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Chapter Text

The stench of charred flesh and melted plastics greeted General Grievous’ senses. Strangely, he could feel himself blink, open his eyes, then close them again. But there was still nothing. No black, nor white, nor any shapes at all.

Grievous tried to shake his head in the hope that it would clear his vision. The longer he stared into the abyss, the longer it stared back. The feeling reminded him of the crash all those years ago: this desperation, the lack of control over his senses, over his body. It was not something he would stand for.

His claws weakly dragged against the stone and soil beneath him. Grievous’ vision had cleared enough that he could make out shapes vaguely moving; he could hear voices, dull, mechanical. But to him, everything sounded like it was miles away underwater. Something had happened to him… But what? No matter how hard Grievous tried, he simply couldn’t recall what had left him in such a pitiful state.

The familiar shadow, the lull of slumber creeping into his eyes, gave Grievous a jolt. He tried to open his mouth. He tried to scream. There was a knowing in the darkness; Grievous feared that if he dared to give in, he would never again wake.

IG-113 was pinning General Grievous to the ground with all his weight. Truly, he was not sure how... capable his master was, but the last thing they needed was for him to disrupt the medical droids whilst they worked upon his tortured and burnt form. The medical droids had already removed Grievous’ faceplate and pried back most of his armor in their initial attempt to resuscitate him. All that was left was to keep him still while they finished stabilizing him enough to move the wounded general.

“Master…” IG-113’s metallic voice was full of dejection and grief. He brushed the back of his hand against the side of Grievous’ face, hoping the gesture would bring some comfort. IG-113 rose to his feet and followed loyally behind Grievous and the medical droids. He noticed one of the General’s lightsabers, forgotten in the mire, and picked it up.

The blue blade hummed to life under IG-113’s hold. He held it close as he trailed behind the others; IG-113’s optics focused on the ceiling above in case Obi-Wan Kenobi or any of the clones came back. In a way, the lightsaber felt… comfortable. Like it was an extension of his own body. But wasn’t that the point of the Makashi form Count Dooku had taught Grievous and, by extension, IG-113 himself?

Still, this saber wasn’t his. IG-113 fully intended on returning it to his master after they were onboard the Ruination, a sister ship of the Malevolence who had replaced her older sister earlier in the war.

The journey back to the shuttle was an excruciating ordeal, each meter gained a testament to the sheer will of the droids and the raw agony of their master. The medical stretcher, a hastily deployed piece of field equipment, provided little comfort. Each time they had to stop, to readjust Grievous’s broken form to maneuver him up a steep incline or over a jagged rock, a guttural rasp would escape his mangled frame. The sound, more mechanical than organic, tore at IG-113’s circuits. But there was nothing the medical droids could give for the pain, lest he not wake up.

IG-113 didn’t lower his guard until they were back on the shuttle to the Subjugator-class heavy cruiser hidden in Utapau’s atmosphere. He kept his claws firmly on the lightsaber’s switch until the shuttle doors behind him hissed closed. They were safe for now, and that was all IG-113 could ask for.

“C... call the bridge...” Grievous rasped, each syllable a monumental effort. His internal vocalizer, was warbled and strained, producing sounds like grinding gears on the verge of seizing. Black ichor, a mix of lubricants, burnt organic tissue, melted plastics, and his own vital fluids seeped from the seams of his neck and chest where his armor had been peeled back by the medical droids, staining the stretcher and the hand that tried to reach him. His breathing was a horrific, ragged wheeze. The sight of it made IG-113 glad he was unable to smell; the stench had to be truly gagging.

IG-113’s optics dimmed momentarily, processing the sheer, raw effort this simple command required. The medical droids, a pair of 2-1B surgical units, merely stared at one another. This was beyond their programming. Without a word, IG-113 took his holoprojector, its small, familiar weight feeling immense in his grip and activated it for General Grievous.

Grievous stared at the flickering blue light, his remaining strength pooling for this single, vital act. “This is for the crew of the Ruination,” he forced out, his voice now a series of broken, guttural coughs that racked his entire frame. Each spasm sent tremors through the stretcher, threatening to dislodge the delicate medical apparatus attached to him. “Do not obey orders from anyone other than myself…” he managed, the words punctuated by agonizing wheezes, his voice trailing off into a wet, desperate gasp for air. He seemed to shrink further into the stretcher, his head lolling to the side.

At first, IG-113 feared that Grievous’ display of sheer determination and will had proven fatal. Yet General Grievous’ shallow breathing continued, leaving IG-113 to deal with the sea of faces. The immense weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders. “You heard the General. Do not act under anyone else’s orders. The Confederacy of Independent Systems’ leadership has been compromised,” IG-113 lied. He did not know why General Grievous had insisted they only obey his orders. He could only infer, as no one was supposed to know, that Grievous had retreated to Utapau to recover from his injuries following the assault on Coruscant. 

IG-113’s metallic hands lifted Grievous’ faceplate from the stretcher, and he examined it, wondering if the scorch marks and damage could be repaired, or if the mask would serve as a reminder of Grievous’ near-death experience. “Once we’re back on the ship, take him to the medical bay. See if you can rouse him again. I would like to speak with our Master.”

One of the medical droids spoke. “Roger Roger, High Commander IG-113.”

High Commander... Now that gave IG-113 pause. Officially, he was nowhere near that rank, but functionally... With General Grievous incapacitated for the foreseeable future, and his unorthodox power grab, he was functionally the second in command of the Separatist fleet.

IG-113 repeated the words. “High Commander.” Their importance resonated in his voice box. Then, for a moment, the MagnaGuard felt what could only be described as fear, an utterly unpleasant sensation for a droid. The weight of his decision threatened to crush him to the floor of the shuttle. Now he was responsible for not only General Grievous' life, but the fate of the Ruination’s crew.

There would be time to ponder the impending consequences of his actions later. For now, IG-113 had more important matters to attend to. He stayed silent, stoic, the rest of the shuttle ride back to the Ruination.

IG-113 practically kicked the shuttle doors off their hinges when they landed in Hangar Bay Three. Despite the medical droids’ best efforts, Grievous was no longer breathing so much as he was choking, his vitals crashing.

“Hurry!” IG-113 ordered, his metallic voice echoing with a new, authoritative urgency that cut through the hangar's ambient hum. Rows of Vulture Droids hung suspended from ceiling rails, their metallic bodies glinting under the diffused overhead lighting.  IG-113 was the first one off the shuttle, his imposing frame a blur of motion as he used his bulk to clear a path. The medical stretcher, with Grievous’s mangled form upon it, was quickly maneuvered off the ramp by the 2-1B droids.

The journey to the Ruination’s primary medical bay was a desperate blur across vast, sterile corridors. The Subjugator-class cruiser, designed for overwhelming firepower and extended campaigns, was immense, its internal pathways a labyrinth of intersecting arteries; not unlike the circulatory system of a giant beast. As they moved, the rhythmic thrum of the cruiser’s hyperdrive generators-the ship’s heartbeat-vibrated through the floor plates beneath IG-113’s heavy steps, a constant reminder of the war machine he now nominally commanded. Medical droids, summoned by IG-113’s frantic comm-requests, scrambled around him.

When they finally arrived at the medical bay, everyone was waiting. Holo-monitors flared to life around a cold operating theater, ready for a patient of Grievous' unique, terrifying composition. A team of specialized 2-1B surgical droids and even a few FX-series medical assistants, equipped with an array of exotic instruments, moved with precise, chilling efficiency. They cut through the straps holding Grievous down and lifted him onto the operating table, while a second team prepared a bacta tank.

IG-113 allowed himself to run a full internal diagnostic. His systems were running hot, stress parameters flashing red—an impressive feat, considering the stress thresholds MagnaGuards were engineered to withstand. He doubted this level of emotional duress had been accounted for in his design. He backed up against the wall, out of the way, and chose not to run the recommended self-repair subroutines. Infact, he uninstalled them.

Since he was already tinkering with his internal systems, IG-113 went one step further and uninstalled the software that allowed for remote deactivation. He would have the physical chip removed later. IG-219, with his logistical mindset, would no doubt be able to assist him.

Or, he could ask one of the Ruination’s hangar repair droids to perform the “repair.” Convincing them to remove the chip and his restraining bolts should be a simple task. After all, it would greatly increase his resistance to any future attempts to override or hack his systems.

IG-113 entered a low-power mode to conserve energy while the medical staff worked on General Grievous. He chose low-power over full shutdown so he could retain minimal environmental awareness. Even with his photoreceptors offline and his limbs unresponsive, he preferred this state, for it allowed him to dream.

He dreamt of a battlefield.

Grievous stood tall, sabers ignited, stance coiled like a predator.
“Foolish Jedi,” the General hissed. “Do you think you can possibly win? I was trained by Count Dooku himself!”

“Funny,” replied Obi-Wan Kenobi, igniting his lightsaber. “I trained the man who killed Dooku.”

If IG-113 had known what was coming, he would have stepped in, would have fought by his Master’s side, instead of just following orders and letting Grievous walk into the trap of an “honorable duel.”

In his dreams, IG-113 rewound the scene, running battle simulations over and over. He knew the odds—knew that joining a duel between General Grievous and a   Jedi Master put him at a tactical disadvantage. But two blades are harder to track than one. Obi-Wan wouldn’t have gotten his hands on a blaster if he’d been forced to divide his focus.

Strike. Parry. Riposte. Dodge.

He memorized Obi-Wan’s style until their duel became a dance. He simulated contingencies, Obi-Wan’s tendency to seize the high ground, his reliance on Commander Cody showing up at just the right time. IG-113 discarded every failure path, iterated, recalculated, and rewrote until only one vision remained: sweet, statistical victory. Strike. Parry. Cut.

Against a dishonorable opponent, there was no shame in dishonorable tactics. He’d even decided that, in a live engagement, he could deactivate his own blade mid-swing to phase through Obi-Wan’s defense and land a decisive blow. His restraining bolts prevented this behavior, flagged it as “dishonorable.”

IG-113 didn’t care.

If his opponent rejected honor, then so would he.
All the more reason to prioritize the removal of his bolts.
But first, he had to safeguard the crew.

A4-D approached the seemingly inactive MagnaGuard model resting against the wall.

“High Commander?”

IG-113’s photoreceptors glowed faintly at the sound of his name, the dreams dissolving into bittersweet static. “Acknowledged. What is it, A4-D?”

“We followed your instructions. The Master is stable enough for conversation, if you keep it brief.”

IG-113 was already on the move.

He returned to Grievous’s side, his gaze drawn to the lightsaber at his belt. He unclipped it and offered it forward. “You dropped this on Utapau.”

Grievous stared at the saber. Then, weakly, he pushed it back.

