping. If anything, it was more aggressive now.

It reared back and let out a bellow that rattled the air.

Sha’rali dropped low and rolled to the side, blaster out. CT-4023 lunged forward, landing atop a storage container and drawing the creature’s attention.

“Hey!” he shouted, waving his arms. “Come on, you overgrown tooka!”

The rancor lunged toward him.

As it did, he tossed a flash pellet from his belt. The grenade burst in its face, sending the rancor reeling—temporarily stunned.

“Not bad,” Sha’rali said, running up beside him. “You fight like an ARC again.”

“I was an ARC,” he shot back, vaulting down. “Doesn’t exactly leave you.”

“You sure about that?”

Another blast tore through the haze—Bane was back, boots skidding across rubble. He aimed a net launcher at the beast’s legs, but it jerked sideways, the net missing by a meter.

“Slippery little thing!” Bane snarled. “Almost like it wants to make my life difficult.”

“Must be karma,” Sha’rali muttered, motioning to CT-4023. “Let’s flank it. You take left, I go up.”

He nodded, darting off with precision. She scaled a metal scaffold, bracing herself against the top beam, calculating.

Bane took a shot. It hit.

The stun round finally struck true, seizing the baby rancor’s back leg—and it screeched.

Not in pain. In rage.

It turned, lifted a pile of scrap with one clawed hand, and hurled it like a missile. Sha’rali ducked. Bane wasn’t as fast.

The debris clipped his shoulder and sent him flying into a pile of twisted girders.

“Serves you right,” she muttered, leaping from the scaffolding and landing hard beside CT-4023.

He was already adjusting his blaster’s charge, set to nonlethal.

“Plan?”

“We tire it out,” she said. “Hit and move. No kill shots. It’s the bounty.”

“And if Bane tries again?”

“We shoot him in the leg.”

He cracked a grin.

The two charged again—tandem precision. Sha’rali moved like a shadow; CT-4023, like a ghost of war, deadly and silent. The rancor slammed its fists down in fury, but they were never where it expected.

It was slower now. Panting. Enraged.

They worked as a unit—hunter and reborn soldier—flashing around the beast like twin blades.

Finally, a shot from CT-4023’s blaster hit just right, just under the shoulder. The creature stumbled, blinked, and fell to one side, snorting and curling into itself.

Down.

Still breathing.

Sha’rali stood over it, blaster lowered. Her eyes flicked to CT-4023.

“That… was teamwork.”

He shrugged. “Told you. ARC instincts.”

“Starting to think I should keep you around.”

“You already are.”

She laughed once, low and genuine.

Behind them, Bane groaned from the scrap pile.

CT-4023 nodded toward him. “Want me to shoot him in the leg anyway?”

Sha’rali smirked. “Tempting. But let him walk it off.”

R9 rolled up through the debris, trilling something smug and judgmental.

“You missed the fun,” CT-4023 said.

R9 beeped and showed a grainy hologram of Bane getting clobbered.

“I stand corrected,” he muttered.

Sha’rali placed a hand on the clone’s pauldron. “Let’s get this beast secured and get off this rock.”

He looked at her, eyes searching. “Hey… you ever think maybe you’re starting to trust me?”

She paused, then leaned in with a smirk.

“No. But you’re fun to have around.”

⸻

The drop site was a wreck of rusted platforms and storm-pitted walls, tucked in the shadow of a collapsed hangar. Sha’rali crouched beside the groaning frame of the baby rancor, still unconscious, still breathing hard. CT-4023 stood nearby, helmet off, glancing between the beast and their battered surroundings.

“You think your ship’s equipped to hold a rancor?” he asked, voice dry.

Sha’rali stood, brushing grit from her armor. “If it isn’t, K4 will figure it out. He likes problem-solving. Especially when the problem is violent.”

A mechanical growl came through the comms. K4’s voice filtered in over the channel, crisp and irritated:

“If this thing eats my upholstery, I’m turning it into boots.”

CT-4023 snorted. “You’d have to catch it first.”

“I caught you, didn’t I?”

Sha’rali rolled her eyes and tapped the comm off. “Let’s move before someone gets clever.”

As if summoned by bad karma, a long shadow fell over the landing pad behind them.

Cad Bane stepped into view, bruised, covered in soot, and not smiling anymore.

Two of his droids flanked him, both armed. He looked straight at Sha’rali, and then to CT-4023 with slow, calculated disapproval.

“You always did cheat well,” he said. “Still no class.”

“You’re just mad I’m better,” Sha’rali replied, unphased, blaster at her side—but loose, ready.

CT-4023 moved forward instinctively, placing himself half between her and the Duros.

Bane’s eyes didn’t miss it. “Got yourself a new watchdog, huh? Looks Republic. Smells like one, too.”

“Not Republic anymore,” the clone said flatly.

“Oh, right. Deserter.” Bane spat the word like a curse. “You know what they pay for one of your kind these days? Not as much as a Jedi, but enough.”

“I don’t care what you think I’m worth,” CT-4023 replied, voice steady. “You’d still have to take me alive.”

Bane cocked his head. “Who said anything about alive?”

A long silence stretched. Then: the high whine of a charging rifle.

But not from Bane.

From above.

K4 stood atop the ship’s gangway, rifle in hand, optics glowing gold in the dusk.

“Three hostiles locked. Suggest standing down before I redecorate the area with Duros-colored paste.”

CT-4023 stepped forward. “You heard him.”

Sha’rali added, “Walk away, Bane. You lost.”

Bane stared at the three of them—then past them, at the ship. The beast. The clone. The droid overhead. And finally… Sha’rali.

The weight of the loss settled in his posture. And still, he smiled.

“Still reckless. Still lucky.”

She grinned. “And still ahead.”

Bane muttered something in Duros under his breath, holstered his pistols, and turned.

“Next time,” he called over his shoulder, “you won’t have your pet clone or your smart-mouthed droid to save you.”

Sha’rali didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

They watched him vanish into the rusted ruins, silent except for the distant clang of droid footsteps fading with him.

CT-4023 finally exhaled. “He doesn’t lose often.”

“No,” Sha’rali agreed, nudging the rancor with her boot. “But when he does… stars, it’s satisfying.”

They dragged the sleeping creature onto a maglift. It groaned but didn’t wake. K4 guided them in from the ramp, already prepping the cargo bay containment field.

“If it moves, I’m putting it in carbonite.”

“Just sedate it again if it twitches,” Sha’rali said.

CT-4023 helped lower the beast onto the containment pad, then paused beside it. For a moment, he simply stared.

“What?” Sha’rali asked, wiping blood from her forehead.

He looked at her, then the ship around them. “You realize I’ve helped you tranquilize a rancor, outmaneuver Cad Bane, and survive a job that should’ve gotten us both killed.”

She grinned and leaned in, voice dry. “So, what you’re saying is…”

He sighed. “I guess I’m sticking around.”

“Says the man who almost painted a target on his chest last week,” K4 muttered from the cockpit.

R9 chirped happily from the corridor, replaying footage of the rancor crushing a speeder.

CT-4023 watched it for a second and shook his head. “Remind me to reprogram that one.”

Sha’rali smirked and clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Welcome to the life, trooper.”

He smirked back, already thinking about the sigil he’d carve next.

⸻

Tatooine’s twin suns scorched down on the durasteel hull of Sha’rali’s ship as it touched down outside Jabba’s palace. The ship’s systems whined in protest at the sand and heat. CT-4023 stood at the airlock, armor dark and gleaming in the harsh light, the sigil on his pauldron not yet painted—blank, unclaimed.

Sha’rali fastened the final restraint on the crate that held the sedated baby rancor, her jaw tense.

“Keep your helmet on,” she warned as she keyed open the hatch.

“Why?”

She turned, voice low. “Jabba had a bounty on your head a few rotations ago. You were Republic property—‘runaway government clone,’ worth a few thousand credits dead. He might not remember, but some of his lackeys will.”

CT-4023 looked at her carefully. “And you think bringing a rancor here is a better idea?”

She flashed him a sharp grin. “He likes rancors. Plus, they’re the ones who posted the bounty on the rancor, remember? If we don’t deliver, someone else will—and worse, we lose our payout.”

The airlock hissed open and the thick heat of Tatooine hit them like a wall. The gates to Jabba’s fortress loomed ahead, half-buried in sunbaked stone. CT-4023 followed behind her as they dragged the heavy sled forward—R9 chirping irritably in the back, and K4 remaining behind to monitor the ship.

As they approached, the gates creaked open, and a Gamorrean guard grunted before stepping aside. They were ushered into the vast, dim throne room by a hissing Twi’lek majordomo. The stink of spice, sweat, and rotting meat hung in the air. Sha’rali walked differently here—shoulders broader, stride slower, swagger more exaggerated. Her eyes were colder, smile sharper.

CT-4023 recognized the change instantly.

This wasn’t the woman he fought beside. This was Sha’rali the hunter. This was who she was before him.

Jabba lounged on his dais, bloated and wheezing, surrounded by sycophants and criminals. Music thumped in the background, too loud and chaotic. The sled with the rancor came to a halt, and the crate groaned as the beast stirred inside.

The Hutt let out a deep chuckle, slurred through slime.

“Sha’rali Jurok… bringing me gifts again, are you?”

She bowed low, but not respectfully—more theatrically. “Not gifts, Your Excellency. Merchandise. A baby rancor, caught on Vanqor. Aggressive, untrained. I believe your people were the ones asking.”

A ripple of intrigue spread through the chamber. Several beings leaned forward.

Jabba’s massive tongue slid across his lips.

“Yes… the bounty was ours.”

CT-4023 scanned the room—twelve guards, some with Hutt Cartel markings. He didn’t like the odds.

Jabba gestured, and a chest of credits was dragged forward, a heavy thud against the stone.

“Payment. Generous. As requested.”

Before they could collect, a tall Trandoshan slithered into view.

Bossk.

He eyed Sha’rali, nostrils flaring, tongue flicking. “Didn’t think you had the guts to show your face here.”

She didn’t smile. “Didn’t think you’d still have yours.”

And then—another shape emerged from the crowd.

A boy. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Battered green Mandalorian armor, a blaster far too large for his frame slung low. Boba Fett.

He eyed CT-4023 with suspicion, then glanced at Sha’rali.

“That armor doesn’t look like yours.”

Sha’rali tilted her head. “Does now.”

CT-4023’s jaw tightened under the helmet. His hand hovered close to his blaster.

Boba looked at the clone longer, gaze calculating, almost… knowing.

Sha’rali held the younger Fett’s gaze. “You planning on collecting, kid?”

Boba shrugged. “Not unless there’s still a bounty.”

She leaned forward slightly. “There’s not.”

Tension pulsed for a long moment.

And then—Jabba let out a rumbling laugh that echoed through the throne room. He slammed a chubby hand on a panel, and droids wheeled the crate away with the young rancor.

“Your business is done, Sha’rali. Go.”

She inclined her head. “Gladly.”

They turned and walked out—slowly, deliberately. CT-4023 followed, his heart pounding beneath his armor. Only once the ship’s doors sealed behind them did he exhale.

On the ramp, he turned to her. “That… was not fun.”

Sha’rali shrugged, not breaking stride. “Palace jobs never are.”

“You’re different in there,” he said. “Cold. Calculated.”

“Necessary.”

He studied her a long moment. “You’ve done a lot to keep me alive.”

Sha’rali gave him a look, sharp and unreadable. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

R9 beeped as it wheeled up the ramp.

⸻

The holotable flickered in the middle of the ship’s lounge, casting green-blue light over the metal floor. CT-4023 sat across from it, arms folded, as CID’s scaly face materialized in grainy hologram. Her voice rasped through the static.