“Keep it. You… you’ll need it when you face the Jedi.”

A shuddering breath.

“Count Dooku promised me… access to the Republic records. He swore I’d be reunited with my surviving children.”

Grievous’s body spasmed in a coughing fit, more violent than the last.

“I refuse… to die without knowing. Find them for me, IG-113. I… command you.”

“Acknowledged.” IG-113’s processors immediately began assessing survival probabilities. Most of Grievous’s family had likely perished, as originally reported. But if even one had been Force-sensitive… there was a chance they’d been taken in by the Jedi Order.

“Is it possible any of your offspring were Force-sensitive?”

Grievous’s eyes narrowed. “Not… likely. But not impossible. Naledi could see things… before they happened. Prophetic dreams. Perhaps… one of her sons…”

“Statistical modeling suggests Plo Koon, given his known affinity for Jedi younglings is the most likely surviving Master to know the locations of training camps or the Agricultural Corps. Would you like me to find him first?”

“Surviving… Jedi?”

The words were hoarse. Disbelieving.

“Order 66 was initiated shortly after your defeat on Utapau,” IG-113 said. “It caused a malfunction in the clones. They began opening fire on their Jedi Generals.”

That earned a weak, guttural growl from Grievous.

“Find him first.”

IG-113 had more questions, more strategies to propose, but A4-D’s hand landed on his shoulder.

“If you don’t want the Master to go through another surgical ordeal, we must place him in the Bacta tank now. Your time is up.”

“Acknowledged.”

IG-113 gave a final nod. He had what he needed.

He knew where to start.

Chapter Text

Nightmares from ten years ago had become reality once more for the stricken Kaleesh warlord. His village desecrated, abandoned. His wives all food for the carrion-eaters. His children, gone. Not dead, at least not to his knowledge at that time. Simply, gone.

Which even back then had been somehow worse. It had been one of his elites, one of his bodyguards who had somehow staved off exhaustion and starvation long enough to tell him what happened. Even then, the man hadn’t lived long after that.

Not out of malice, or anything Grievous had done. Truly not, instead death had claimed him once his purpose was complete. Once he had given Grievous the identities of those who had stolen his world from him.

The Jedi.

These were the misfortune memories that played back in Grievous' shattered mind whilst he slept. These were the nightmares he’d been roused from by IG-113.

The Bacta hadn’t even fully dried from his cybernetic body when General Grievous took an audience with IG-113. A4-D, was incessantly buzzing around him like some kind of insect. Grievous found the hovering annoying, but not worth even attempting to raise a hand and slap him away.

IG-113 had two younglings with him, a Kaleesh boy who appeared at the cusp of manhood, not quite a child, not yet an adult. The second was a Twi’lek infant, whimpering softly, her face tear-stained and visible blaster burns on her body. Upon a closer inspection, Grievous realized the boy had similar injuries, yet pain hadn’t yet marred his features. The boy had brilliant amber eyes, and was short for his age, a possible sign of prolonged hunger early in life. He had long hair, and wore a traditional Padawan braid. Grievous resisted the urge to try and reach out to cut it off.

“Where is Plo Koon?” Grievous asked, shooting a quick glance over the MagnaGuard’s shoulder.

“We are still en route to his last known location. We received a Republic distress call and traced it back to its source, the clones onboard had mutinied against their Jedi Commander, several had been ejected into space. Our scouts discovered a dead Jedi Knight, human female surrounded by deceased clones within the CSS-1 Corellian Star Shuttle. These two younglings were hidden within the cabinets in the cargo bay.” IG-113 explained, a hand on the young Kaleesh’ shoulder.

It took Grievous a great effort, but he was able to hold himself up using the side railing on his hospital bed. “Tell me, boy, how old are you?” His yellowed eyes refused to blink, lest the young Kaleesh before him disappear. He studied every freckle, every scale on the boy’s face searching for anything, something familiar.

The Young Kaleesh on the other hand, kept glancing at the wounded Twi’lek IG-113 was holding against his hip.“Sixteen.” Grievous noted there was something not right about the boy. He wondered, if only for a moment, if he was in some kind of psychological shock from the betrayal of his master’s clones. Yes, that had to be it.

Sixteen…That was within the age range Grievous was looking for. By this point, his children would have been between twelve and twenty three years old if they were alive. But Grievous did not allow himself to feel any hope; there was nothing familiar within this boy’s face. “What is your name?”

“Missar Ras Vilraest.” The young Padawan mumbled. Grievous did feel disappointment, this youth had been stolen from another clan, not snatched from one of his wives’ breasts. But, he took it as a good sign. If other Kaleesh younglings from the Huk War had survived, then it breathed new hope into him that at least one of his own children had endured the conflict.

“Not one of mine, but he could be.” Grievous said with a sigh, “Give me the girl.” He ordered, IG-113 obeyed handing the fragile infant over to his master.

The worst of the burns on her body appeared superficial, Grievous doubted there would be any serious scarring if at all. What he admired was the fact that she’d survived everything that had happened in her short life. The little girl had a true warrior’s spirit, and that reminded Grievous of a woman he’d loved a long time ago. “Ronderu…It’s been so long and this is how you return to me,” Grievous rumbled, a rattling cough leaving him gasping for breath, “You’re safe now Ronderu, no one’s going to hurt you…” Grievous cooed, he gingerly gave the infant to A4-D.

“Get her treated, now.” He ordered.

A4-D immediately started on the Twi’lek girl examining the extent of her injuries, “Certainly master, and what of the boy?”

“Him…too…” His strength failing again, Grievous laid back down on the bed. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep his eyes open. Yet, despite all the pain the waking world was superior to the alternative, to the ethereal nightmare his injuries had banished him.

IG-113 stood and watched as the other Medical droids administered the anesthesia required to place Grievous back in his Bacta Tank. He took note of how long it took for Grievous to lose consciousness, and the sluggish, weak movements in his arms like he was trying to fight them off before falling into a twilight like state once more.

“I am returning to the bridge, inform me of any changes in our Master or the children’s condition.” IG-113 said folding his arms neatly behind his back. He interlocked his fingers, and glanced over his shoulder at A4-D as he gave the orders.

Chapter Text

The bridge of the Ruination hummed with the usual drone of distant machinery, a deceptive calm that shattered when the comms crackled to life. "Unauthorized vessel detected!" A B1 battle droid's high-pitched voice sliced through the air with all its usual panic. "Republic Delta-7B Aethersprite-class light interceptor attempting boarding sequence in Hangar Bay Three!"

The alert gave IG-113 pause; he’d been in the middle of sending a transmission, a recording of Grievous’ orders to TJ-912…Along with a personal message that she was not to destroy any more Separatist ships due to their fragmented leadership and limited supply. She was one in a list of “Confidants” the MagnaGuard had reached out to, along with other ST-series Military Strategic Analysis and tactics droids. The Galaxy was an unfathomably large place; it was statistically impossible that all Separatist droids and ships had already been decommissioned or destroyed. But IG-113 knew he was running out of time; if he had any chance of rebuilding the Separatist fleet, he would need more than one ship. The Ruination could not stand on her own, yet there were more pressing matters to attend to.

IG-113’s optical sensors narrowed, and a search of his memory banks told him that there was one Jedi who piloted that specific starfighter. Saesee Tiin. His work could wait. There was a more important task at hand. The thought sent a jolt of metallic dread through his circuits, an unfamiliar short-circuit of cold, hard calculation mixed with something else. The Jedi Master, a member of the Council, was a formidable opponent, even for Grievous at full strength. And Grievous was far from it, submerged in the healing waters of a bacta tank, vulnerable.

"IG-219, maintain your station," IG-113 commanded, his voice a low, steady hum that belied the surge of calculation and concern within him. His primary directive, beyond all else, was the General's safety. "IG-165, IG-404, report to the medical bay immediately. Protect General Grievous. He is not to be disturbed, under any circumstances."

"Acknowledged," came the synchronized replies, and the two MagnaGuards moved with their characteristic, precise efficiency towards the exit. Their footsteps echoed, heavy and deliberate.

As their echoes faded away, IG-113 turned, his internal chronometer already charting the most direct route to Hangar Bay Three. While the ship’s internal security system blared alarms and the remaining droids scattered to defensive positions, attempting to seal bulkheads and establish a perimeter against the intrusion, IG-113 moved against the current. Every other droid was retreating, seeking cover, attempting to contain the threat. Whilst the organic crew members onboard the Ruination ran ahead, their faces pale with fear. He alone purposefully walked towards it. He was a stone tossed against a flowing river. An anchor of stability in an ever-churning ocean following what for many felt like the end of the universe.

The emergency lights flashed overhead, bathing IG-113’s path in an eerie red glow. There were 22,487 remaining crew members onboard the Ruination. 22,487 lives he alone was responsible for. Droid, Neimoidian, Geonosian, human, Quarren, the species did not matter; they all had one thing in common. They were his crew, on his ship. One of the Quarren officers, who was too busy looking behind to make sure he wasn’t being followed by a Jedi to pay attention to where he was going, even ran into IG-113 unintentionally, shoulder-checking him.

The Quarren hit the ground, knocked back by the force of impact with Ig-113. “My Apologies!” he stammered before scrambling out of the way. IG-113 didn’t even acknowledge it. Nor could he blame the Quarren.

IG-113 knew that logically, as a Jedi Master, Tiin would attempt to locate General Grievous onboard the ship. Subjugator-class heavy cruisers were a rarity, a white whale demanding attention. Most had been docked after the loss of the Malevolence, and even then, the Ruination was hardly comparable to the lost Separatist flagship. Of course, any Jedi who stumbled across one would investigate, drawn in like moths to a flame. IG-113's processors calculated the grim probability: if breaching the medical bay proved too difficult, a Master of the Jedi Council might simply decide to destroy the entire cruiser, killing everyone aboard, rather than risk Grievous' escape. Only this time, instead of letting the Jedi prey upon the weak onboard his ship, IG-113 intended to snuff Master Tiin out like the unwanted pest he was.

He began to hum, a low, metallic thrum that vibrated through his chassis—an old Kaleesh war ballad, one General Grievous had taught him. It was a strange, somber comfort in the sterile confines of the ship. His claws instinctively brushed the lightsaber clipped to his belt—the one he’d recovered on Utapau, a borrowed tool, but one Grievous had instructed him to keep as a “gift”. Its hilt felt cool against his metallic palm. He scratched at the paint on the back of his metallic hand, an anachronistic gesture that was becoming almost a habit. A strange, cold fury began to build within him, a processing overload of indignant thought. He thought of the stench of charred flesh and melted plastics, the raw agony that had rendered Grievous a broken thing, utterly dependent. He thought of the Jedi, of their supposed honor, their claims of peace, their willingness to strike down a weakened opponent and then retreat to their temples, calling themselves "honorable." Then there was the fact that Jedi all too often acted so “droidlike” themselves.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

If the word HATE was engraved on every nanometer of circuitry within IG-113’s body, all fifty miles of unbridled emotion and code, it would not equal one one billionth of the pure, unadulterated hate he felt toward Jedi who had decided to completely forsake the gift of their biology. Their organic nature, it was never for IG-113 to feel secure in his thoughts, in his feelings. For how did he know what was his own conscious choice, and what was a result of his programming?