“Sha’rali. Got a job for you. High-value intel, Separatist origin. Interested?”

Sha’rali didn’t respond right away. She stood to the side, arms crossed, one brow raised. She’d never taken a job that directly brushed up against the war—never wanted to. It was one thing to skirt the edges, pick off cartel bounties, or rob a warlord. But a mission involving Separatist intel? That was new ground.

Suspicious ground.

“Where’s this data?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“Hidden in a vault on Vucora. Some shadow installation the Separatists set up during the early days of the war, went dark two years ago. Word is the place is waking up again—maybe just droids, maybe more. Someone wants eyes on it.”

“What’s the payout?”

“Fifteen thousand. Half up front, half after extraction. I’ll upload the location files and security specs.”

Sha’rali glanced to CT-4023. He’d been quiet, watching the projection with an odd kind of familiarity. When she met his eyes, he just gave a short nod.

“Let’s do it,” he said. “I know what to expect. Their vaults follow certain protocols—recursive redundancies, external relays, droid patrols. I was trained for this kind of thing.”

Sha’rali blinked at him, just once.

“Thought you were trained to blow things up.”

He shrugged. “Only after we broke in.”

A low chuckle rumbled in her throat. “Fine. K4, R9—get the data off Cid and start planning the infiltration.”

R9 chirped and spun toward the holotable. K4 bowed slightly. “As you wish. I’ll begin compiling relevant schematics and countermeasures.”

Sha’rali grabbed her sidearm and slid it into its holster.

“I’ll be back in an hour.”

CT-4023 frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Cid wants to talk face-to-face. Probably wants me to sign my life away. Or threaten me, which she loves more.”

CT-4023 frowned. “Is that a joke?”

“No,” Sha’rali replied flatly. “That’s Cid.”

⸻

The private booth was humid and dim, stinking of grease, cheap liquor, and warm reptile. Cid poured a drink into a chipped glass and slid it across the table as Sha’rali dropped into the seat opposite her.

“Still running around with the clone?” Cid rasped. Her yellow eyes gleamed under the low light.

Sha’rali picked up the drink, gave it a sniff, and downed half in one go. “He’s useful.”

“You don’t usually keep your assets this long.”

Sha’rali leaned back, her expression unreadable. “He hasn’t tried to kill me yet.”

Cid gave a dry chuckle. “You could’ve ditched him after Ord Mantell. Would’ve been smart.”

Sha’rali’s voice lost its humor. “You could’ve not sold us out. But here we are.”

Cid rolled her eyes. “Information’s a commodity, sweetheart. He was intel. Valuable intel.”

“You sold it to the Republic.”

“I sell to whoever pays. You know that.”

Sha’rali set her glass down with a sharp clink.

“You and I have an understanding, Cid. But if you ever sell me out again—if I find out you bring heat down on me—don’t expect me to show up for drinks next time.”

Cid didn’t blink. “Relax. I’m still alive, aren’t I? I do what I need to do to stay that way. And if keeping the Republic happy buys me another year, so be it.”

Sha’rali stared at her, unflinching.

“You’d sell anyone out to save your scaly hide.”

Cid gave a thin smile. “Damn right I would. And don’t act like you’re any different. We do what we have to. We always have.”

Sha’rali finished her drink and stood.

“Send the final access key to my ship.”

Cid raised her glass. “Don’t die, Jurok.”

⸻

Back aboard the ship, K4 was already deep into mapping the infiltration route to the Separatist vault. R9 chirped a steady stream of suggested entry points, and CT-4023 stood over the holotable, adjusting droid patrol routes and slicing protocols from memory.

Sha’rali watched him for a moment. It struck her again—he belonged in this kind of environment. Tactical. Efficient. Sharp. Even without his clone designation, without the armor he used to wear, he was still a weapon honed for this kind of work.

That unnerved her more than she’d admit.

“Looks like you’re in your element,” she muttered.

CT-4023 glanced over, his expression unreadable beneath the shadows.

“Let’s just say old habits die hard.”

⸻

The Separatist vault complex jutted from the side of a rocky cliff on Vucora’s dark side, the sky above black and starless. Only the flicker of malfunctioning perimeter lights gave any indication the base was still online. What should’ve been a graveyard of old tech buzzed faintly with shielded power signatures and long-range comm static.

Sha’rali crouched at the edge of a crag overlooking the access route—an old maglift shaft welded shut. Her black and crimson armor blended perfectly into the rock.

K4 hovered behind her, humming softly. R9 was already halfway down the cliff, magnetic locks clinging to rusted piping. CT-4023 stood next to her, helmet on, modified to hide the remnants of its Death Watch origins. The new gold detailing was subdued in the shadows, but it caught a glint of moonlight now and then like a quiet pulse.

He adjusted the voice modulator inside his helmet. “Test. One. Two.”

Sha’rali gave him a quick glance. “Good enough. Don’t talk unless you have to.”

He nodded. “You think we’ll really run into anyone?”

She let out a slow breath, fingers tightening on her carbine. “I picked up a Republic signal on the long-range scanner this morning. I didn’t want to spook you, but… something’s off. K4, what did that encrypted ping resolve as?”

K4 tapped a few keys on his forearm datapad. “Garbled signature, but buried under that noise was a Republic tactical beacon. A very recent one.”

CT-4023 stiffened.

“I thought this was a forgotten base.”

“It was,” Sha’rali said. “Until now.”

R9 beeped twice. A warning.

K4’s tone dropped. “We’ve got six warm bodies approaching the northwest hangar. Five human, one Togruta. Jedi.”

CT-4023 tensed. “Anakin.”

Sha’rali looked over at him sharply. “You know the squad?”

He hesitated. “Skywalker, Tano, Rex. The rest could be anyone.”

Sha’rali’s hand went to her blaster but didn’t draw. “Fantastic. That’s half the Republic’s worst nightmare squad. Just what I wanted.”

“I can handle it,” CT-4023 said.

“You’re going to stay out of their way,” Sha’rali snapped. “Helmet stays on. Modulator on. No nicknames, no slip-ups. We don’t know what Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth told the Republic. They may think you’re dead—or they may think you’re still out there. We can’t risk it.”

He nodded slowly. “Understood.”

“I’m serious,” she said, grabbing his shoulder. “If Rex recognizes you, if Skywalker so much as suspects, we are both karking done.”

He looked away. “I know.”

They slipped into the base through a rusted maintenance conduit on the far side of the cliff, bypassing the active hangar. Lights flickered and droids twitched in long-forgotten alcoves, half-powered and unresponsive.

The vaults were down two levels, buried under what looked like a mining wing that had collapsed in on itself. Sha’rali and K4 moved like ghosts. CT-4023 hung back slightly, his posture alert but purposeful.

K4 piped up softly. “Republic presence is closer than I estimated. A security system just logged a slicing breach near Subsection Twelve.”

“That’s the vault wing,” Sha’rali muttered. “Of course it is.”

They took a side route—old scaffolding, hanging cables, twisted metal. K4 led the way, decrypting each access point as they moved. R9 deployed ahead on a repulsor trail, scouting.

Over comms, faint voices came through.

“Keep your eyes open, Jesse. If these droids are online, there’s a reason.”

“You sure there’s intel here, General?”

“It’s not intel I’m looking for,” came Skywalker’s voice. “It’s movement. Something activated this base. And it wasn’t us.”

CT-4023 froze as Rex’s voice followed. He didn’t breathe.

“You think it’s a trap, sir?”

“Everything’s a trap, Tup,” Fives cut in. “That’s the fun part.”

Sha’rali looked back at 4023. “You good?”

He gave a tight nod. “Fine.”

They pushed deeper, K4 bypassing old turrets and sending fake signals to maintenance drones. The Jedi team was moving in the same direction but from the other side.

Sha’rali opened a secure hatch to a vault junction. “We’ve got ten minutes max before they converge here. We get in, get the files, and we go.”

CT-4023 slid into position beside her. “Or?”

“Or we run into your old family.”

The vault was colder than the rest of the facility—preserved by an emergency power grid designed to keep datacores stable. K4 cracked the encrypted node, R9 plugged in, and data began copying to a secure chip.

Sha’rali stood watch, carbine up.

CT-4023 moved closer to a dusty wall covered in etchings—old campaign markings, Clone War deployments, maps of Separatist offensives.

The Separatist mainframe crackled as R9’s manipulator arm whirred furiously inside the terminal. Green light spilled across the chamber’s walls while Sha’rali crouched beside the droid, blaster drawn, eyes flicking toward the door.

“Anything?” she hissed.

“Encrypted layers,” R9 chirped smugly. “Primitive. But layered like an onion. You ever peeled an onion, meatbag?”

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “Peel faster.”

Above them, K4’s calm voice crackled through the comms:

“Security patrols have doubled. The Jedi must have triggered alarms in the south sector. Ten hostiles converging on your location in ninety seconds.”

She muttered a curse.

4023, stationed at the northern corridor with his helmet on and voice modulator active, responded quickly. “I’ll cut off their advance. Hold this point. Don’t move until R9 pulls the data.”

Sha’rali glanced over her shoulder. “Keep your head down. If any of them catch a glimpse—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “Helmet stays on.”

He slinked into the shadows without another word.

The old CT-4023 was gone—this version of him, wearing black and silver repurposed Death Watch armor laced with his own colors, didn’t belong to the Republic anymore. He belonged to no one. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t lethal.

Two droids rounded the corridor corner—4023 stepped from the darkness, quiet and brutal. His vibroblade slid through the first one’s neck joint. The second didn’t even get to fire.

Meanwhile, back in the server room, R9 let out a low, triumphant beep.

“Got it. Data packet acquired. Core command lines copied. No alarms tripped.” A pause. “Well, not from us.”

Sha’rali’s comm buzzed again. “We’ve got trouble,” K4 said smoothly. “Skywalker and his squad are converging. If they find this server cracked, they’ll know someone else is here.”

Sha’rali activated her shoulder mic. “Everyone fall back to exfil point delta.”

4023 was already moving—slipping past motionless droid husks, evading the flicker of blue blades in the hallway. He paused once, just once, as he caught a glimpse through a distant grate.

Fives.

He stood beside Ahsoka, his DC-17s drawn, watching Skywalker argue with Rex about taking the east corridor. The voices stirred ghosts.

Memories of barracks laughter. Of daring missions. Of joking over rations and watching each other’s backs.

Now… he was nothing but a shadow.

“4023,” Sha’rali’s voice cut in urgently. “Move.”

He did.

⸻

The team reassembled at the old mining shaft they’d used for insertion. R9 detached from the mainframe, rolled back under K4’s cover, and together they descended the narrow escape lift. Above them, shouts rang out, boots storming the hall.

Sha’rali dropped beside him last. “We got it. R9 says there’s mention of a movement. Something big. High-level tactical orders. Could be good leverage for Cid.”

“Could be a war crime list too,” 4023 muttered, tapping the encrypted drive into K4’s care.

“We’ll let her worry about that.”

As they disappeared into the shaft and the light above them narrowed, 4023 sat in silence—jaw clenched under the helmet. He hadn’t seen Skywalker’s face, hadn’t dared get that close. But he’d felt the weight of it.

He remembered the war. The camaraderie. The brotherhood.

But he also remembered Umbara.

⸻

Outside, Sha’rali’s ship lifted into the dusk, cloaking engaged. They slipped off-world before GAR command could trace their incursion.

“We need to lay low for a few days,” Sha’rali said as she slumped into the co-pilot’s seat. “Once we deliver this to Cid, we move fast. If the Jedi know we were there…”

“They didn’t see me,” 4023 said flatly. “But I saw them.”

She turned to him, saw the clenched fists in his lap.

“You alright?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. “They’re still good soldiers.”

“Some of them,” she said.

Then quieter, she added, “But that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have shot you if they knew who you were.”

He didn’t respond.

K4 returned with R9 behind him, dropping a datapad onto the console. “Analysis underway. Data includes strategic orders, fleet movements, and two encrypted names I don’t recognize.”

Sha’rali exhaled. “That’s the next problem.”

They were ghosts again, slipping through systems and secrets—one step ahead of the war, one step behind its consequences.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Crimson Huntress” pt.3

Summary: A rogue ARC trooper and a ruthless Togruta bounty hunter form an uneasy alliance, dodging Jedi, Death Watch, and their pasts as war rages across the galaxy.

CT-4023 once had a name. A stupid one, maybe. But not a joke. His brothers gave it to him, and he wore it with pride.

They used to call him “Havoc.”

*Flashback*

The silence that day was like being buried alive. The mist on Umbara curled like claws.

It started with the air—heavy, choked with smoke and the chemical stench of burnt plastoid and cordite. Umbara was a graveyard before the first body hit the dirt.

He stood in the trench, helmet off, sweat streaking through black camo paint. His fingers shook against his DC-15. He didn’t know if it was fear or adrenaline or both. Probably both.

He wasn’t a rookie. Had served since Geonosis. But this? This was something else.

The sky never cleared. The sun never rose. They fought blind in the fog, in the dark, against an enemy they could barely see—until it turned out the enemy was themselves.

He remembered that moment too clearly.

The comm call. The confusion. The order.

Fire. On the approaching battalion.

They’re Umbarans in disguise.

No time to hesitate, trooper.

The first shot was fired. He didn’t know by who. Then it became a massacre.

It wasn’t until they closed the distance that they saw the helmets. The blue stripes. The 501st.

Their brothers.

He’d vomited in his helmet.

Later, when they found out Krell had manipulated them, that he was playing both sides—using them like pawns in a nightmare—it didn’t matter. The bodies didn’t un-die. The screams didn’t fade.

When it was over, they were commended for following orders.

For their loyalty.

For their “success.”

Something inside him broke.

He stayed quiet. Always quiet. But something… detached.

Later, during cleanup, he walked out into the forest and stared at the scorched battlefield. Ash fell like snow.

A sergeant came up beside him.

“We survived.”

“Did we?”

The next day, he volunteered for a deep recon mission off-grid. Just him. A week. He never came back.

They thought he was dead.

He let them think that.

*Flashback Ended*

He stared into the cup of tea that K4 had made earlier, now gone cold. The hum of the ship filled the silence.

Sha’rali watched him from the other side of the table, saying nothing.

“You ever kill someone you weren’t supposed to?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked. “I’m a bounty hunter.”

“I don’t mean for money. I mean by accident. Orders. Fog of war.”

Her silence stretched longer this time.

“I’ve tortured people who didn’t deserve it,” she said at last. “Does that count?”

He gave a humorless huff.

“I was loyal. I believed in it. Every order. Every command.” He looked at her, eyes bleak. “And it turned me into a murderer.”

“You’re not the only one.”

He studied her face, unsure if she meant herself—or every clone who ever wore a number.

“You didn’t desert because you were weak,” Sha’rali said. “You left because you couldn’t live with what they made you do.”

He didn’t answer.

Just looked down at his gloved hands, now black and silver.

“Maybe I don’t deserve a new name,” he said softly. “Maybe I deserve to stay a number.”

Sha’rali leaned forward, her voice low.

“Then pick a number they don’t know.”

CT-4023 sat in the small galley of Sha’rali’s ship, elbows on the durasteel table, his hands still faintly marked with old bloodstains—some visible, most not.

He hadn’t said a word in minutes.

Sha’rali leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—not in judgment, but consideration. Her long montrals cast shadows over the dim galley light, and her pale facial markings seemed more stark now, like war paint rather than tradition.

“I was wondering when you’d talk,” she said finally, voice low. “You hide it well. But your eyes give you away.”

4023 didn’t look up. “How so?”

“They’re quiet,” she said. “Too quiet. Like someone turned all the noise off inside, and just left you with static.”

He finally lifted his gaze. “You sound like you know the feeling.”

Sha’rali gave a short, bitter laugh. “I do.”

She pushed off the wall and moved to sit across from him. She set a steaming cup of stim down between them—probably from K4’s endless tea service—but didn’t touch it.

“I’m not like most Togruta,” she said. “Not even close.”

He said nothing, so she continued.

“We’re supposed to be communal. Peaceful. Guided by spirit. Our connection to each other and the land is everything. Most of us find calm just by being near one another. But I don’t. I never have.”

Her voice lowered.

“I don’t feel serenity. I feel… disconnected. Like something in me didn’t wire right. Where others found balance, I found blades. Rage. Violence.”

She looked him dead in the eye.

“There’s a defect in me.”

He blinked slowly. “Maybe it’s not a defect.”

“Oh, don’t romanticize it,” she scoffed. “I kill people for money. I enjoy it sometimes. Not because it’s just—it rarely is—but because it’s easy. Because it makes the noise stop. Even if only for a little while.”

He nodded.

“That… sounds familiar,” he murmured.

They sat in silence. No sympathy, no pity—just recognition.

After a long moment, she leaned back and exhaled.

“I used to think maybe I was Force-touched,” she muttered. “Some genetic thing. An imbalance. But the Jedi came to my village once when I was young. Scanned everyone.”

“They scanned you?”

She nodded. “Said I wasn’t Force-sensitive. But the Knight who tested me looked at me for a long time. Like he saw something he didn’t want to.”

He didn’t ask what she meant. He already knew.

A pause.

Sha’rali looked at him again, more openly now. “Whatever broke you… I think it broke me too. Just in a different shape.”

4023’s lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost.

He nodded again. “We’re good at pretending we’re not the ones who need saving.”

She smirked faintly. “Speak for yourself. I never needed saving. I just needed someone to aim at.”

A pause.

4023 looked at her for a long moment, then finally asked, “And now?”

She held his gaze.

“Now I’m not sure what I need.”

⸻

The Jedi Council room was dimmed with twilight. The room was quiet but tense, evening sun casting long shadows through the high arched windows. Some Masters were seated, others stood, gathered in a semi-circle around the central holoprojector. In the center flickered the grim face of the Trandoshan informant Cid—grainy, but clear enough.

“She’s not here anymore,” Cid rasped. “Was never supposed to be. I didn’t send her a job. Someone used my name. Set her up, maybe. She came asking about it… and she wasn’t alone.”

That was the part the Council had fixated on.

“She had him with her,” Mace Windu said, standing with his arms crossed. “The clone.”

Master Plo Koon tilted his head. “The one from Saleucami?”

“Same body type. Same gait. Same refusal to register. Cid said he didn’t give a name. But the description matches CT-4023.”

“CT-4023…” Obi-Wan leaned forward slightly, expression hardening. “That was the ARC we tried to extract during the intelligence breach. Delta Squad was pulled out under fire. He was taken by a bounty hunter—this same Togruta.”

Shaak Ti nodded gravely from her hologram feed. “We believed he was compromised. Assumed he’d be transferred offworld. Perhaps dissected. And yet—he survived.”

“He didn’t just survive,” Windu said darkly. “He vanished. With her.”

Kit Fisto stood by the edge of the chamber, arms folded behind his back, quiet until now.

“And now he’s resurfaced,” Kit said. “On Ord Mantell. With the bounty hunter. After killing a Death Watch Mandalorian in open combat. Witnesses say she fought him hand-to-hand and took his armor.”

“The clone helped?” Koth asked.

“We don’t know,” Kit replied. “But the report says she nearly lost. Someone intervened. No footage.”

Yoda exhaled a slow breath. “A choice he made. To go with her.”

“Which suggests she didn’t capture him,” Obi-Wan murmured. “She persuaded him.”

“Or worse,” Windu added. “Whatever’s in his head, it was enough for her to extract him from a live Separatist stronghold and disappear. She might not know the value of what she’s carrying… or she might know exactly what he’s worth.”

Master Yoda’s ears tilted downward. “Curious, this bond. Curious, the timing. Dangerous, the silence since Saleucami.”

“There’s more,” Kit said. “Cid has now gone to ground. She said she’d report the sighting to us if we left her alone, but she’s clearly nervous. She saw something she didn’t like.”

Mace nodded once. “Then we move. Kit Fisto. Eeth Koth. Go to Ord Mantell. See if the trail’s still warm. We need to know what the bounty hunter is planning. And if the clone’s still alive.”

Shaak Ti’s gaze lingered on the empty space in the chamber where the clone’s name might have once been honored. “If it is 4023… he was among the last assigned to Umbara.”

That earned a beat of silence.

“A reason to break,” Plo Koon said softly.

“A reason to run,” Windu agreed. “But no reason to stay missing. No reason to hide—unless he’s protecting something.”

“Or someone,” Koth added.

Yoda’s voice cut through like a blade. “A ghost. From a war of ghosts. Find him. Find them both.”

Kit bowed his head. “We’ll leave tonight.”

As the Masters began to turn away and the room dimmed again into shadow, the holoprojector winked off, leaving behind only silence and the faint hum of the Temple’s energy field.

⸻

The sun of Ord Mantell were sinking behind rusted cityscapes as Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth moved quietly through the narrow alleys of the industrial quarter. The air stank of oil, sweat, and molten metal. It was loud—always loud here—and perfect for hiding.

They didn’t wear robes here. Jedi cloaks would be like blood in the water.

Death Watch was already sniffing.

At the end of a cracked alley, a crowd gathered around scorch marks and torn duracrete. Bloodstains were still being cleaned from the wall by a nervous rodian janitor. He worked under the sharp eye of two Mandalorians in blue armor, their visors reflecting the flickering street lights.

“Third time we’ve come by this area,” Koth murmured, low and clipped.

Kit nodded. “No fresh leads. But the smell of fear hasn’t gone anywhere.”

The two Jedi lingered just out of sight, watching as a third Mandalorian approached. His armor was heavier, jetpack hissing slightly as he stepped forward—clearly the one in charge. His voice barked sharp in Mando’a, silencing the chatter from the onlookers.

“That one’s been here since the first report,” Kit whispered, gesturing with his chin toward a thin Zabrak street vendor watching from behind a broken cart.

Koth approached first.

“We have a few questions.”

The Zabrak’s eyes darted toward the Mandalorians.

“I didn’t see nothing. Nothing,” he said quickly. “Look—everyone’s got a blaster down here, yeah? People die every night.”

“Not by Mandalorian hands,” Koth replied coolly. “And not to Mandalorians either. Someone fought one of their elites. And won.”

Kit stepped forward, his smile warm and easy. “We’re not Death Watch. We’re just trying to find someone. A Togruta bounty hunter. Tall, coral pink skin, long montrals. Accompanied by two droids—one purple astromech and a rather impolite butler-type.”

The Zabrak hesitated, then slowly shook his head. “No… don’t know any bounty hunter like that.”

“You do know something,” Kit said gently. “Even if you don’t realize it. Try again.”

After a tense pause, the vendor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Someone said she fought the Mando. That she took his armor. Left the body in the trash compactor down two levels.”

Koth’s eyes narrowed. “That’s bold. Even for her.”