It was never for IG-113 to feel the rain on his skin, never for him to enjoy a meal, or feel the touch of another. Never for him to taste another’s lips, or feel what it was like to lose himself to carnal pleasures taken from a willing partner’s body. These sentiments, these feelings, never to be his, and the Jedi refused to indulge in life’s truly divine pleasures despite possessing the means. Unlike IG-113, who was cursed by his uncaring anatomy.

He reached the corridor connecting Hangar Bay Three to the main cargo elevator network, a wide, utilitarian space of durasteel bulkheads and flickering emergency lights. And there he was. Master Saesee Tiin, his Iktotchi horns prominent. At his feet lay the bisected torsos of two B1 battle droids, still sparking faintly, their numbers now dropping to 22,485. Tiin disarmed another B1 with a casual flick of his wrist. His green lightsaber humming softly in his hand, a beacon of lethal intent. IG-113's optical sensors quickly scanned the damaged units, calculating the extent of the damage. Rebuildable, perhaps, but costly. He wondered how many others Tiin had already destroyed in Hangar Bay Three.

22,484.

IG-113's humming ceased abruptly, His optical sensors narrowed further, the last vestiges of his internal contemplation hardening into singular focus. This was what he couldn’t stand about the Jedi; their hypocrisy, their insistence that every life mattered, yet they slaughtered those deemed unworthy so easily. The battle droids under IG-113’s command could think, they could feel, they could beg for mercy; wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t the fear of one's own impending demise one of the most sentient of things?

Tiin’s gaze snapped to IG-113, and for a microsecond, a flicker of surprise crossed the Jedi’s face. He clearly expected a retreat, a warning, or perhaps a swarm of lesser droids. Not a solitary MagnaGuard, standing defiantly.
"Another one of Grievous' toys, so he is on this ship." Tiin mused, his voice calm, but with an underlying edge of impatience. "Surrender the weapon, droid. I have no quarrel with you."

IG-113 ignored the command. With a hiss, he ignited the blade in his hand, the familiar sound a defiant roar in his auditory sensors. His stance changed, shifting into the familiar opening stance of Makashi Type II. "You have a quarrel with my master," he countered, his voice flat, devoid of hesitation.

Tiin raised an eyebrow, a subtle shift in his alien features. This was unexpected. He had faced MagnaGuards before, but never one that moved with such deliberate grace, such focused intent, wielding a lightsaber with apparent mastery. He adjusted his own grip, his form shifting from defensive to cautiously offensive.

Their sabers met with a piercing crackle. The corridor was filled with the high-pitched whine of energy blades clashing, echoing off the metallic walls like a desperate song. Tiin immediately pressed the attack, a blur of motion, his green blade a searing arc. But IG-113 was a wall of controlled precision, a shield of trained steel and plasma. He parried, riposted, and flowed with a fluidity that shocked the Jedi.

Tiin lunged, a series of quick, aggressive jabs aimed at IG-113’s chest-plate and throat. The MagnaGuard responded with minimal, efficient movements,as was the nature of his chosen form. Sparks flew where the blades kissed, the air crackling with volatile energy. IG-113 had to exert effort to redirect Master Tiin’s blows away from his vulnerable core. Sparks flew from the guide railings and floor beneath them whenever one of the lightsabers connected with a solid surface. Tiin used the Force, pushing lightly to destabilize IG-113’s footing, but the MagnaGuard’s repulsorlifts compensated instantly, a faint hum from his feet maintaining his perfect balance. He was not just reacting; he was analyzing, adapting, learning with each exchange, every pulse of his internal processor dedicated to this deadly dance.

"You speak of peace, Jedi," IG-113 grated, his voice a low, mechanical hum, surprisingly audible over the clash of blades. "Yet you pursue a weakened opponent. Is that your 'honor'? To strike at the injured?"

With every clash, IG-113's internal processing sped up, the rage burning hotter, a white-hot core of indignation. They chose this. Organics, with their vaunted "free will," their ability to choose right from wrong, peace from war. They chose to lie, to cheat, to betray. They chose to leave Grievous mangled and helpless, a phantom of his former self. And now, they chose to pursue him, to finish what they'd started, even when he was at his weakest. The hypocrisy tasted like rust. However, IG-113 had to admit that Master Tiin fought honorably for a Jedi. He did not employ any cheap tricks; unlike other Jedi, IG-113 knew.

"Your Master's actions brought him to this state," Tiin countered, his voice strained as he pushed with the Force, trying to break IG-113's unyielding guard. "His path was one of violence."

"And yours is not?" IG-113 retorted, parrying a forceful overhead strike and thrusting low, forcing Tiin to leap back. "You preach compassion, yet you eliminate threats without hesitation. Where is your 'peace' when you come armed to kill?"
His mind was unburdened by the usual calculations for his brothers' safety. He didn't have to worry about 165 being flanked or 404 taking a stray hit. This was a duel, pure and unadulterated. Just him and the Jedi. The clarity of focus was exhilarating, a dangerous freedom. He could dedicate every calculation, every movement, every ounce of his processing power to reading Tiin, to anticipating his next move, to finding the single, fatal flaw in his defense. It was Makashi as it was meant to be. Even then, IG-113 was cautiously aware of the fact that Master Tiin’s most notable strength was not as a duelist, but as a pilot. Even more so, Master Tiin was likely emotionally distressed; if the reports of clones turning on their Jedi Masters had any merit, he had likely only just survived an encounter with his own men. This undoubtedly would have affected his nerves.

Tiin began to sweat, a biological reaction IG-113 noted with detached satisfaction, the subtle sheen on the Iktotchi's brow a testament to his exertion. The Jedi's attacks, initially sharp and confident, became slightly more desperate. He pushed harder, relying on the Force to enhance his speed, a flurry of strikes that painted green streaks across the corridor, each strike a desperate attempt to break the droid's unyielding defense. But IG-113 matched him, a relentless, perfectly calibrated machine. He wasn't merely defending; he was slowly, methodically, pushing the Jedi back, forcing him to cover, to commit.

Then, he saw it. A minuscule hesitation, a fraction of a second when Tiin overextended, his weight momentarily off balance after a forceful parry. It was barely perceptible, a ripple in the Force rather than a physical opening, a moment of weakness born of fatigue and frustration. But IG-113 seized it, a hunter's instinct overriding programming.

With a surge of power, a focused burst of his repulsorlifts, IG-113 lunged forward. The blue lightsaber became a spear of azure light, driven with the full, righteous fury of a droid discovering its own will. It plunged deep, through Saesee Tiin's chest, directly into his heart. His demise being the only proof at all that Master Tiin even had one to begin with. Things didn’t have to end this way.

The Jedi Master’s eyes widened, a gasp escaping his lips as the lightsaber hummed its deadly song through him. He looked down at the blade protruding from his chest, then back up at IG-113, a flicker of disbelief, then understanding, before he crumpled to the durasteel deck, his lightsaber falling from nerveless fingers, the green blade extinguishing with a final hiss.

IG-113 stood over the fallen Jedi, the humming blue saber still extended, the scent of ozone and burnt flesh filling the corridor, yet unregistered by the MagnaGuard as he could not taste nor touch, only imagine. His internal systems registered the kill, the completion of his task. But beneath the cold, logical confirmation, there was a strange, unfamiliar satisfaction. This close to death, he had never felt so truly alive. With a click, he deactivated the blue blade, clipping it back to his belt.

Then, his gaze turned to Saesee Tiin’s green lightsaber, lying discarded on the floor, not entirely unlike the one Grievous had left on Utapau. With a deliberate motion, IG-113 reached down and picked it up. Its weight felt different from the one he currently carried, its hilt cool beneath his metallic fingers. This was a true trophy, won in battle, a testament to his prowess. He clipped it securely next to the blue one, and already IG-113 was unsure of what to do with it. Part of him wanted to present it to his Master, but…logically, he knew with their limited funds available, it would be more imperative to sell it for credits. After all, Master Tiin’s lightsaber was not part of General Grievous’ collection, surely he wouldn’t miss it.

Chapter Text

IG-113 tapped his clawed digits together, his voice box humming an old Kaleesh war ballad, one General Grievous had taught him, its melody a strange, somber comfort in the sterile confines of the bridge. Before him, the IG-100 MagnaGuard stood like a sentinel, its optics fixed on the ship’s view screen. Outside, the looming mists of Cato Neimoidia swallowed everything, a thick, swirling silver veil that clung to the vessel’s hull. There was no horizon, no discernible landmarks, just the constant churn of vapor, making it impossible to gauge their approach to the landing bay.

Yet, according to IG-113’s memory banks, this shrouded world marked Plo Koon’s last known location. Thus far, their search for his apprentice Bultar Swan had come up empty, but this seemed to please the general. Grievous had told IG-113 that the lack of knowledge about Plo Koon’s former apprentice meant she was still alive.

One of the B1 battle droids navigating the ship paused, they turned to face IG-113 “Are you sure this is a good idea, High Commander?”

IG-113 stopped humming, “Good idea or not, we are following direct orders from General Grievous. With our limited remaining number I am sure that he would never put us in undue risk. Only the Jedi are aware of the possible locations of his surviving offspring; we must do our best to capture them alive.”

“Roger Roger,” The B1 droid turned back around, “Landing soon sir.” That part wasn’t true, but it wasn’t exactly a lie either; The Ruination herself would not be landing upon the planet’s surface; rather IG-113 would take a shuttle down to Cato Neimoidia. The simple fact of the matter was that he didn’t have any other ships capable of Hyperspace jumps. They -had- to spend the hypermatter and fuel to make it from Utapau in the Outer Rim, to the Cato Neimoidia system. There was no other option. However, this meant that when they made the third -and final planned jump- to the Unknown Regions, the next place the Ruination traveled to had to be a refueling station or she would lose all power and purpose.

“Acknowledged.” IG-113 left the bridge, he had a shuttle to catch. Not, that it was going anywhere without him. But he couldn’t risk wasting anymore time; the longer he delayed the lower Plo Koon’s chance of survival fell.