“But here’s the thing,” the Zabrak continued, leaning closer. “Whoever helped her—no one saw his face. Some say he fought like a Jedi, but used a blaster. One guy swore he heard him shout military code in the fight. Real clean and quiet, like he knew how to move. But when it was over, nothing. No footage, no trace. Gone.”

“No one saw his face?” Kit echoed.

The vendor nodded.

“Then they don’t know,” Koth said under his breath.

Kit looked toward the Mandalorians again. “Death Watch still in the dark.”

“For now.”

They slipped away, vanishing into the crowd like vapor. They passed another alley, where a pair of Death Watch grunts interrogated a pair of street kids who just shook their heads in terrified silence.

Once out of earshot, Koth turned toward his fellow Jedi.

“If they knew it was a clone under that armor, they’d burn this district to the ground. No witnesses is the only reason they haven’t already.”

“We can’t stay much longer,” Kit replied. “She’s already gone. All traces lead cold.”

Koth nodded grimly. “But they’re leaving a trail of ghosts.”

“We’ll find her,” Kit said, eyes narrowed. “We’ll find him too.”

Somewhere above them, unnoticed by either Jedi or Mandalorian, a familiar purple astromech dome blinked once behind a rusted pipe—then quietly rolled back into the shadows.

Kit Fisto’s boots crunched across broken glass in the gutted remains of an old comms relay tower. The metal frame above groaned with wind, swaying gently as shadows flickered beneath the half-moon light. Eeth Koth swept the ruins with his saber hilt gripped tight in one hand, unlit but ready.

“This tower was reactivated three days ago,” Kit murmured, running his fingers over a half-melted panel. “Then shut off again, abruptly. No trace in the central net.”

“Off-grid hardware,” Koth replied. “Could be old slicer work, or could be our bounty hunter. Maybe both.”

Then—click.

Koth turned sharply. “Did you hear that?”

Kit lifted a hand, motioning for silence. From beneath a warped support beam, something shifted, too small for a person—then rolled away with a faint whirr of servos.

“Droid.” Kit’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he moved instantly. With a graceful sweep of his hand, a panel was Force-flung from the floor, revealing the last flicker of a dome disappearing into the ventilation ducts.

“Purple,” Koth muttered. “Fast.”

“That matches the description of her astromech,” Kit confirmed.

⸻

Sha’rali’s lekku twitched as she paced the cockpit, nails tapping rhythmically on her armour plating. K4 stood near the control panel, ever stately, ever calm—until he spoke.

“R9 reports that the Jedi are now actively scanning the upper sector. I estimate they will locate him within seven minutes.”

“I told that little rust-ball to keep its distance,” she hissed, fangs bared in frustration. “I should’ve left him with you.”

“You left him to spy on Death Watch,” K4 replied with maddening evenness. “Not Jedi.”

Her claws clenched into fists.

A sharp beep pulsed in the cockpit—a direct feed from R9.

:: THEY SAW ME. TWO JEDI. BLACK ROBES. ONE HAS TENTACLES. PANICKED LEVEL 4. INITIATING EVASIVE ROLLING. ::

:: DUCT SYSTEM COMPROMISED. ::

Sha’rali swore in Togruti—harsh syllables rarely heard outside her mouth. Then in Huttese. Then something old and violent from a long-forgotten hunting language.

She stopped mid-rant.

“I never wiped his memory,” she said aloud.

K4 inclined his head. “Correct. Nor mine.”

Her eyes snapped to the droid. “You’ve got decades of jobs, contacts, hits—he’s got logs on half the galactic underworld.” Her voice turned ice cold. “And he’s got logs on 4023.”

“You did intend to wipe us several times,” K4 said helpfully. “You just never followed through.”

Sha’rali let out a breath between her fangs. “Because I got sentimental. Because I’m stupid.”

The clone—4023—entered the cockpit, helmet tucked under one arm. “What’s going on?”

She rounded on him. “My droid’s been spotted. The Jedi are sniffing his tracks.”

He stilled. “Do they know it’s yours?”

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter. If they catch him, they’ll tear him apart. Every data string, every encrypted log, every…” She stopped. Her jaw worked.

“You’re going back.” It wasn’t a question.

K4 interjected, “May I remind you both that this is, objectively speaking, moronic.”

“Yeah, well.” Sha’rali growled. “I’m a moron who doesn’t want her brains uploaded to the Jedi archives.”

She began strapping her weapons back into place. Hidden vibroblade in the boot. Double-blaster rig to her hips. Backup vibrodagger at the small of her back. 4023 watched her work, face unreadable.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said finally.

She paused.

“No. I do.”

A sudden silence passed between them. Then her hand tapped the comms panel, locking coordinates.

“Get the ship ready to move the second I’m back.”

“And if you’re not?” the clone asked.

K4 answered for her. “Then we burn the evidence and flee. Standard procedure. Perhaps even play the funeral dirge for her if we’re feeling sentimental.”

Sha’rali offered a dry smile. “You are sentimental. You just hate it.”

As the ramp lowered, she paused and glanced back toward 4023.

“Don’t wait long. If I’m not back in twenty, leave.”

Then she vanished into the misty orange night of Ord Mantell, chasing shadows… and secrets.

⸻

R9 careened down a narrow duct, his purple dome clanging with every turn. The golden trim along his chassis caught sparks from loose wiring overhead. Blasts of hot air whooshed through the maintenance vents as he rolled at breakneck speed, fleeing the two organic Force-users hot on his tail.

:: CURRENT STATUS: SCREWED. ::

He took a sharp left, nearly tipping over.

:: ERROR: ADJUST GYROSCOPIC BALANCE. ::

Behind him, a hiss of lightsabers igniting echoed faintly through the ductwork. The sound prickled his auditory sensors like static.

He rolled out of the vent shaft into the open skeleton of a collapsed warehouse rooftop and immediately initiated a low-power visual dampener. A shimmering flicker of cloaking shimmered over his dome. Temporary. Imperfect.

And just in time.

Kit Fisto dropped from a higher level with the grace of falling water. He landed softly, eyes narrowed.

Eeth Koth followed, his saber active but lowered.

“He’s somewhere here,” Koth said. “I felt him pass through that duct.”

Kit’s eyes swept across the darkness. “He’s hiding. Clever droid.”

They split up, Kit moving in a wide arc around the edge of the roof, Koth stepping forward slowly. R9 barely dared beep. His systems were whirring in overdrive.

:: SITUATION: EXTREMELY SCREWED. ::

But then—footsteps. Not Jedi.

Clanking. Heavier.

Down on the streets below, the sound of three figures moving in perfect paramilitary formation. Black and blue armor. Jagged symbols on the chest plates. Jetpacks. Antennas.

Death Watch.

“Thought I saw something drop,” one muttered.

Another paused and looked upward toward the roof.

“The Jedi are here,” he said. “Kit Fisto. That’s him.”

A third voice, sharper: “You sure?”

The first nodded. “I saw him on once during some riots. That’s a Jedi Council Master.”

The second bounty hunter grunted. “And he’s chasing a droid like his life depends on it. What if that tin can has something we don’t?”

“Or someone.” The leader’s voice turned hungry. “The man who killed our brother.”

They disappeared into the warehouse below, slipping inside like ghosts.

Up on the roof, Kit Fisto froze.

“I felt that,” he whispered. “There’s more down there.”

Koth raised a brow. “Separatists?”

“No… something else. Watching.”

From beneath a crate, R9 watched everything. And as silently as his aging servos would allow, he activated his last-resort subroutine.

:: PRIORITY PING TO UNIT K4 – IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION REQUIRED. INTRUSION MULTIPLIER: +3 ::

Then he started rolling again—fast.

A flicker of movement caught Kit’s eye.

“There!”

He leapt. His green saber flared to life.

R9 took the impact and spun down a cargo chute, bouncing off steel walls and into an open alley. He skidded across duracrete and slammed into a pile of garbage.

Behind him, booted footsteps approached.

A door burst open—but not Kit’s.

Death Watch soldiers stormed the alley, weapons drawn. One knelt where R9 had landed. Another looked toward the rooftop above, scanning.

“Still want to follow the Jedi?” one of them said.

The leader growled. “No. We follow the droid. He’s running from the Jedi too.”

They turned and began tracking his route. Carefully. Coordinated.

Kit Fisto appeared in the alley seconds later, just missing them. He crouched by the scrape marks on the duracrete.

“Someone else is following him,” he said aloud.

Koth looked around, tense. “Death Watch?”

Kit nodded slowly. “Possibly.”

“But why?”

Kit didn’t answer. His gaze turned distant, thoughtful. “We need to report this. Now.”

They took off in the other direction, unaware that down the street, R9 had ducked into a half-buried loading dock, hiding behind a dead speeder. His circuits buzzed.

:: SHA’RALI, IF YOU’RE LISTENING… GET ME OUT OF HERE. ::

⸻

The stars above Ord Mantell burned cold and distant, a velvet ceiling cracked by neon haze and industrial smoke. Sha’rali Jurok perched on the ledge of a rusted scaffolding beam ten stories above the street, her lekku twitching with impatience. The red tint of her coral-pink skin shimmered faintly under the glow of a nearby spotlight, her white facial markings harshly defined in the night.

K4’s voice buzzed in her ear.

“Your plan is recklessness disguised as bravery, Mistress.”

“It’s worked before.”

“Statistically, it’s worked 31.7% of the time. Hardly inspiring odds.”

She adjusted the power cell in her blaster rifle, then scanned the rooftop below. R9’s heat signature blinked weakly in her HUD. Surrounded. Four Death Watch enforcers closing in.

Breathe in.

Sharpen the chaos.

She dropped like a stone.

Landing behind the first Mandalorian, she didn’t bother being quiet—her electrified gauntlet crackled as it slammed into his spine. He spasmed and fell forward, armor clanking. The others whirled just as she dove into them with a roar, blaster firing one-handed, saber dagger in the other.

One shot sizzled off her shoulder pauldron—stunned, not dead, but it pissed her off. Her lekku swayed as she ducked under a wild jetpack swipe and sliced a belt cord—sending the hunter tumbling sideways off the roof.

“R9!” she barked.

The droid squealed in binary, his dome rattling as he zipped toward her. The last two Mandalorians regrouped, advancing with synchronized precision, firing. Too close.

Then—

A blur of green and blue light.

Kit Fisto surged from the shadow like a tide, lightsaber spinning, deflecting bolts in radiant arcs. Eeth Koth followed, hammering one Death Watch fighter into the rooftop with a Force-augmented slam.

Sha’rali blinked, mid-slash.

“…Didn’t expect you two.”

Kit offered a grin even in the chaos. “We didn’t expect to help you.”

The rooftop trembled. More Death Watch approaching—six, maybe eight, from adjacent buildings. A few took flight, closing the distance fast.

“Mistress,” K4 said through comms. “You have approximately twenty seconds before an unpleasant level of Mandalorian reinforcements converge.”

“Bring the ship. Now!”

The rooftop began to burn—one of the fleeing jetpackers had tossed an incendiary before dying, and now the upper decks were crackling with fire.

Sha’rali grabbed R9 under one arm, lunging toward the edge with the Jedi in tow.

Jetpacks buzzed in the air behind them.

Kit flung out a hand—Force-pushing three of them back—but even he looked winded.

A sleek shadow dropped from the clouds with roaring engines and a bark of metallic thrusters.

K4 piloting with refined menace.

“Landing on fire-laden rooftops was not in my original programming.”

The side hatch blew open.

Sha’rali grabbed the nearest Jedi—Koth—and yanked him bodily through the air with a grapple cable. Kit followed with a Force-assisted leap.

She was the last to jump—nearly clipped by a blaster bolt as she hurled herself toward the hatch. Kit caught her by the wrist and yanked her in, just as K4 pulled the ship skyward, engines screaming.

Behind them, the rooftop exploded in sparks and fire.

Inside the ship, silence reigned for one long second.

Sha’rali dropped R9 with a grunt. “That was close.”

Koth glanced between them, tense. “You could’ve left us.”

“Believe me, I thought about it.”

Kit chuckled. “Why didn’t you?”

Sha’rali’s sharp smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Guess I’m going soft.”

From the cockpit, K4 chimed:

“Observation confirmed. Mistress has displayed increased emotional indulgence, borderline sentimentality. Recommend immediate psychological review.”

Sha’rali rolled her eyes. “Shut up and plot a course to deep space. No trails, no trackers.”

As she leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the two Jedi looked at her with new eyes—unsure what they’d just been part of, or what game she was really playing.

Even she wasn’t quite sure anymore.

⸻

The hum of The ship’s engines was the only sound for a long moment. The Jedi sat across from their unexpected rescuers in the ship’s dimmed briefing room, if it could even be called that—Sha’rali had refitted the cramped space with mismatched chairs and a jury-rigged holotable now running diagnostics.

Sha’rali sat with her boots up on the table, seemingly unbothered, one lekku lazily coiled over her shoulder. Across from her, the clone—CT-4023—stood with arms crossed, helmet now tucked beneath one arm, black-and-silver Mandalorian armor freshly scorched from their rooftop scuffle. His posture was tense, wary, and silent.

Kit Fisto broke the silence first, voice calm but firm. “We’re not here to detain you. Either of you. We just want the truth.”

“Funny,” Sha’rali said, not smiling. “That’s usually what people say before trying to kill me.”

Eeth Koth leaned forward, hands laced together. “This isn’t an inquisition. We were sent to recover a deserter. That was the mission.”

She gestured toward the clone. “You can’t recover what’s already gone.”

The Jedi turned their attention to him.

He didn’t flinch under their gaze.

Koth narrowed his eyes slightly. “CT-4023… you’re not exactly making this easy.”

“I’m not him anymore,” the clone said at last. His voice was gravel—deep, tired, and burdened. “Whatever version of that number was assigned to Kamino, it died on Umbara.”

Kit regarded him for a long, thoughtful moment. “You were part of the 212th?”

He nodded once. “What’s left of it.”

“Why leave?” Koth asked gently. “Why disappear?”

4023 hesitated. His eyes flicked toward Sha’rali, who gave him a subtle nod.

“You’ve never felt it, have you?” he said quietly. “That… hollow snap in your head when you realize the people giving you orders stopped being right a long time ago? When you start to think that maybe… you’re not meant to survive the war you were made for?”

Kit’s gaze softened. “You chose freedom.”

“No,” 4023 said. “I chose not to die in someone else’s lie.”

Sha’rali stood, walking toward the corner cabinet. She keyed in a command, and a medical scanner flickered to life.

“I assume you’ll want proof,” she muttered. “That he’s not Republic property anymore.”

From a holotray, a full scan of the clone’s body projected in grainy, rotating detail.

“Cloning markers? Burned. Biochips? Removed. CT barcode? Surgically flayed and regenerated.” Her voice was clinical, almost bored. “Even the facial markers have been subtly altered—minor surgical shifts to the cheekbones and jawline. Nothing that would raise flags on facial recognition unless you really knew what you were looking for.”

Kit Fisto examined the scan with mild surprise. “This is… thorough.”

“He wanted out,” she said, shrugging. “He asked. I obliged.”

Eeth Koth stood slowly. “But why keep him with you? What purpose does he serve?”

Sha’rali leaned one hip against the table and gave the Jedi a long, unreadable look.

“I don’t need a purpose to show someone mercy. Rare as it is.”

4023’s voice cut in low. “She could’ve sold me out a dozen times by now. To the Separatists. To Jabba. She didn’t.”

Koth turned his attention to him. “And what do you want?”

He took a breath. “To be nobody.”

There was silence. The kind that filled the space when everyone realized there was no easy solution.

After a beat, Kit Fisto turned off the scan and stepped back. “There’s no traceable connection to the Republic anymore. No chain of command, no markers, no active file. CT-4023… doesn’t exist.”

Sha’rali arched a brow. “So we’re done here?”

Koth hesitated. “The Council won’t be pleased.”

“Good,” she said dryly. “I was beginning to worry.”

Kit Fisto nodded slowly. “We’ll report that the deserter is… unrecoverable.”

“Dead,” she said. “That’s usually easier for them to hear.”

He inclined his head, then turned to the clone. “You chose your path. I hope it brings you peace.”

4023’s expression barely changed. “It hasn’t yet.”

The Jedi rose and prepared to disembark at the next neutral outpost, neither chasing nor warning. Just… leaving. Because there was nothing else to be done.

As they filed toward the docking bay, Sha’rali remained by the doorway, arms crossed, watching them go.

“You know,” Kit said without turning, “whatever this is you’re doing—it doesn’t seem like you anymore.”

Sha’rali didn’t respond. Just smirked faintly. “Yeah… I get that a lot lately.”

When the Jedi were gone and the ship was sealed, R9 gave a warbled snort and beeped something foul in Binary from the corridor.

K4’s voice echoed from the cockpit:

“So. Shall I ready the guns in case the peacekeepers change their mind?”

Sha’rali exhaled slowly and headed down the corridor. “No. For once… I think they’re really letting go.”

⸻

The GAR war room dimmed as Master Kit Fisto’s hologram flickered into full resolution. Eeth Koth’s projection stood beside him, arms folded, expression somber.

“We searched the surrounding sectors thoroughly,” Eeth said. “But there was… nothing to recover.”

Kit nodded. “The signs were conclusive. If he survived Ord Mantell, he didn’t stay. He’s long gone. No traceable identifiers, no Republic gear. He’s not the man you knew anymore.”

Silence settled like dust across the chamber.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood at the center of the gathered assembly, a hand to his beard, visibly subdued.

“CT-4023,” he murmured. “He was one of ours. 212th ARC.”

“He fought under me,” Cody added, voice low and deliberate. “Bright kid. Loud. Smartass. Called himself Havoc.”

A quiet ripple of chuckles passed among the clones seated in the rear—muted, nostalgic, strained.

“He was always fidgeting,” Rex added with a rare, soft smile. “Said it helped him shoot straighter.”

“He made every shot count,” Bacara said. “I saw him clear a whole ridge on Mygeeto. Grenade pin in his teeth.”

“Never took cover,” Wolffe muttered. “Cocky little di’kut. But brave.”

Fox crossed his arms, leaning against a marble pillar near the edge of the chamber. “Brave or not, he deserted. All we’re doing now is telling war stories about a traitor.”

Rex turned slowly to look at him. “Were you on Umbara, Commander?”

Fox didn’t answer.

Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened.

“He was last seen after that campaign,” he said quietly. “A lot of good men went home from Umbara different. Some… never did.”

“He didn’t go home,” Cody said flatly. “He walked into the jungle one night after Krell fell. Left his armor behind. All he took was his rifle and a backpack.”

“He left a message, didn’t he?” Rex asked.

Cody nodded. “On the inside of his chest plate. Scratched in with a vibroblade.”

Rex remembered it too. He quoted it aloud. “I won’t die in another man’s war.”

A long silence followed.

Eeth Koth finally broke it. “There is no body to recover. No tags. No serials. Whatever life CT-4023 had, it ended in that jungle—or sometime soon after.”

“Is that your official report?” Obi-Wan asked, tone carefully measured.

Fisto gave a solemn nod. “It is.”

Fox scoffed quietly, turning away. “Coward’s death.”

“You don’t know that,” Howzer replied, voice steely. “You didn’t know him.”

“I knew what he became.”

“No,” Rex said sharply. “You know what he left behind. There’s a difference.”

Fox said nothing.

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. “He was one of mine. One of many. He earned the ARC designation. Saved my life once. I mourn him now, the same as I would any fallen brother.”

Cody gave a curt nod. “If he’s gone, he’s gone. No shame in death. We all meet it one day.”

“But he didn’t go down fighting,” Bacara stated.

“Maybe he did,” Cody said. “Just not on a battlefield.”

The Council meeting dispersed quietly. Some stayed behind, murmuring. Others left in silence, helmets under their arms.

Rex lingered a little longer, staring out the high Council windows at the speeder traffic beyond.

“He was a brother,” he said quietly. “Even if he’s gone, I hope he found peace out there. Wherever he went.”

Howzer gave a quiet hum. “If anyone deserved it… maybe it was him.”

Wolffe folded his arms. “I don’t agree with the desertion, it’s a cowards way out.”

Fox, for all his bitterness, remained still and quiet for a long moment.

Only Obi-Wan noticed the flicker of conflict in his eyes before he turned and left without another word.

The Jedi were satisfied with the explanation.

The Republic would not search further.

But not everyone believed in ghosts.

Some knew they were still walking among them.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Crimson Huntress” pt.2

Summary: Togruta bounty hunter Sha’rali Jurok takes a solo job to retrieve a rogue clone on Felucia. With her two deadly droids—an aggressive astromech and a lethal butler unit—she walks into a Separatist trap and uncovers a mission far more dangerous than advertised.

⸻

The entire compound thrummed like it was alive—humming with power, vibrating from the deep core generators buried beneath layers of basalt and durasteel. Down in the holding blocks, beneath blinking red lights and exposed pipes slick with condensation, CT-4023 stared at the wall like he could burn through it by will alone.

The cell next to his remained quiet. Too quiet.

Until the silence was broken by a sharp clink.

Sha’rali Jurok’s cuffs hit the floor with a faint echo. She stretched her arms with an almost feline roll of her shoulders, the subtle pop of her joints barely audible beneath the whine of atmospheric recycling. A thin-bladed shiv spun between her fingers, dull with age but deadly in the right hands.

“You’re free,” the clone muttered, voice low and raw.

“Wasn’t a matter of if,” she replied. “Just when.”

She crouched beside the droid access panel in her cell. A few quick taps of her knuckles in a pattern—metal meeting metal. Then a pause.

Nothing.

And then: chirp, chirp-BANG—a furious electronic growl echoed through the vents above.

“Oh,” she said with a smirk, “someone’s mad I left them topside.”

⸻

“Moving into Position,” whispered Boss, voice clipped through Delta Squad’s secure comms.

Fixer tapped the side of his helmet and rerouted a power feed from the junction box, cutting lights to the southeast wing. Darkness spread like ink down the corridor.

“Visual disruption active. Main grid’s destabilized. You’ve got ten minutes before they trace the splice.”

“Plenty,” said Scorch as he patted a charge onto the support column. “Place is built like a house of cards. We could sneeze and bring it down.”

“Let’s not,” Fixer said.

Sev swept ahead, motion sensor in one hand, DC-17m rifle in the other. His voice rasped over the comms. “Life signs in Block Seven. Two confirmed. One’s the target. The other—guess.”

Boss adjusted his grip. “Target retrieval is priority. If the bounty hunter gets in the way, neutralize her.”

“Copy,” they said as one.

⸻

Outside the main cell doors, the purple-and-gold astromech screeched out of a maintenance chute, its claw arm extended and sparking with aggressive glee. Its dome spun as it hurled a jolt of electricity into the chest of a nearby B2 super battle droid. The droid shorted mid-turn, collapsed in a heap of sparking limbs.

Two more B1s turned in confusion.

“What was that?”

The astromech beeped once, menacingly. Then its flamethrower activated.

Both droids went up screaming.

Inside the cell, Sha’rali stood in the doorway, blaster looted from a droid already in hand. Her lekku twitched with anticipation.