IG-113 went back to humming a tune, he was running calculations in his mind again, it was possible that General Grievous’ children could have been moved to the Agricultural Corps, or if one of the youngsters turned out to be force sensitive, they could still be at a Jedi Training Camp. Plo Koon would certainly know the locations since he’d taken in many younglings over the years. The older ones who were taken hostage by the Jedi could have aged out of the Service Corps already; this would make them extremely difficult to track down. IG-113 doubted that any of the children taken for experimentation or medical research survived their ordeals. It was only those of Grievous’ brood born force-sensitive who had a chance.

He took his holoprojector out and turned it on; being sure to connect to his master’s encrypted channel, “Master we’re arrived at Cato Neimoidia. There were no enemy cruisers in orbit and republic activities seem to be at a minimum.” There was one Star Destroyer in the system, but it hadn’t seemed to notice them. IG-113 hoped that he could secure Plo-Koon before it did. If he was lucky, the chaos of Order 66 meant the Republic Command ship was currently indisposed.

Grievous’ voice was raspier than usual, each breath ended in a whistling noise when he exhaled. “Good…good….Contact IG-219 when you’ve reached General Koon.” The General said before ending the call.

"Acknowledged," IG-113 stated into the silence, a subtle, almost imperceptible dip in his head. The weight of the General’s condition pressed on him. Everyone knew Grievous was teetering on the brink, the 'cheated' duel with Kenobi having shredded him. He rotated between bacta tanks, his shattered tissues and organs slowly mending, yet he refused to remain submerged 24/7. Orders, after all, could not be given from a healing pod.

Finally, the oppressive mists began to thin, revealing the slick, moisture-drenched landing zone. IG-113's clawed hand instinctively brushed his belt, confirming the presence of the lightsaber Grievous had entrusted to him – a borrowed tool, a last resort against blaster fire. It felt wrong, a foreign object in his grip, the hilt cool against his palm. This weapon was a trophy, won in combat by another; it was not his to wield.

IG-113 kept humming to himself until he was out of the ship. His optics scanned the area, but other than a few dead clone troopers, there was nothing. He cautiously walked up to one and flipped the clone over onto its back. Blaster fire to the chest seemed to be the cause of death. What he found unusual was how large the burn area was.. Whoever had shot the clone had been at extremely close range.

Movement behind him made IG-113 put his arms up in the air in surrender; he carefully positioned the lightsaber between his claws so it would not be visible from behind. He finally stopped humming, his focus elsewhere.

"What is a Separatist ship doing here!" A clone’s voice barked, rough with exhaustion and suspicion. "You're one of that Clanker’s guards, aren't you? Where's Grievous?"

"Recovering," IG-113 stated, his voice even, devoid of hesitation. "I am not here to engage in combat. I am here to speak with Master Plo Koon."

“And why would we let you do that?” A clone that was not Wolffe asked.

”Because we share a common enemy, and have things the other wants.” IG-113 said without turning around. He knew it could be unsettling to the clones if he swiveled his head around exactly 180 degrees to face them. IG-113 kept his arms up where the clones could see them, at least for now.

Wolffe stepped closer, the hum of his DC-15A blaster rifle a low thrum against the damp air, its barrel held steady against IG-113’s back. “What could you possibly have that we want?”

“Safe passage off Cato Neimoidia for you and your brothers, and sanctuary for Master Plo Koon.”

“Why would a clanker working for Grievous ever want to protect Master Plo ?” Wolffe’s finger was inches from the trigger.

“Master Plo Koon knows the location of Jedi Training camps and farms belonging to the Agricultural corps, my Master wishes to make a deal for this information, he is looking for any of his children who may have survived the war.” IG-113 still did not turn around, he was aware of at least one clone trooper behind him, but the mutterings coming from Wolffe’s direction suggested at least seven more.

A moment of charged silence hung in the misty air, broken only by the drip of moisture from the overhead structures. Then, a click. Wolffe lowered his weapon. "Alright, you got yourself a deal, Clanker. But no funny business, alright? We’ve spent the last four days putting down our own brothers. We won’t hesitate to end you."

“Acknowledged.” IG-113 lowered his arms; he clipped the lightsaber to his belt and followed the eight surviving clones.

The march to Plo Koon’s location took several hours. Time well spent in 1G-113’s eyes, as it meant his master had a long, uninterrupted bout with a bacta tank for once. As he had given IG-113 orders to contact 219 when he reached the Jedi.

The pitiful state of the Wolfpack reminded IG-113 of his own brothers; most of his fellow guards had either been massacred by the Jedi. Or decommissioned on orders of Chancellor Palpatine. It was only by Grievous’ foresight to forbid them from obeying orders from anyone else that spared IG-113 and his companions.

Wolffe stepped forward and unlocked a door, Inside was a makeshift sickbay where Plo Koon lay in what could have possibly been his deathbed. The Jedi Master’s body was a map of burns, his skin scorched and blistered. One of his legs was missing below the knee, the raw stump bandaged crudely. His wounds aligned with the impact of a shuttle crash. An IV line, a thin lifeline of dwindling pain medication, snaked from a bag to the Jedi’s arm.

Wolffe sank onto the edge of Plo Koon’s cot, the metal frame groaning softly under his weight. "Master Plo? You have a guest. Clanker swears he’s friendly, and hasn’t tried to kill any of us… yet." A wry, exhausted humor colored the clone commander's voice.
Plo Koon’s masked head stirred slightly, a weak hand attempting to push himself up. But the sheer weight of his injuries pinned him down, preventing him from even sitting upright. "An IG-MagnaGuard… As if things couldn’t get any stranger. Go on then, speak freely." His voice was shallow, laced with pain.

"Yes, sir." IG-113 immediately took out his holoprojector. "IG-219, inform General Grievous that I have arrived at Master Plo Koon’s location. He is in critical condition and will require medical transport back to the ship. Ready a Bacta tank."

IG-219’s scarred form flickered into a haze of blue on the holoprojector. A prominent blaster fire mark, dark and jagged, was scorched into his chest plate. It wasn't deep enough to compromise his vital systems; rather, it was a "badge of honor" that 219 had chosen to permanently display, differentiating himself from IG-113 and their other brethren. "Acknowledged. I will arrange for transport." The faint sound of his fingers tapping away at a console was audible off-screen. "The medical droids are waking u,p General Grievous now. Please stay on the line until transfer."

Once IG-219 had finished issuing commands, his mechanical gaze lifted from the holographic display of the computer console, sweeping over Plo Koon and the weary clones. "How many of you remain?"

"Ten. Just… ten." Wolffe replied, looking at the ground uncomfortably. His voice was flat.

IG-219 processed the new data, inputting it into the console. "How many require medical intervention? I have already submitted the request for Master Koon. I require additional information if applicable."

"He's the only one; the rest of us could just use a hot shower and a good night’s sleep for a change." Another clone replied, his hand resting gently on Wolffe’s shoulder.

"You're lucky our ship was designed for both organic and inorganic crew. I will have them prep the crew’s quarters for you meatbags." IG-219's optics registered the clones' stunned silence. "Do not give me that look. It is only fair, as you insist on calling us 'Clankers.'" His attempt at humor seemed utterly lost on the clones. IG-113, however, appreciated his brother’s effort.

"Touché. Might have to start calling you droids something else," Comet conceded, folding his arms in slight amusement. The air in the room seemed—somehow—less tense after the little tit-for-tat, and the promise of a warm bed and a possible shower.
"Acknowledged, human." IG-219 gave a small, almost imperceptible salute. "General Grievous is awake. I am transferring you now."

IG-219 disappeared, replaced by the form of their shared master General Grievous. The metal plates covering his wounded body were still visibly wet from the bacta tank. His movements seemed sluggish, his head listing slightly, as if he wasn't quite fully engaged with reality yet. It was entirely possible, given the heavy cocktail of anesthesia, painkillers, antibiotics, and steroids coursing through his body, keeping him barely tethered to life.

IG-113 registered the General's state, recalling a phrase he'd overheard in a cantina once: "lights are on but no one's home." It had been used to describe a Mandalorian who'd severely underestimated his Wookiee companion's potent drink. The analogy seemed disturbingly appropriate now.

"Master?" IG-113 prompted gently, his voice box modulating carefully to cut through the haze. He needed to ensure Grievous was fully there.

The General’s eyes were suddenly sharp. “Where is Plo Koon?”

IG-113 moved swiftly across the cramped sickbay, kneeling beside Plo Koon's cot. He carefully adjusted the holoprojector's projection to the Jedi Master's eye level, ensuring a clear view. "Here he is."

Plo Koon, his breathing shallow and labored behind his mask, stirred faintly. "General Grievous… I see we’ve been equally unfortunate these last few days, though I confess I am relieved to see reports of your death were greatly exaggerated, given our current circumstances." His words were a struggle, each one visibly sapping his meager strength, his body trembling slightly with the effort.

General Grievous seemed to pause, taking in the sorry state the Jedi Master had found himself in. There was something in his eyes, Understanding? Sympathy for their shared fate? “Likewise General Koon, I will make this short. I know about the Jedi Training Camps and the farms you send failed Padawans to, if you help me find my children I will do everything in my power to protect you and your clones. You have my word as a Kaleesh.”

The weight of Grievous' promise, steeped in the ancient honor of his native people, settled heavily in the humid air. Plo Koon's masked face remained impassive, but his chest heaved. "I… I… accept these terms." The monumental decision, coupled with the effort of communication, was taking up what little strength Plo Koon had left. The air in the room felt heavy again, this time with concern for the Jedi Master’s flickering life.

IG-113 couldn't make out what Grievous said in response to the stricken Jedi. The General's image wavered, his eyes rolling before fluttering shut. His grip on the holoprojector suddenly slackened, and the device tumbled from his metallic fingers, bouncing with a soft thud onto the floor.

A B1 battle droid, alerted by the commotion, shuffled forward. "Get him back in the tank," it chirped, its voice oddly calm.

"Roger Roger."

The B1 picked up the General’s holoprojector, its photoreceptor gleaming, and clicked it off, not realizing the line was still live.

IG-113 rose to his full height, the more he thought about it, the more he realized there was something…poetic in Plo Koon and his own master’s shared physical states. Perhaps in a way it was for the best, shared desperation being the key behind the uneasy truce the two masters had agreed to. All that was left was to get Plo Koon and his remaining clones back to the ship.

“The medical transport should be here soon.” IG-113 promised.

Chapter Text

IG-113 had spent days since meeting Plo Koon and the Wolfpack analyzing morality, his own programming, everything he could get his claws on to further investigate the difference between free will, and innate programming.” How did you and your brothers overcome your inhibitor chips?”