CT-4023 pushed himself upright. “You called that thing?”

She smirked. “He doesn’t like being left behind.”

As if on cue, the droid spat a plasma bolt into the ceiling, blowing open the ventilation shaft. A second later, the rose-gold killer butler droid dropped from the dark, landing like a predator.

Its smooth, modulated voice dripped civility. “Madam Jurok. I took the liberty of terminating a half-dozen combat units on the way in. You’ll find the perimeter slightly… more navigable.”

“Lovely,” she purred. “How about a path out?”

“Working on it. Resistance is heavy aboveground, and… we have company.”

⸻

Delta Squad flanked the corridor with lethal precision. Sev watched the corner, his rifle trained on the shadows.

“Reading increased EM activity near the holding cells,” Fixer said. “Something’s scrambling systems.”

“Droid interference,” Scorch said. “Probably that damn astromech.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Boss replied. “We push through.”

They breached the door.

Inside stood the ARC and the bounty hunter—armed, alert, mid-exit.

“Step away from the clone,” Boss ordered, weapon raised.

The ARC took one half-step back… then pivoted toward Sha’rali.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t let them take me.”

Everyone froze.

Sha’rali stared at him.

He didn’t blink. His eyes, storm-grey and haunted, were fixed on her like she was the last solid ground in a storm.

“You don’t understand—if I go back, I won’t leave again. They’ll strip my mind, my name. They’ll take everything. I’ll disappear and no one will care.”

Sha’rali’s fingers tightened on her blaster.

“Sounds familiar,” she muttered.

Boss stepped forward. “Last warning, hunter. Stand down. He’s coming with us.”

The ARC moved closer to her. “Better to run,” he whispered. “You know that. Please.”

A long pause. Delta Squad’s weapons never dropped.

Sha’rali closed her eyes for a heartbeat.

Then she raised her blaster—and fired at the lights.

Darkness swallowed the corridor.

Scorch and Sev ducked behind a crate as a plasma grenade went off near their position. Sha’rali, sprinting with the ARC trooper beside her, vaulted a collapsing support strut just ahead of the flame.

“Where the hell are they going?” Scorch yelled.

“Doesn’t matter,” Boss snapped. “Cut them off—Force knows what’s in that clone’s head.”

The rose-gold droid rounded on Fixer with blinding speed, throwing him off balance. It bowed before smashing a blast door open with one elegant, terrifying strike.

CT-4023 clutched his side—he’d taken a grazing hit to the ribs.

“You still good?” she shouted.

“Not dead,” he growled. “Yet.”

“Then move, soldier.”

Lights flared red as klaxons erupted across the base. B2 droids activated in droves, spider droids marched into hangar bays, and turrets powered up in high alert.

In the central command tower, a tactical droid snapped to attention. “Unknown explosion in Block Seven. Security forces mobilizing. All personnel to defense positions.”

⸻

Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth stood back-to-back as the first wave of droids descended from the ridge.

The Nautolan smiled faintly. “Well. Someone’s thrown a party.”

“We are not guests,” Eeth Koth said, igniting his green blade. “We are the storm.”

The clash of lightsabers against durasteel echoed across the canyon.

⸻

A Separatist gunship descended ahead of them, doors opening with a shriek of hydraulic fury.

Turrets turned toward them.

“Not that way!” the ARC barked.

Sha’rali spun to cover him—but then Delta Squad broke through the other side of the hangar.

Behind them—two glowing lightsabers.

They were surrounded.

And every faction wanted something different.

“Any ideas?” he asked.

She activated the detonator she’d planted on their way through.

The walls exploded behind them.

“Run,” she said.

Smoke surged from the blown-out wall like a living thing—hot, thick, curling with black soot and the scent of burning circuitry. Sha’rali didn’t wait to see who was alive behind it. She grabbed the ARC’s arm, half-dragged, half-shoved him through the gap, boots crunching over debris as they hit the sloping edge of the canyon beyond.

A volley of red blaster bolts screamed past their heads. The ARC stumbled, nearly going down before the bounty hunter caught him with one arm.

“Keep going!” she barked, eyes darting back toward the chaos.

Delta Squad had scattered in the explosion, but they were regrouping fast. Boss was already shouting orders through his helmet. Above them, Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth were engaged mid-leap, deflecting fire from a full squad of B2s. The sky was alive with movement—buzz droids, vulture droids, Separatist reinforcements. Too many pieces moving at once.

And K4 was gone.

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed, lekku twitching behind her.

He’d vanished right before they breached the inner hangar.

Typical.

“Where are we going?” the ARC gasped, clutching his side. He was bleeding again—his undersuit damp with red.

“Down,” Sha’rali said. “Until they can’t follow.”

She vaulted down a broken ravine edge, boots sliding through gravel and mossy dust. The sunlight barely filtered through the overgrowth here. Saleucami’s dense fungal canopies loomed overhead, vines hanging like nooses from the cliffs.

Behind them, a thermal detonator went off—too close.

“They’re gaining,” he warned.

Sha’rali fired blindly behind her and kept moving.

“You’re going to get us both killed!”

“That’s the idea,” she snapped.

The ARC trooper finally collapsed at the edge of a flooded trench, gasping. Sha’rali dropped beside him, ducking beneath a cluster of fungal overgrowth.

“We can’t outrun them.”

“No,” she agreed. “But we can hide.”

“We won’t last long. Not with that tracker they tagged me with.”

She turned sharply to him. “Tracker?”

He nodded, grimacing. “Buried in my spine. I’ve tried digging it out—no luck. That’s how they always find me.”

Sha’rali reached to her belt and pulled out a vibroblade. “Then I’ll dig harder.”

“Are you insane?!”

“I torture people for a living. Don’t tempt me.”

⸻

K4 moved like a shadow between droid patrols. No clanking. No noise. Just an eerily smooth stride, long coat trailing, posture perfectly relaxed.

He came upon the back line of the landing field where a row of light transports had been left in minimal standby. Maintenance droids chittered. A Geonosian officer barked in a clipped tone.

K4 stepped into the clearing.

“Excuse me,” he said, bowing politely.

The Geonosian turned—just in time for the droid’s hand to rip through his thorax. Blood sprayed.

Before the others could react, K4 had one droid’s head in his palm and crushed it like fruit. A third raised its weapon—

K4 shot it between the eyes with the Geonosian’s pistol.

He paused. Smiled faintly.

“Securing vehicle,” he muttered, and opened the cockpit of the nearest transport.

⸻

Sha’rali finished cauterizing the incision with her blade. The ARC bit down on his glove to keep from screaming, muscles trembling.

“Tracker’s out,” she said. “They’ll still be on our last ping, but that gives us a few minutes.”

R9 chirped in disgust.

“Where’s your other psycho droid?”

She looked up.

Then, like a phantom, K4’s voice crackled to life in her commlink.

“Madam. I have acquired a ship. If you’d be so kind as to meet me at the coordinates I’ve transmitted, I will delay pursuit.”

“You took your time,” she replied.

“A gentleman never rushes murder.”

They left the atmosphere moments later, their stolen vessel avoiding pursuit thanks to K4’s expert programming and a few decoy beacons.

Sha’rali finally leaned back against the wall of the cabin, exhaling slowly.

The ARC looked at her with bloodshot eyes.

“So what now?”

She met his gaze, steady and unreadable.

“Now,” she said, “we get my ship from Felucia.”

⸻

They touched down just as the sun began to rise, painting the fungal canopy in blues and violets. Towering mushroom-like growths loomed over the clearing, and somewhere distant, a herd of guttural beasts bellowed in the mist.

Sha’rali stepped off the ramp first, blaster in hand, sweeping the clearing.

Still secure.

She had left her original ship parked here days ago, camouflaged beneath an active cloaking net and a decoy transponder field. The Republic had been too busy running drills with their battalion on the other side of the continent. The Separatists had been too fixated on their research complex.

No one had found it.

K4 descended behind her, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.

“I must say, I didn’t anticipate returning to this jungle rot,” he said dryly.

“You weren’t supposed to,” Sha’rali muttered.

Behind them, the ARC trooper limped down the ramp of the stolen Separatist vessel. He looked worse than before—bloodied, bruised, dried dirt caking the seams of his blacks. He hadn’t said a word since orbit.

Sha’rali jerked a thumb toward the old ship. Sleeker. Compact. Smuggler-built.

“Home sweet kriffing home.”

The interior was warm with dim light and the gentle hum of systems reactivating after stasis. K4 moved with graceful familiarity, bringing systems online, checking sensors, recharging the astromech. The purple and gold droid spun its dome grumpily and beeped a string of curses at the Separatist vessel they’d left behind.

“We’re not keeping it,” Sha’rali called.

The astromech swore again—louder.

The ARC trooper sat stiffly on the medbay slab as Sha’rali began the scan. A focused beam traced his body slowly, displaying internal data over a pale blue holomap beside the table.

She crossed her arms.

“You’ve got metal buried in you like a cache of war crime confessions.”

“I’m aware,” he muttered.

She toggled through the scan layers—skeletal, muscular, neural—until the image blinked red.

His right forearm lit up with embedded code, just below the bone.

Sha’rali leaned closer, watching the scan hone in.

“There,” she said. “Looks like an identity chip—your CT number and a destination marker.”

He flinched.

“Remove it,” he said quietly. “Erase it first.”

K4 was already stepping forward, fingers unfolding into tools with surgical precision. He paused beside the table, expression unreadable behind his pristine etiquette.

“Are you certain, sir?” K4 asked, voice almost soft. “Identity is one of the last things they leave you with.”

The clone looked at him—raw, hollow-eyed.

“I don’t want it anymore. Any of it.”

K4 gave a slight nod and got to work.

Sha’rali watched the data scroll as the chip decrypted under K4’s tools. Coordinates—somewhere near Raxus. And the CT number.

No name. Just that.

The droid wiped the chip clean. Then, deftly, he cut it out and sealed the wound with a medpatch and bacta stim.

He was quieter after that. Still and exhausted, but awake.

Sha’rali returned after reviewing perimeter scans, carrying a fresh stim and a handheld scanner.

“We’re not done,” she said.

He grunted. “What now?”

“Something in your head.”

His back went straight.

“You said you didn’t want to be controlled,” she said. “So I checked for the chip.”

His lips parted, but no words came.

She tapped the side of her own temple. “Inhibitor. It’s buried deep, but it’s there.”

Silence.

He looked away.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

She sat beside him and held up the scan—it showed the glimmer of a tiny device near his brain.

“Delicate. But not impossible.”

He didn’t answer.

“Do it,” he said at last. “Rip it out.”

Sha’rali sterilized the tools. K4 assisted without comment, hands clean, silent, methodical. Even the astromech—normally impossible to shut up—stayed quiet this time, as if sensing the weight of what was about to happen.

She worked carefully.

Slowly.

Muscle, nerve, brain tissue—this wasn’t a bounty job or some half-drunk limb stitch in a backalley hangar. This was personal.

When she finally pulled the chip free, it was slick with blood and neural tissue, still twitching faintly in her forceps.

She dropped it into a tray of acid and watched it dissolve.

The ARC didn’t speak for a long time.

He sat on the floor now, wrapped in a thermal blanket, sipping nutrient broth like a ghost.

Sha’rali crouched across from him.

“You got a name?”

He shook his head.

“Everyone who knew it’s dead.”

She tilted her head. “Then make a new one.”

“No point.”

“You’ve got no chip. No tag. You’re untraceable now. Fresh start.”

He looked up at her, eyes strange and open in a way they hadn’t been before.