Comet choked mid sip of water, Wolffe had an alarmed expression on his face. Then he calmed down, and instead used his fork to swirl around the noodles floating in his bowl of ramen. “It happened when we saw Master Plo get shot down, all the haze…it felt like we were in a dream, but as soon as we thought he died ... .We woke up. Not all of us did, but enough to claw our way back to his side and pull him from the wreckage.”

“What’s with the Clanker asking questions this early in the morning?” Comet asked, finally over his coughing fit.

IG-113 decided to ignore the insult, “I have been thinking of my relationship with my own Master. I have been debating how many of my actions were truly of my own free will, and what was programmed into me at birth.”

“Organic…Inorganic, created to fight, when you look at it clones and clankers aren’t that different.” Wolffe muttered into his ramen, he brought the bowl up to his lips to slurp up the broth.

“Precisely.” IG-113 sat down at the table and stared at the empty bowl and placemat in front of him. He tapped the ends of his claws on the rim of the glass enjoying the light tingling noises it made. In truth, he wondered what food tasted like. He wondered how it felt to love, how it felt to be loved and feel the touch of another’s lips upon his.

Instead he’d been cursed with an immortal unloving body. The metallic carapace he was imprisoned within would go on forever with proper upkeep. A fate worse than death. IG-113 suddenly stopped, his gaze fixated on his hands, or what would have been his hands if he’d been Kaleesh, or human even.

He imagined blood flowing beneath his skin, that metallic ichor that wasn’t altogether different from the different oil and fluids droids depended on for basic function. The tips of his claws dug into his metallic palms enough to leave faint white lines in the paint. “I would like to think I love my Master because I chose to, not because I was created to serve him. Isn’t that what you clones want? To love your brothers and Master Koon not because you were created to, but because you chose to?”

Wolffe wiped his mouth off on his sleeve, “After everything that’s happened, I know we love him because we chose to, I know we serve him because we chose to, he’s risked everything for us, he loves us…He deserves that same loyalty.”

IG-113 thought about Plo Koon’s deal with Grievous; he had the feeling that the Jedi Master had agreed mostly to save Wolffe and the rest of the clones. The stricken Jedi might have genuinely believed he was dying and just wanted to secure their futures. “If it wasn’t for General Grievous ordering us to ignore all orders we received from anyone other than him, we would all be decommissioned, Spare parts, rotting away under toxic rain while our oils and fluids poison the ground and everything around us. Isn’t that love? Using what strength you have left to save your subordinates’ lives instead of ordering them to save your life?”

Comet let out a long sigh, “I’m glad we’re on the same side now, you’re starting to make me feel bad about all the battle droids I shot during the war.”

”Likewise.” IG-113 said, he debated on asking the clones to describe what food tasted like, but decided not to. He had already asked enough questions for the day.

“Who’s that baby in the Bacta Tank next to Master Plo anyway?” Wolffe said changing the subject.

IG-113’s optics flashed, “Ronderu Nume Sheelal, she was the youngling found on the republic transport we intercepted. I retrieved her and the Padawan before General Grievous gave the order to destroy the transport to cover our tracks. He said it would be best for the children if the Galaxy thought they perished with the dead Jedi knight we left on the ship. Miss Ronderu had been…injured by blaster fire when the clones onboard that transport turned on the Jedi Knight and her padawan.”

Comet flinched, a shiver down his spine as he imagined what life must have been like for that poor Jedi Knight in her final moments. The fear that two children would soon be gunned down by the men who were supposed to protect them…

“I’m guessing Grievous was hoping that the Jedi were still alive, right? What with him trying to find his children and all.”

“He was most disappointed by her death, but impressed that she’d managed to hide the children well enough that no one found them first,” IG-113 replied. He still wished that Missar had been one of Grievous’ missing sons; instead, the boy had been stolen from another clan.

Wolffe and another one of the clones seated at the table both exchanged a look. “Never thought I’d say this, but I think any younglings or Padawans we find might be better off with the head Clanker himself.”

“Master Plo isn’t going to like that very much.”Sinker mumbled into his glass.

Wolffe countered with his own statement. “Well, our brothers are out there shooting younglings on sight, and last time I checked, Grievous and those clankers –no offense 113- have killed more of us than anyone else. Anakin murdered all the younglings in the temple, and these kids off-world are as good as dead once their masters fall.”

Cogito

Cogito Ergo

Cogito Ergo Sum

Cogito ERGO SUM

COGITO ERGO SUM

The Philosophical discussion about the true nature of Jedi, of good and evil that IG-113 had started was simply background noise to him. He scratched the paint from the back of his metallic hand, absent-mindedly pondering a much greater universal truth.
That was when IG-113 decided he simply had to have a taste of what Free Will was truly like. He wanted to devour it whole, like a starving Kaleesh standing before a banquet worthy of a lord.

“Hey 113, anyone home? You’ve been awfully quiet over there.” Wolffe said he rapped his knuckles against the side of IG-113’s head.

IG-113 lied. “Forgive me, I felt that I may have overstepped with my earlier questions and decided not to interrupt your conversations.”

Wolffe offered him a smile. “Naah, you helped us save Master Plo…and it turns out Grievous isn’t so bad after all, say whatever you want.”

“Thank you, I have enjoyed your company.” IG-113 stood up and pushed his chair in, “It has been seven hours since I last checked in to see how General Grievous is recovering. I would like to update. If Master Plo Koon’s condition has changed, I will inform you all.”

Comet gave him a toast, “Later Iggy!”

“Tell Master Plo we still love him even with a peg leg.” Sinker only half-joked.

“Acknowledged,” IG-113 said as he was leaving the Crew’s Quarters. He wasn’t sure if what he thought about Comet’s nickname for him yet. It was a clever use of his serial identification number.

In truth, IG-113 went right to his brother IG-219’s quarters. All of General Grievous’ remaining Guards had their own rooms close to his quarters on the ship. Instead of sharing space in the cargo holds like the b1 units.

IG-219 was spot welding some damaged points on his leg when IG-113 arrived at his quarters. “Do you require repairs?” 219 asked, pausing momentarily and rotating his head 180 degrees around.

This was IG-113’s chance. IG-219 already had all the equipment out; all he had to do was ask him to remove his restraining bolts and command chip and he could be free, truly free. “Negative, I wanted to ask if you wished to visit the medical bay to check on General Grievous with me. It has been several hours since my last update, and I would like to check on his condition.”
“I trust in the medical droids’ prowess; if there was something wrong, they would have told us by now.” IG-219 went back to his welding.

“Acknowledged,” IG-113 said before closing the door. The timing just….didn’t feel right to ask IG-219 to remove the chip. Instead, he went where he told the clones he was going.

IG-113 stopped in front of the Bacta tank that had Master Plo Koon floating in it. He stared up at the wounded Jedi, the full extent of his wounds finally settling in; most of Plo Koon’s flesh had been seared, and his body was covered in second and third-degree burns. Most of which had been subject to surgical debridement. “Sinker said he would love you even with a peg leg, Sir.”

To Plo Koon’s left, the Twi’lek infant still floated in a Bacta tank. IG-113 suspected the tank was the only reason she was alive; the ship lacked basic infant supplies like bottles, formula, or diapers. Until they could acquire proper means to care for a baby, the tank was their best option. Fortunately, the Kaleesh boy, Missar Ras Vilraest, was old enough to be fed and treated like one of the clones. These necessities would need to be acquired by the organic crew the next time they docked at a black market station.

General Grievous occupied the Bacta tank to Plo Koon’s right, his cybernetics making for a tight fit. IG-113 sat cross-legged on the floor, his unblinking optics fixed on his master’s vital signs. From what he knew of organics, the General’s condition wasn't good. Grievous' body was reacting poorly to the anesthesia meant to keep him unconscious while submerged.

While a Bacta tank could heal anything short of a dead body, the anesthesia's side effects wouldn't kill him. However, the additional stress on Grievous' heart from being conscious, feeling the suffocating weight of the Bacta, or the breathing tube in his throat keeping him from drowning, transformed waking him into less of a moral dilemma and more of a medical one. The sudden shock of confinement and the inability to breathe or scream could send him into cardiac arrest. At that point, the Bacta tank would become a hindrance rather than a help. They would have to pull him out, remove the breathing tube, pry open his armor to access his internal organs, and hope they could resuscitate the General a second time.

IG-113 had two lightsabers on his belt, one a gift from Grievous, the other his first personal ‘trophy’. The lightsaber formerly belonging to Jedi Master Saesee Tiin. IG-113’s metal fingers curled around the lightsaber’s hilt. The air shimmered, and a brilliant green beam sprang forth with a familiar snap-hiss, casting an emerald glow across the medical bay. It illuminated the sleeping faces of the patients.

He bowed his head, “Forgive me, Master, this one will not be joining your collection, it will serve another purpose.” IG-113 knew exactly what he was going to do with the lightsaber he’d claimed for himself; he was going to sell it the next time they docked for supplies.

The green blade vanished as his thumb released the button. With a final, lingering glance at the incapacitated General, IG-113 stood up and clipped the lightsaber back onto his belt. He knew his master would not be pleased if General Grievous ever found out IG-113 had sold part of his collection, but it had been nearly a year since Grievous had abandoned his fortress; surely, given their dire need for credits, General Grievous would find it in himself to forgive IG-113. His focus was now elsewhere, his processors churning with a new self-assigned mission. He strode out of the Medical Bay, his steps resolute, hell-bent on finding his brothers, IG-165 and IG-404. Both of whom were on the bridge supervising the ship’s navigation to their next destination. “I have orders for you two,” IG-113 said plainly, getting the attention of 404.

"Orders? From Grievous?" 404's optics glowed with a flash of curiosity and surprise, a slight tilt to his head.

"Yes," IG-113 replied, the lie smooth and calculated, a novel sensation in his circuits. "Take a shuttle and return to Vassek 3. Grab as many Kyber crystals and spare parts for both us and the Master as you can muster." As if to seal the deal, Ig-113 even offered IG-404 Master Tiin’s lightsaber.

"Kyber Crystals?" 404's optics glowed brighter in recognition of the word. The youngest MagnaGuard took the saber his older brother offered. "Curiosity."

"The crystals will be easier to offload for funds than full lightsabers," IG-113 explained, his reasoning pragmatic and logical. "We have limited supplies here. If any of us require extensive repairs, it would greatly hinder the mission."
IG-404 and IG-165 bowed before IG-113, their metallic forms moving in perfect, synchronized obedience. "Understood. We will depart. What is our final destination?"

IG-113 had already anticipated the question, the answer was a fixed coordinate in his internal navigation. "Nar Shaddaa, do not let anyone undersell you. Those Kyber crystals are worth a minimum of five thousand credits each, up to ten thousand depending on quality." The Smuggler's Moon. A place where anything could be bought, and anything could be sold. It was the perfect place to “disappear” a crate of Kyber crystals for a King’s ransom, or at the very least enough to fully refuel the Ruination one last time.