“I just want to be nobody.”

Sha’rali smirked faintly.

“Then you’re in the right line of work.”

The ship hummed around them, alive again. Outside, the Felucian jungle moved and breathed and churned in the light of a fading sun.

Above them, in the growing dark of space, the Republic and the Separatists would still be searching.

But here?

In this stolen moment?

They were nobody.

The broth had long gone cold, but he still held the cup, fingers curled around the heatless metal like it offered an answer.

Sha’rali sat cross-legged across from him, picking at a stim patch on her gauntlet. She wasn’t watching him, not really. Her gaze was distant—calculating, patient, giving him time.

That unnerved him more than torture ever had.

He lifted his head finally, voice low, uncertain but with that familiar soldier’s steel buried underneath.

“You said I’m in the right line of work.”

Sha’rali didn’t respond.

He looked at her directly now, shadows clinging to his jaw, a thin scar catching the medbay lights beneath his cheekbone.

“What makes you think I’ll stay with you?”

Her brow rose. “I don’t.”

He blinked.

She tossed aside the stim wrap and leaned back against the crate behind her, arms draped lazily over her bent knees. “I don’t expect loyalty. Least of all from a clone who’s just had his leash cut.”

“…Right.”

“Why would you?” she added. “You’ve been doing what others wanted your whole life. If you want to vanish, you’re free to walk. I won’t stop you.”

The quiet between them stretched.

Then he spoke again, a little more bitterly now, like the question had been chewing its way through his gut for hours.

“Why would I become a bounty hunter?”

Sha’rali’s head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in the half-light.

“I don’t know. Why not?” she replied evenly. “What else are you going to do?”

He had no answer.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You think the Republic wants you back? They sent an entire squad of elite commandos and two Jedi just to clean up the mess your brain might’ve made. They didn’t come to rescue you. They came to recover an asset.”

His jaw clenched.

“It’s very rare I show kindness,” she said flatly. “You got lucky. And you being a clone? It’s unlikely anyone else in this galaxy will ever give you that again.”

Her words struck like blaster bolts. Not cruel—just true.

“You were made to be expendable. Designed for war. Trained to be disposable.” Her voice turned rougher, sharper now. “But this line of work? It might just make you somebody. Someone with a price. Someone who decides their own worth.”

He swallowed.

Sha’rali stood, brushing dust from her armor.

“You can piss it all away and disappear if you want. That’s your right now.” She nodded toward the cockpit corridor. “But I’m heading to Ord Mantell. Got a job waiting. You’re welcome to come. Or not.”

As she turned to leave, a smooth mechanical voice floated in:

“My lady.”

K4 entered the room carrying a tray with two mugs of steaming tea. The contrast between his butler-esque grace and his deadly gleaming servos was still unsettling.

“I’ve prepared something mild, given your poor nutritional intake,” he told the trooper, placing the mug beside him. “Sha’rali’s blend, of course. You’ll hate it.”

The trooper looked at him in mild disbelief. “You made tea?”

“I boiled water and poured it into a cup with dried leaves. Do try to keep up,” K4 said dryly, adjusting the tray with prim care.

R9 wheeled in behind him with a long string of indignant binary chatter. Its dome was already scorched from the Felucia jungle, and its welding torch was still extended in what could only be described as a challenge to K4’s civility.

K4 didn’t even glance at the astromech. “No, R9, you may not install missile pods in the cargo bay again. We discussed this.”

R9 beeped angrily and spun in a circle before storming back toward the hallway, thumping into the wall for emphasis.

K4 turned back to the trooper. “We’ll be heading to Ord Mantell shortly. One of Sha’rali’s contacts has a request, and—regrettably—it pays well.”

“Regrettably?” the clone asked.

“I find credits tedious. But necessary.”

K4 gave him a cool nod. “You’ve got one hour. Either stay or go. But please, decide without bleeding on the furniture.”

He turned and exited, coat fluttering like a nobleman in retreat.

Sha’rali hadn’t looked back during the exchange.

The clone sat in silence for another moment, steam from the tea curling around his fingers.

No name. No rank. No orders.

Just one moment. One choice.

He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip.

It was bitter as hell.

But it was his.

⸻

The stars stretched long and lazy through the cockpit viewport, the hyperspace corridor casting pale light over the controls and illuminating the quiet hum of the ship’s systems. Sha’rali lounged in the pilot’s seat, boots up on the dash, arms behind her head, lekku coiled loosely over her shoulders.

There was a quiet shuffle behind her.

She didn’t turn around. “Took you long enough.”

The clone stepped into the cockpit and sank into the co-pilot’s chair. His armor was gone—cleaned, stashed away. Just a black undersuit now. Comfortable, functional. Unbranded.

No symbol. No name.

Sha’rali glanced sideways, smirking faintly. “So. You’re sticking around.”

He shrugged, noncommittal, eyes trained on the lights streaking past the viewport. “For now.”

She tilted her head, scanning his profile like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. “Well, if you’re going to haunt my cockpit, you’ll need a name.”

“I have a name,” he said stiffly.

“CT-something isn’t a name,” she replied, stretching out with a lazy groan. “It’s a batch number.”

He didn’t reply.

She let the silence stretch for all of three seconds before launching into it: “How about Stalker?”

He gave her a deadpan look.

“No? Okay, brooding mystery man. Let’s try Scorch.”

“That’s taken,” he muttered.

“Grim. Ghost. Omen?”

He exhaled hard through his nose. “I’m not a karking dog.”

“You sure bark like one.” Her smirk turned toothy.

He turned back to the stars.

She lowered her boots and leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “Look, I get it. You’ve been a number your whole life. But the second you cut ties with the Republic, you stopped being inventory. You need something. Doesn’t have to be permanent. Doesn’t even have to be clever. Just… something to call you.”

He was quiet for a long beat. “I’ll pick one when I’m ready.”

Sha’rali grinned, satisfied. “That’s fair.”

Then the cockpit door whooshed open with a hiss of disdain.

K4 stood in the doorway, perfectly poised in a stiff-legged elegance, arms crossed behind his back like a judge about to sentence someone.

“I see the nameless meatbag has occupied my seat.”

The clone looked at him, unimpressed. “There’s no name on it.”

“There was. I had it engraved, but that aggressive grease-stain of an astromech melted it off during one of its fits.”

Sha’rali stifled a laugh.

K4 stepped forward with the precision of a butler and the threat level of a vibroblade. “Move. Or be moved.”

The clone didn’t budge. “You going to throw me out an airlock too?”

“Tempting,” K4 replied. “But no. I’d prefer to avoid cleaning that much clone out of the upholstery.”

Sha’rali snorted. “Boys, play nice.”

The trooper stood slowly, eyes still locked on K4. “You’re really something.”

“I am many things,” K4 replied with a curt nod, sliding into his seat with a dancer’s grace. “Chief among them: irreplaceable.”

The clone wandered to the back of the cockpit, arms crossed, observing the banter unfold like some outsider at a theater show.

Sha’rali turned toward the nav screen, keying in atmospheric approach data. “We’ll be hitting Ord Mantell space in about ten. R9’s already downloaded the contact’s coordinates—neutral zone, outskirts of Worlport. Small job, fast payout.”

K4 glanced over his shoulder. “Low-risk. Possibly boring. That usually means a trap.”

“Probably,” she said easily. “But traps are where the fun is.”

The clone gave her a sidelong look. “You live like this all the time?”

Sha’rali grinned. “I’d die of boredom otherwise.”

The ship rocked gently as hyperspace dissolved around them. Stars snapped back into singular points of light, and the blue-brown marble of Ord Mantell filled the view.

Sha’rali leaned forward in her seat, eyes narrowing.

“Showtime.”

⸻

Ord Mantell was always dusty.

Sha’rali disembarked the ship, breathing in the warm, arid air as the twin suns of the planet bathed the landscape in pale gold. The outskirts of Worlport were quiet this time of day—only the low drone of speeders in the distance, the occasional scrap droid trundling past, and the wind tugging at tarps strung between rusting shipping crates.

Their meeting point was a wide alley between two abandoned warehouses, shielded from aerial scanners but open enough to see an ambush coming. Or so the coordinates claimed.

K4 scanned the perimeter with narrowed optics. “I already dislike this.”

Sha’rali cracked her neck and adjusted her blaster pistol. “You dislike everything.”

“False,” K4 said flatly. “I enjoy chamomile tea and the distant sounds of R9 screaming.”

R9, presently wheeling ahead to scan the loading bay doors, let out a warbling snort of protest.

“Not now,” the ARC trooper muttered to the astromech as he followed close behind.

R9 spun its dome a half-click, gave him a sharp toot of indignation, then paused when he reached out and gently rested a hand against its dome.

“…Sorry,” the trooper said quietly, brushing some scorch marks with his thumb. “You saved my shebs more than once back there. Guess I should treat you less like equipment.”

R9 warbled something smug.

The clone chuckled softly. “Don’t get cocky.”

R9 nudged against his knee like a small metal rancor demanding affection.

Sha’rali caught the moment out of the corner of her eye but didn’t say a word.

They reached the center of the clearing and waited. The plan was simple: quick trade-off, information packet for credits, with the Trandoshan broker Cid as the middleman. Low stakes. Clean job.

Except Cid wasn’t here.

Instead, a squat Rodian stood in her place, flanked by two humans in patchwork armor and a Nikto with a heavy repeater slung over his shoulder.

Sha’rali’s hand dropped to her sidearm, casual but not lazy.

“You’re not Cid,” she said evenly.

The Rodian blinked. “Cid sends apologies. She got… tied up. Said we’d handle the handoff.”

“That’s not how she works.”

“Changed policy.”

Sha’rali didn’t like this. The Rodian was sweating despite the dry wind, and the Nikto’s finger twitched just a bit too close to the trigger guard.

Behind her, she felt the shift in stance from both her crew and the clone. Silent, poised. Waiting for her call.

“Let me be real clear,” Sha’rali said, stepping forward, eyes cold. “Either Cid walks around that corner in the next twenty seconds, or I start melting kneecaps until someone gives me a better answer.”

The Rodian looked nervous now. One of the humans raised their weapon slightly, and that was all it took.

Sha’rali’s blaster cleared leather in a blink.

The Nikto dropped first, a clean bolt through his shoulder as he staggered back into the crates.

K4 drew his vibroblade with smooth grace, lunging forward and disarming the nearest gunman before slamming him into a wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.

The clone took cover behind a crate and laid down precise suppressive fire, pinning the remaining thug in place.

R9 zipped forward, emitted a piercing shriek, and sent a shock prod up into the Rodian’s ribs. The poor fool convulsed and dropped like a sack of duracrete.

Thirty seconds. It was over.

Sha’rali stepped through the smoke, picking up the small datachip from the Rodian’s belt pouch. She held it up to the light, turning it in her fingers.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Cid never showed.”

The clone approached, eyes sharp. “Trap?”

“Feels like it.”

K4 nudged one of the groaning mercs with his boot. “Pathetic attempt at one, though.”

Sha’rali gave a quick two-finger whistle. “Let’s move before reinforcements start sniffing around. I don’t like jobs that lie.”

They headed back toward the ship. As the loading ramp closed behind them, and R9 let out another satisfied electronic cackle, the clone glanced at Sha’rali.

“You think Cid’s in trouble?”

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed.

“I think we’ve just been hired for something a lot bigger than we signed up for.”

The door to Cid’s Parlor groaned open, stale air curling around their boots as Sha’rali stepped through the archway. The cantina looked the same as it always had—low lighting, dirty tables, blaster scarring along the walls like some kind of history book no one wanted to read.