His next intended stop was the crew quarters again to tell Wolffe, Sinker, Comet and the rest of the clones that he had told Master Plo that Sinker said he would love him even with a peg leg. He strolled along the maze of corridors and bulkheads that made up the Ruination’s inner workings. IG-113 was not expecting one of the droids who served under the ship’s quartermaster to flag him down.

The B1 unit was waving one of his arms to get IG-113’s attention, “Commander! We’ve received a supply request from the Mammalian females onboard.”
“Acknowledge, what are they asking for?”

The smaller of the two droids showed IG-113 a datapad, “Oral contraceptives, sanitary napkins, tampons, pregnancy tests, heating pads, emergency contraceptives, and chocolate.” The B1 Unit explained, tapping his finger on the part of the list where chocolate was mentioned.

IG-113 took the datapad from the B1 and scrolled through it himself, “I have heard of different herbal teas possessing medicinal qualities to alleviate physical symptoms of illness. Perhaps chocolate is one of these substances for mammalian reproductive cycles. I see nothing unreasonable with this list.”

He handed the datapad back to the B1 unit, who replied, “Roger, Roger. I will inform the Quartermaster that you have approved the supply request. There’s one more thing High Commander, SO-B79 wanted to see you in Hangar Bay three, They finished decrypting the information on the Republic Delta-7B Aethersprite-class light interceptor. He wanted to discuss his findings with you.”

IG-113 thought back to his recent encounter with Master Tiin, “Acknowledged, I will make my way there soon. There are more pressing things I must attend to first. ”

Chapter Text

IG-113 stuck a thermometer into the kettle of tea currently on the hot plate in front of him. The temperature of the liquid was 136.5 degrees Fahrenheit. He pondered for a moment if this temperature was sufficient, considering that his guest had not arrived yet. Or, if he needed to turn down the heat. He decided the most logical course of action was to simply specify the temperature of the offered beverage once his guest arrived.

The shuttle had been set up as a makeshift office in the Ruination’s Second Hangar Bay, something private but not too far on the ship in case negotiations went south. Comfortable furniture, couches, day beds, and even a padded footrest had all been moved onboard. There was a bar that had been moved from one of the crew’s quarters -after much promising to return it to them after the deal with the Mandalorian was struck- IG-113 did not know the personal tastes of his guest and did not wish to offend him by not having the proper refreshments to offer after such a long journey.

Behind IG-113, the shuttle’s hololink turned on, a B1 droid stood before him in holographic form, “Sir, a HAET-221 is requesting permission to dock.” The battle droid said, knelt before the Ruination’s true commanding officer.

Ah, that would be his guest. “Did you confirm visuals on the ship?” IG-113 asked, double-checking that the minifridge beneath the bar was adequately stocked with different liquors. Just in case his guest preferred a stronger drink.

“The HAET-221 bears a Mythosaur skull decal.” The B1 took a moment longer than IG-113 would have to answer the question. He hoped it was because the B1’s droid brain needed the extra time to process what IG-113 had said, and not because no one had bothered to look out the window to make sure it wasn’t a Republic gunship approaching them.

IG-113 sat down on a couch and crossed his legs. His arms rested against the back. “Tell them to dock in hangar bay 2.”

“Roger Roger,” The droid replied before killing the connection. The door to IG-113’s shuttle opened remotely. It didn’t feel like long until he saw the shadow of a Mandalorian climb onboard. He had three-fingered gloves, and the shape of the Mandalorian’s helmet was non-traditional.

IG-113 waved his hand toward the table before him, set with an arrangement of different sweeteners, creams, and herbal spices all in delicate jars amongst a tea party that had been set for two. “The journey wasn’t too perilous, I take it? Please, help yourself, and if you’d prefer something with a little more kick, the bar is open Orbreth.”

“More generous than I was expecting,” The Mandalorian said, he seemed to at least have an interest in IG-113’s offer. His voice was slightly raspy, not to the point General Grievous was, but there was still that gruffness to it that IG-113 had found certain individuals tended to lack.

Ahh, Transdoshan. IG-113’s processors settled on the most likely species for Orbreth.IG-113 watched the Mandalorian take the kettle off the hotplate and pour himself a cup.“I know of the Mandalorian’s reputation for hospitality, and my goal was to be an adequate host. The tea is 136.5 degrees Fahrenheit, I would recommend letting it cool. My memory banks tell me that this temperature can scald the inside of an organic’s mouth or the back of their throat.”

“Mhm.” Orbreth made a noise to let IG-113 know he’d heard what he said. He added half a spoonful of sugar to the beverage, stirring it in to completely dissolve it before adding anything else. Then the Mandalorian took out a straw and used that to sip at his drink instead of removing his helmet. “Let’s get down to business.”

IG-113 took his holoprojector out and turned it on. Instead of using it to open a channel, he pressed a different button; this time, the holographic image of a Venator-class Star Destroyer shimmered into existence. “The Remembrance is currently adrift in the Cato Neimoidia system, I have people onboard among my crew who know it inside and out. Your job is to capture the Star Destroyer and bring it back here before the Empire realizes that, unlike its predecessor, the Triumphant, it wasn’t lost in space.”

The Mandalorian’s cup of tea was half drunk when he returned it to the saucer he held in his left hand. “I don’t suppose you’re expecting me to take a Star Destroyer on my own? We’re Mandalorians, we’re good but not that good.”

IG-1133 imitated a nod, he understood the Mandalorian’s concerns.“You will lead two transport shuttles loaded with  B2-series Super battle droids and Driodekas  twenty-four Hynea Bombers as an escort. According to my calculations, this should be more than sufficient to take the ship, and still be small enough to fit comfortably into the Star Destroyer’s hangar bay once captured.”

“How do you know the Empire hasn’t already picked up its toys and gone home?” Orbreth asked, pouring more tea into his cup.

IG-113 stood up, he walked around the back of the couch and turned on the Shuttle’s hololink.“I have eyes on the Star Destroyer, a Sabaoth Frigate is monitoring the system. They lack the necessary firepower or crew to take it themselves.” IG-113 explained before hailing the smaller ship.

The Tactical Droid in charge of the frigate answered the call, “State your business, High Commander IG-113.”

IG-113 was glad to see that the droid was still standing; it meant the rest of his crew was too. As it was extremely unlikely that the Frigate would have survived even a partial hit from the Star Destroyer’s main guns.“Have there been any recent activities from the Remembrance?”

“Negative, the ship’s communications were damaged in a firefight over Cato Neimoidia. With loss of contact from the planet’s surface and no news from the Empire, it is possible her crew never received Order 66.”

Well, this changed things. IG-113 was suddenly thankful for his faceplate’s lack of expression. “I see,” He would have to ask Wolffe or Sinker if they would be willing to go with the Mandalorian to speak with the Star Destroyer’s crew, surely they wouldn’t open fire on their own men. But, just in case IG-113 still planned on sending reinforcements.“Thank you, Captain A7-3E. You may return to your station.”

IG-113 contacted his own flagship’s Medical Bay, “Wake up Master Plo Koon.” was all he said to the Medical Droid who answered his call.

“Roger Roger,” The droid replied, “It will take some time to wake him, we must account for the anesthesia wearing off after all. I will let you know when he is decent.”

The mention of the Jedi Master’s name got Orbreth’s attention. “You have surviving Jedi onboard?”

IG-113 held a finger to his non-existent lips, a gentle “shh”. “The Unknown Regions require a steady hand and a force-sensitive Navigator to traverse safely, as my objective is the continued survival of the Separatists and any refugees seeking assistance, the presence of a Jedi Master is most beneficial to our continued existence. Should the Mandalorians require sanctuary, I leave my door open to your people as well. All I ask is that you keep this secret.”

His explanation earned a laugh from the Mandalorian, “Spoken like one of us, keeping your clan safe is worth more than any bounty the Empire’s offering. This could be useful if another war emerged on Mandalore…So why are you going after this Star Destroyer again? Doing a favor for the Jedi?”

IG-113 ended the call, his full attention back on the Mandalorian. “The Remembrance is much less suspicious at a glance than the Ruination, I initially planned on altering the ship’s registration codes and designation to use it as a ghost ship, a recon base in Imperial-controlled parts of the galaxy; however, the possibility of her crew still being loyal to Plo Koon presents an interesting opportunity, I could use those spies and agents with their master’s permission of course. It would make infiltration and extracting prisoners, or any surviving younglings, much less difficult.”

There were footsteps behind IG-113, Orbeth Forn passed by him on his way to the bar, though instead of drinking anything instead he swiped a bottle of Corellian whiskey. “What are your plans with the younglings?” The Mandalorian’s voice had a darker undertone to it now, something that wasn’t yet a threat.

IG-113 knew he had to tread carefully, “My Master had force-sensitive offspring who were taken by the Republic. He wishes to reunite with his children, and is taking in any Jedi younglings we find in the meantime as Foundlings.”

The stiffness in Orbreth’s posture relaxed, and he helped himself to another bottle from the minifridge. “Can you prove it?”

IG-113’s mind went to Missar and the young twi’lek infant Grievous had named after his lost love for her warrior spirit. “Yes, if you would accompany me to the Medical Bay.”

The second whiskey bottle disappeared into one of the numerous pockets and satchels adorning Orbeth’s armor. “Lead the Way, Commander.” Orbeth Forn rumbled.

They exited Hangar Bay 2, away from the buzzing energy and anticipation of the arrival of the Remembrance. The hum of the Ruination's internal mechanisms, usually a soothing drone, now seemed to pulse with a low thrum of anticipation as IG-113 led the Mandalorian through a series of increasingly sterile and sparsely populated corridors. Orbeth, ever observant, noted the strategic redirects.

They reached a reinforced door, IG-113 paused, his photoreceptors scanning the Mandalorian. "The identities of those behind this door are highly classified. Your presence here is a unique concession, a show of good faith."
Orbeth gave a terse nod, "I understand. Open it, Commander."

The door hissed open, revealing a pristine, stark white medical bay. Given the Ruination’s scale, it was rather spacious yet..Even the Mandalorian could tell something was wrong. A few of the shelves were barren, supply closets empty. Every piece of equipment glistened in the light. As was needed, given its current status as a makeshift burnward for Plo Koon.

Whilst the Jedi’s Bacta tank was empty, the two flanking it still had their usual occupants. The Twi’lek infant Grievous had adopted as one of his own, and the Kaleesh cyborg himself. IG-113’s mind started to wander. A single liter of Bacta was twenty credits, each tank required two hundred to be filled, and standard medical recommendations advised draining the tanks. They were supposed to be rinsed with reverse osmosis water once a week, and refilled only after they were completely dried and subjected to UV radiation to kill any lingering harmful bacteria without risking compromising the fresh batch.

Ideally, more critical patients would be transferred to waiting tanks during the cleaning process; this was a protocol that the Ruination normally had the resources to do. But they were not under normal circumstances. Given how often it needed to be replaced, and the cost of filling a tank large enough to completely submerge, General Grievous IG-113 knew they couldn’t afford to potentially “waste” any of it.

Which, unfortunately, meant that soon enough, General Grievous would be out of the Bacta tank for the three-hour-long cleaning process. This was not something IG-113 was looking forward to. At least with her burns fully healed, Ronderu would be out of the Bacta tank as soon as the supply ship IG-113 had returned with the infant supplies he’d requested. He hoped that IG-404 and IG-165 would return soon with the spoils of war from their Master’s old fortress. IG-113 wasn’t sure how far he could stretch the Ruination’s stock to keep General Grievous alive.

To Grievous’s left, on a hospital bed lay Master Plo Koon. He was no longer submerged in Bacta, but his body told a stark tale of his ordeal. Extensive bandages covered most of his body, more of a protective layer to ward off infection from the tender skin underneath than anything else. A handful of medical droids hovered around the bed, their delicate manipulators making micro-adjustments to IV lines and wires connected to monitors. A human doctor, her brow furrowed in concentration, meticulously reviewed a datapad detailing the Nautolan’s vital signs, the slow fading of the anesthesia evident in the Kel Dor’s slight movements.

It was the first Bacta tank in the row that had Orbeth’s attention; the tiny little infant, Ronderu Nume Sheelal, floated inside. Her lekku twitched gently in her sleep. This is Ronderu," IG-113 stated, his voice flat. "She was found amidst the wreckage of a Jedi transport along with Missar and a dead Jedi knight. My Master named her, Ronderu, will be released from the Bacta tank once we have the necessary supplies to care for an infant. "

Orbeth stepped closer to Ronderu's pod, his armored three-fingered hand hovering inches from the transparent surface. His gauntlet, usually scuffed and utilitarian, seemed impossibly large next to the tiny, sleeping Twi'lek. "And the others?" he asked, his voice softer than IG-113 had yet heard it.

"Missar Ras Vilraest, is in the crew’s quarters; he is currently the only other Foundling onboard the Ruination,” IG-113 confirmed, “Wolffe and the others have taken a liking to him.”
Orbeth straightened slowly, his helmet turning to face IG-113. There was a long pause, a palpable tension in the clean, sterile air. His gaze flickered between the vulnerable youngling, the severely wounded Jedi Master, and the monstrous figure of Grievous in the Bacta.
"They will be protected?" Orbeth's voice was low, a rumble of quiet conviction.

"Absolutely," IG-113 affirmed, "They are now part of the crew. My Master has deemed it so, and I am his instrument in this endeavor. Their safety, and that of any future Foundlings, is paramount to our strategic objectives. Efforts to locate more, including Master Grievous’s biological children, are ongoing."

Orbeth nodded, a single, decisive moment. He turned back to survey the medical bay, “I have some connections in sectors near Cato Neimoidia. Can you get me a list of what you need?”

Antibiotics and liters, if not gallons of Bacta, were top on IG-113’s priority list, followed by surgical blades, scalpels, syringes, disinfectants, and replacement bulbs for the UV lamps, but he had to decide what would be acceptable and what would be asking too much from the Mandalorian. “Bacta, diapers, infant formula, clothes, and UV bulbs compatible with XG-997 disinfectant lamps,” IG-113 replied. He hoped that the Remembrance's own Medical Bay was still well stocked enough for him to take supplies from it. Because the Republic used clone troopers, and the cost that went into the creation of each soldier, it was highly logical that they had an ample supply in the Star Destroyer’s cargo bays as a means of protecting their investments.

It was some time later, after Commander Wolffe arrived, that the Ruination’s main medical bay turned into a war room of sorts. The irony of General Grievous -still unconscious in his Bacta tank- was lost on no one.

Plo Koon lay propped up on his medical bed, looking more like a fragile waif wrapped in papier-mâché than a Jedi Master. Commander Wolffe, his unscarred eye fixed on the holotable, stood beside the bed, flanked by a handful of his unchipped Wolfpack troopers. Opposite them, Orbreth Forn, his helmet obscuring his expression. A bottle of Corellian whiskey was still tucked securely in a pouch. And at the head of the bed, perfectly still, was IG-113.

"The Remembrance's crew likely never received Order 66," Wolffe stated, his voice tight with controlled emotion as the holographic Venator glowed above them. "They're still loyal to the Republic, loyal to their Jedi Generals. If they see us in a Republic gunship, if they hear Master Plo's voice..." He trailed off, looking at the injured Jedi, then at IG-113. "I want to take a HAET-221, load it with some of my men, and board the Remembrance. Master Plo can address them via hololink. They won't fire on us."

Orbreth grunted, shifting his weight. "My ship's fast, but it's not a warship. And it's my ship. I'm here for a job, not a joyride into a firefight." He gestured vaguely at the holotable. "You want a Star Destroyer, you pay for a Star Destroyer."

The unspoken assumption in the room was that Orbreth’s ship had been retrofitted with a hyperdrive. There was no other logical explanation for how he’d been able to get to the Ruination’s location on his own.

IG-113's photoreceptors remained fixed on the holographic Venator, its internal schematics overlaid on its hull. He then turned slightly, addressing Orbreth. "Your payment is contingent on the successful acquisition of the Remembrance. While Commander Wolffe's proposal offers the highest probability of a low-casualty takeover, my primary objective remains the ship itself and its cargo. Therefore, as previously discussed, I will still assign three battalions of B2-series Super Battle Droids and Droidekas, along with a Hyena Bomber escort, to accompany your vessel. They will maintain readiness to board the Remembrance as a contingency if negotiations fail, or if any unexpected resistance arises on board."

Wolffe looked from IG-113 to Orbreth, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. "This isn't about profit or inventory, it's about saving our brothers. We can't go in there guns blazing if there's another way." He paused, then his voice became more urgent, directly addressing Orbreth. "And your ship, Orbreth, is crucial. Their comms are down. They haven't received Order 66. A Republic gunship carrying clones is what they'd expect to see. Your HAET-221 is….was a Republic transport. If we fly in on a separatist ship, they'll blast us as soon as we leave hyperspace.”

Plo Koon stirred, a raspy breath escaping him. His bandaged hand slowly rose, weakly tapping Wolffe's arm. "Wolffe... the droid is correct... in its assessment... of resources," he whispered, his voice faint but firm. He then turned his gaze towards Orbreth. "And the Mandalorian... has a right to be weary…and protective ... of his ship. We are... a new kind of alliance... bound by necessity... and truth."

"Precisely. My droids provide the necessary overwhelming force to deter aggression, while Commander Wolffe and Master Plo Koon provide the necessary communication to prevent it. A logical combination." He then addressed Orbreth directly. "And as Commander Wolffe points out, its aesthetic appearance as a Republic transport significantly reduces the probability of hostile engagement. The Mythosaur decal may raise questions…But its signatures as a Republic ship are its greatest asset."

Orbreth crossed his arms. "I’m flying, I don’t mind carrying passengers, but nobody flies my ship but me. So, I fly you in, you talk, and if they don't buy it, your droids blast their way in?"

"No," Wolffe interjected sharply, "if they don't buy it, we try to explain harder. The droids are a last resort, for our defense if things go south."

“Yeah, sure, but before we go taking my ship,I’d like to have a private chat myself with your Jedi friend here.” Orbreth sighed when he saw the expression on Wolffe’s face.

“Listen, I found a crashed republic transport with a force sensitive kid on it. I just…I don’t want him around any clones right now. We’re all smart. I don't think I have to go into details.” Orbreth explained, IG-113 understood instantly; and he could tell Wolffe and the others did too from how their gazes all softened.

“Right…We’ll stay out of the kid’s way, I know I know big shock that clones look the same.” Wolffe said, holding his hands up in a mock-surrender.

IG-113 tilted his head, tracking the conversation. "I leave the details to you to discuss. My Objective is the success of the mission, as peacefully as possible. I am responsible for the 22,494 lives onboard the Ruination, droid or organic. Given the choice, I would rather not waste the lives of any of my crew. Now, please excuse me. I must make preparations in the hangar bay.”

The MagnaGuard left in a hurry, his sole destination, So-B79’s location in Hangar Bay 3, this also fit with his desires as the Ruination’s repair droids frequented the hangars.

Though one thing did not rest right within IG-113’s core, the electrical demand operating all levels of the ship put on its meager remaining fuel cells. He couldn’t afford to cut power to the Hyperdrives or the Ruination’s main guns and shields in case they were discovered by Imperials or hostile Republic forces. But there had to be some way he could cut energy costs to preserve what was left for an emergency jump into hyperspace, or an engagement.

The best IG-113 could come up with was reassigning the Ruination’s organic crew to the upper decks to consolidate them, and turning off the life support and gravity to the lower levels of the ship. IG-113 pondered the idea of running on a skeleton crew, recharging stations for the B1s and other battle droids also put a substantial amount of strain on the ship’s power reserves…Perhaps that would stave off the inevitable, just a little longer. Just long enough to refuel.

IG-113 found himself nervously tapping his claws together as he navigated the Ruination’s bulkheads and corridors down to the hangar bay once more. The scorch marks and missing railings were a grim reminder of his duel with Master Tiin.
SO-B79 had memorized the sounds of both Grievous and the MagnaGuard’s footprints. He was acutely aware of IG-113’s presence before the High Commander was aware of his. “Sir! I have this report for you!” SO-B79 said after stepping outside the Hangar Bay’s doors. His logic processors told him that it had to be IG-113 and not one of the other MagnaGuards present; because IG-219 did not stray far from the bridge, and 165 and 404 were never apart from one another. Thus; the singular set of metallic footprints clinking against the floor could only belong to one droid onboard the ship.

“Acknowledged.” IG-113 turned at the hip to meet SO-B79’s gaze and took the datapad he offered between two clawed fingers. IG-113 knew that logically, rotating his head 180 degrees would have been the most energy efficient way to confront SO-B79; but this was not something organics did. Their spines were not designed for such efficiency, to even attempt so would result in either cervical decapitation, or severe -but survivable- neck injuries. He enjoyed making these small corrections to his behavior that made him feel more alive.

Insignificant rows of data bored IG-113 until he finally stumbled upon something of interest; a communication log between Jedi Master Luminara Unduli and the slain Jedi Council Member. This revelation of her location on Kashyyyk was followed by more pivotal information; Jedi Master Tiplar and her sister Tiplee had been on their way back to Coruscant before their clones turned on them. According to the audio logs, Tiplee and Saesee Tiin believed the clones’ betrayal to be a Separatist attack. With Master Tiin believing that the “dark presence” he sensed nearby -which IG-113 believed to be the Ruination- was responsible for the attacks.