R9 whirred softly beside her, rotating its dome as if scanning for snipers. The clone kept his head low and hooded, shadows veiling most of his face.

Cid was in the back booth, hunched over a datapad with a half-finished glass of Corellian black in one hand and an expression like she’d bitten into something alive.

Sha’rali didn’t wait for permission. She slid into the booth across from her, legs crossed, blaster out and resting on the table—not pointed, but not concealed either. The clone stood behind her, silent, unreadable.

K4 remained by the door. Looming. Glowing optics politely predatory.

Cid didn’t look up.

“Well, this is a surprise. Thought I told you to stay gone.”

“You sent me a job,” Sha’rali said flatly.

“I didn’t send you anything.”

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed. She slid the decrypted datachip across the table with a light click. “This came with your encryption key. Your coordinates. Your payout tags.”

Cid picked it up, glanced at it, snorted. “You ever consider maybe someone else is using my name?”

“I’ve made enemies,” Sha’rali allowed. “But not the kind who play bookkeeping this clean.”

Cid finally looked at her—and then past her, toward the hooded clone. Her brow lifted, expression changing.

“Well,” she muttered. “Ain’t that something.”

The clone remained motionless.

“You bring me one of them, huh?” Cid leaned forward, voice lowering. “That’s not just any grunt. You got yourself a ghost. They been looking for that one.”

Sha’rali didn’t flinch. “He’s with me.”

“That supposed to mean something?” Cid took a long drink. “After the stunt you pulled last time, you’re lucky I don’t sell your pretty pink ass to the Pykes.”

“You’d try.” Sha’rali leaned closer. “But I don’t think you want to see what my droids do to traitors.”

K4 cleared his throat from the doorway, utterly polite. “She’s correct. It’s… messy.”

Cid rolled her eyes, then looked at the clone again. “What’s your name, buckethead?”

He didn’t answer.

Sha’rali stood. “We’re done here.”

As they walked out, Cid watched them go, her stubby fingers already sliding a new commlink from her pocket.

The line was secure.

:: “Yeah. It’s me.” ::

A pause.

:: “The pink one’s alive. She’s got the clone.” ::

Another pause.

:: “No, he doesn’t have a name. He’s not talking. But it’s him. You’ll want to act fast. She’s in Ord Mantell space, but she won’t stay put for long.” ::

A click. Line dead.

Cid tossed back the last of her drink and let out a long breath.

“She always was too bold for her own good.”

⸻

The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the grime-stained streets of Worlport. The cantina door slammed behind them with a hiss, and R9 let out a suspicious bleep as it scanned the alleyway, already on edge.

The clone walked beside Sha’rali in silence for a few beats before finally speaking.

“What did you do to the Pykes?”

Sha’rali didn’t look at him, just smirked faintly. “I didn’t. K4 did.”

Behind them, the tall silver droid gave a prim nod. “They insulted my etiquette. I simply reminded them that proper conduct is essential… especially when negotiating ransom with a vibroblade to one’s throat.”

R9 cackled.

The clone side-eyed K4. “You’re not a butler.”

“I am a butler,” K4 replied, mock-offended. “I was built from scratch to kill, politely.”

Sha’rali chuckled. “You’ll get used to them. Or you’ll die. Probably one or the other.”

They turned down a side alley toward the hangar levels. The city never felt safe, but it felt less safe now, like every shadow held someone waiting for a bounty to clear.

“We need to find you new armor,” she said suddenly. “Something that doesn’t scream ‘I’m a clone deserter, please apprehend me for treason and experimentation.’”

He gave her a long look. “You just want me in a helmet.”

“I want you in a helmet no one recognizes,” she shot back. “And yes. Aesthetics are a bonus.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, then sobered. “You think Cid’ll sell us out?”

Sha’rali’s smile faded. “If I know Cid? She already did. By the time we’re off-planet, someone’ll be gunning for us. Could be the Republic. Could be the Pykes. Could be the damned Crimson Suns for all I know.”

The clone’s jaw flexed.

“We refuel,” she continued, “we grab food, and we’re off this rock. No lingering.”

“Got a destination?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I’ve got contacts. Places that don’t ask questions, and people who like me more than they like war. That’s enough.”

They turned a corner, stepping into the bustling edge of the bazaar, the scent of charred meats and engine coolant thick in the air.

Sha’rali paused for a moment, watching the crowd. R9 was already zipping toward a food stall with the enthusiasm of a toddler and the manners of a junkyard loth-cat. K4 sighed and followed, weapon at his side but posture casual.

The clone lingered beside her. “You didn’t have to help me, you know.”

Sha’rali tilted her head, lekku twitching with amusement. “I know. Still did.”

“Why?”

She looked up at him, sharp-eyed. “You asked me that already. The galaxy treats clones like tools. I’ve broken tools before—none of them bled. You did. That makes you different.”

He looked away.

Sha’rali bumped his arm with her own. “C’mon, buckethead. Let’s get you a helmet that actually fits your brooding personality.”

⸻

The marketplace on the lower decks of Worlport reeked of oil, unwashed bodies, and desperation. This wasn’t where you bought weapons. This was where you took them.

Sha’rali’s eyes scanned the crowd lazily, arms crossed, lekku twitching in irritation.

“You call this shopping?” the clone asked from behind his hood.

“I call it resourcing,” she said. “I see a weak target with good gear, I make it mine. Simpler than bartering with credits I don’t have.”

“I thought you were looking for armor,” he muttered.

“I am. And I’m picky.”

Her gaze settled on a group near the far end of the alley—a trio of bounty hunters lounging near a food stall. One wore a clunky but reinforced cuirass, too bulky. Another had Twi’lek-style duraplast plating, nothing that would fit. But the third…

She stopped walking. Her eyes narrowed.

The third was a Mandalorian.

Midnight blue beskar with red accents. Sleek. Scarred. Visor shaped like a frown. A stylized kyr’bes on one pauldron. Death Watch.

“That one,” Sha’rali said quietly.

The clone stopped beside her, tense. “He’s Death Watch. You know what they are.”

“Archaic terrorists playing Mandalorian dress-up,” she replied.

“They’re still dangerous. And they’ll know if we kill one of theirs.”

Sha’rali smirked. “Then we make sure no one knows it was us.”

He stepped in front of her, voice low and urgent. “This is different. You can’t just kill a Mando and take his armor like you’re picking out boots.”

She tilted her head. “Why not?”

“Because it means something. It’s not just plating—it’s their identity.”

“Right,” she said flatly. “And you’re a clone of a Mandalorian. So maybe you’re entitled to it.”

He went still.

Sha’rali didn’t wait for him to argue. She was already moving.

They waited until the Mandalorian separated from his group, ducking into a quieter side alley where local fences hawked off-brand spice and stolen kyber.

Sha’rali struck first.

A quick vibroblade slash to the leg, aimed to cripple. The Mando pivoted fast, parried with a gauntlet and drove his knee into her gut. Her armor absorbed most of it—but the man was fast, clearly trained. Death Watch didn’t promote dead weight.

The clone stood back, fists clenched, teeth gritted.

Sha’rali landed a few more hits, but the Mandalorian activated a jet burst from his vambrace, knocking her backward. She hit the durasteel wall hard, her twin blades skittering out of reach.

The Mando stalked toward her, blade in hand, helmet staring expressionless.

Then a blaster bolt caught him in the side of the knee.

He stumbled. Spun. The clone was already charging.

It was fast, brutal. The clone tackled him from behind, fists slamming into the helmet again and again until the beskar cracked at the seam. Then he wrenched the helmet off entirely and drove the butt of his rifle into the man’s skull.

The alley fell silent.

Sha’rali got to her feet slowly, holding her ribs. “You gonna scold me now?”

The clone didn’t answer. He stood over the body, breathing heavily.

“We strip the armor,” she said. “K4’ll scrub it clean, R9 will paint it. No one will know it was Death Watch.”

He didn’t move. “This is wrong.”

“You helped,” she reminded him. “That makes you complicit.”

He stared at her. “I helped because you were dying. That doesn’t mean I agree with you.”

“Not asking you to.”

Back at the ship, K4 took the pieces without question. R9 scanned for blood and grime. They worked in practiced silence while the clone sat by the viewport, holding the scorched helmet in his hands.

“I’m dishonoring their culture,” he muttered.

Sha’rali dropped into the seat beside him. “You’re a clone of a Mandalorian. That gives you as much right as any of them. Maybe more.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“You don’t owe the people who made you,” she said quietly. “You don’t owe the ones who left you behind, either. You get to choose who you are. And right now, you’re mine.”

He glanced at her. “That supposed to be comforting?”

Sha’rali smiled faintly. “I thought it sounded better than property.”

K4 approached, carrying the first repainted chest plate. Sleek black, silver accents, no insignia. Clean.

“No identity,” K4 said as he handed it over. “Just how you like it.”

⸻

The cargo bay was quiet, save for the occasional mechanical chirp from R9 and the click-click of K4’s tools being returned to their compartments. The Mandalorian armor had been fully stripped, sterilized, reconfigured, and freshly painted—black and silver with clean lines, devoid of crests or affiliation. A blank slate.

The clone stood in front of the armor set now, pieces laid out across the table like relics of a man who never existed.

Sha’rali lounged nearby, arms crossed, silently watching him.

“Well?” she said after a beat. “Put it on.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening, and then—without another word—began to strap the pieces onto his body.

Torso first. It felt heavier than it looked.

The shin guards were snug, but flexible. The vambraces clicked into place, perfectly aligned. The helmet—he saved for last.

He stared at it for a long time, then finally pulled it over his head. The hiss of the seal echoed in the cargo bay.

He turned toward Sha’rali, now fully armored.

“Well,” she said, walking a slow circle around him. “You wear it well.”

“I don’t feel like I do,” his voice echoed slightly through the modulator. “Feels like I stole someone else’s soul.”

“That’s because you did,” K4 said flatly, walking up with a tray and setting it aside. “And I just spent four hours repainting it, so kindly conduct yourself with a shred of respect.”

Sha’rali raised a brow. “K4, did you just scold him?”

“If you want an artist’s interpretation of his fragile rebirth, fine,” K4 said, gesturing at the armor. “But I’d prefer my work not be discarded just because the soldier has a sudden attack of conscience.”

The clone removed the helmet and looked at K4 with narrowed eyes. “I was considering repainting it.”

“To what? Blue? Red? Polka dots?” K4 clanked one metal hand on the chest plate. “This neutral palette hides identity. It protects you. It lets you vanish.”

“He’s right,” Sha’rali said. “This isn’t for show—it’s camouflage. You want color, buy a flag.”

The clone looked down at the armor again, flexing one gloved hand.

“It’s not about the paint,” he said quietly. “It’s about what it means. Every time I wore armor before, it was because someone told me to. Now I’m just deciding to… what, play dress-up as something I’m not?”

“No one’s telling you to be something you’re not,” Sha’rali said. “I’m saying you get to choose what you are. And right now, that armor doesn’t say clone. Doesn’t say Republic. Doesn’t even say Mando. It says ghost.”

He nodded slowly, still staring at the chest piece. “A ghost, huh.”

R9 gave a sarcastic warble from the corner. The clone looked up, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Even the droid thinks I’m dramatic.”

“He also thinks K4 should’ve painted flames on the side,” Sha’rali said.

R9 gave a smug beep.

K4 clicked his metal fingers together. “I will eject that astromech from the airlock.”

Sha’rali smiled faintly. “You ready to be someone?”

He thought about that for a long second.

Then he slipped the helmet back on.

“Let’s find out.”

⸻

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