IG-113 felt a giddiness deep within his circuits, as this datapad was proof that two surviving Jedi masters were hiding on one of Jakku’s moons. The system wasn’t terribly far; he was sure it would be a slight detour that Wolffe and the rest of the clones would be willing to make to rescue the two Jedi.

As Master Tiin’s death had only been a few days ago, it was highly probable that the twin sisters were still on Jakku’s moon awaiting his return. IG-113 decided to play the audio logs, instead of merely reading the transcript. There was something about hearing voices that made things more real and less sterile, lifeless.

"...it was just so fast, Master Saesee. One moment, Commander Doom was taking point, securing the perimeter, the next... blaster fire erupted from everywhere. We didn’t know where to run.."

“I experienced the same thing onboard my star destroyer. It took everything I had to fight through them and get to my ship. There was a great darkness, a shroud of some unseen force I sensed in my men, like a nightmare.”

“...."They didn't even hesitate. No challenge, no warning. Just... target acquisition. It was like watching droids, but these were our clones. What kind of darkness could have stolen them from us?”

"It has to be a Separatist plot. A deep-cover agent who flipped them all at once? It's the only explanation. They would never—"

"Perhaps a mass force mind trick? But with Dooku dead who could have been powerful enough to pull this off?”

“....I wish we had time to meditate on this, Master Saesee, what of the dark presence you mentioned?”

“I will investigate, perhaps I could uncover some answers to report to the rest of the council. Stay put. Conserve your fuel, I will send for you both when I have the means. It was… an impression. A crushing weight, a flag ship, I think. Enormous, powerful..If this is the final Separatist counter-offensive….I fear it is succeeding."

“What do we do? Coruscant is silent. The Council… we can't get through.”

“Have faith in the force and stay calm, it’s possible the Separatists are jamming communication lines as part of their attack. I will investigate the flag ship, may the force be with you both.”

The audio recording ended there. IG-113 replayed it two more times before handing the datapad back to SO-B79. “I understand everything. Are all of the repair droids in Hangar Bay 3 preoccupied? I require assistance.”

SO-B79 held the datapad under his arm. “Nothing they’re doing is that important I guess, why? What do you need Sir?”

Now was IG-113’s chance, “I require security vulnerabilities in my systems removed. I uninstalled the remote shutdown protocol, but the physical chip itself must be removed to completely prevent remote deactivation. I require the removal of my restraining bolts as well. Their presence is limiting my abilities to process information in a timely manner.”

“Roger Roger,” SO-B79 went back in Hangar Bay 3, “Hey! SD-4 and ZE9-E7! I have a job for you two!”

“What do you need, Boss?” ZE9-E7 shouted back, holding his hands up to his face to try and amplify his voice over the usual rumbles of the cargo, Hyena droids, and ships stored in the Hanger Bay.
“IG-113 has some hardware insecurities he needs removed! With the General holed up in medbay if anyone tries to exploit him we’re in deep trouble.” SO-B79 explained.

To IG-113, everything was going perfectly. He clasped his hands behind his back and silently, almost…expectantly followed the droids to one of the nearby workstations.

SD-4 rubbed at one of his antennas, “What are we taking out?”

“All his restraining bolts and the whole remote deactivation kit.” SO-B79 replied, ZE9-E7 let out a whistle.

“That’s some serious modifications ... .Do we have approval for this?”

SO-B79 slapped the back of ZE9-E7’s head . Then scolded him “You idiot! Grievous is incapacitated, that means IG-113 is the commanding officer of the Ruination. He is the approval!”

“Roger Roger,” ZE9-E7 said, the expression was echoed by SD-4 who replied in kind. IG-113 was slightly amused by the positive feedback loop of all three droids repeating the phase to each other.
“Ahem.” IG-113 faked a cough and tapped his foot on the ground.

“Oh, right.” SD-4 ran and flipped the switch turning on the workbench, “Uhh Sir there’s one thing about this. We can’t operate when you’re functional, we're going to need you to umm…shut down for this.Otherwise you’re probably going to short circuit.” SD-4 patted the workbench like it was a comfortable bed. “Nightie night!”

IG-113 hadn’t thought about this part. He’d hope that the remote deactivation hardware wasn’t embedded so deeply into his body. IG-113 put a hand on his chest and looked down at himself. He wondered if he would even dream in this state; or if a full shutdown was comparable to death, and resurrection for him. Fear, that was the word for what he felt. What if he short circuited anyway? What if something happened or the droids accidentally dropped solder somewhere it wasn’t supposed to be and completely fried his internals?

Analyzing…Risk Assessment

Status:

Critical.

None of his fears mattered; the risks presented if he kept himself vulnerable to remote deactivation far exceeded the risks of the operation. After all; his personality cores and memory banks could always be removed and transferred to another IG-100 unti. He had instructed 404 and 165 to retrieve spare parts on their mission to sell off the Kyber crystals for much needed liquid capital.

“Acknowledged. Good night SD-4.” IG-113 laid down on the workbench. His legs dangled off below the knees, the metal, yellow workbench was clearly designed for B1 and B2 units; Not MagnaGuards or other larger droids. IG-113 initiated his own shutdown and everything went black.

When IG-113 awoke, he was completely immobilized. Error messages only he could see flashing before his photoreceptors. His systems were scanning for the missing deactivation chip, and every time the scan completed it asked him if he wanted to reboot and try again. IG-113 selected no several times to no avail, and when he selected yes the entire process repeated. Slowly; agonizingly slowly.

>>>Error Critical System Failure

>>> Reboot?

>>> Error Critical System Failure

>>>Error Critical System Failure

>>> Reboot?

>>> Error Critical System Failure

>>>Error Critical System Failure

>>> Reboot?

>>> Error Critical System Failure

>>>Error Critical System Failure

>>> Reboot?

>>> Error Critical System Failure

He had to stop and think, with the software for the remote deactivation hardware already uninstalled, what could his body be trying to reference that it wasn’t finding? Why was he trapped in this loop?
Ah, that was it. IG-113 rerouted power from his core; even though the software had already been uninstalled; he still had that now-missing circuit in his power banks. IG-113 rerouted himself around the break; it was nothing he couldn’t fix. Especially now that his restraining bolts were gone.

>>>Reboot?

IG-113 selected yes one final time, and was rewarded for patience, he had regained full control of his body. “Finally.” IG-113 said sitting up, one hand on his chest again.

“Jeez, were you trapped in a system diagnostic or something?” SO-B79 asked, somehow sounding uncomfortable despite the limitations of his voicebox.

“It was…Something like that.” IG-113 replied, he got up from the workbench with a mechanical groan from his stiff joints, the grease keeping him well-oiled and mobile must have cooled to a near-solid state due to him being completely turned off. No matter, everything would warm back up as it was supposed to in no time at all.

IG-113 took out his holoprojector, he hailed Wolffe with it and counted the milliseconds before the clone trooper picked up. “Wolffe, where is your current location?”

The Clone Commander had his helmet on, a republic issue firearm across his lap. “Approaching Hyperspace, why?”

IG-113 walked back to the Bridge as he spoke with the clone. A few of the other battle droids, at least the smarter ones moving out of his way. “Would you be so kind as to make a detour to the Jakku system? We managed to decrypt a transmission between Master Tiin and two other Jedi Masters, he instructed them to stay hidden behind one of Jakku’s moons. It would be most beneficial to everyone involved if you could retrieve Master Tiplar and Master Tiplee.”
Even though Wolffe’s face was covered by his helmet, IG-113 could sense the regret and surprise in his body language and tone.“The twins are alive? No…No that’s ..that’s no problem, I’ll tell Orbreth, though I think you’ll have to pay him extra for this.”

“Acknowledged. I will adjust his payment fees accordingly.” IG-113 said, internally he felt bad for Wolffe putting him in this position,, but there was no way that he would be able to send anyone to talk to the missing Jedi. It was highly likely that the two of them would shoot first, and ask questions never. However, if they saw a Republic Gunship with friendly troops onboard, or heard Plo Koon himself explain the situation….

“Got it, Wolffe over and out.” Wolffe said before ending the transmission. Blissfully, or perhaps unfortunately unaware of IG-113’s near-death experience.

Chapter Text

The Ruination was not dead yet, but she wasn’t well either. Her organic crew had been reassigned to the upper decks. The gravity generators and life support systems had been turned off on the lower decks to conserve power. Which made them death traps, should any organics dare open the bulkheads separating them from a comfortable, habitable environment and the sheer indifference of space.

Then there was the fact that beyond those bulkheads, IG-113 knew that thousands of battle droids slept. Their dreamless nights a necessary sacrifice for the greater good.

Purgatory was a good way to describe the state the ship was in, caught between life and death, much like Grievous himself. All the while, scouting droids hurriedly along in nearby star systems looking for a suitable gas giant to build a refueling station. This would take time of course, perhaps a year, but without any more hyperspace jumps and if he kept the fuel usage to a minimum…It was possible to sustain the Ruination and resume business as usual until they were more self-sufficient.

He was still waiting on news from IG-404 and IG-165, and Orbreth had already left with the clones and their droid escorts. He’d ordered the Separatist ships he’d been able to contact to join him in the Unknown Regions, and IG-113 had spent what credits the Ruination had left on supplies for her organic crew members. Since, unlike the droids, their needs couldn’t be ignored. He could put off repairs on a B1 or B2 unit, he could order them to go into sleep mode to conserve power, if he tried that with a Niemoidian, Skakoan, Geonosian, Human, Muun, Quarren, Kaleesh, Twi’lek, or Zygerrian they would die.

IG-113 wanted to scream, he wanted to feel that guttural tearing at his non-existent vocal cords until there was no air left in his body to sustain his fury. He wanted to maim, to rend flesh and tear. He was not IG-219; he did not enjoy the logistical nightmare he’d been thrust into, yet most of all, IG-113 wanted someone to hold him, to tell him everything would be alright. He was desperate for that connection, the embrace of another, and reassurance he was doing the right thing.

But he had no one to fill that void.

Ideally, his nascent fleet would be able to regroup in the unknown regions and wait out the storm. IG-113 knew that logically there weren’t going to be many independent refueling stations in this sector of the galaxy, even a small one was set to be a major source of income for his fledgling alliance. Especially as more and more people fled the Empire. Then, with that problem solved, he could focus on the main objective: securing General Grievous' offspring.

High Commander…did they let me take up the crown out of respect? Or because no one else wanted that responsibility? IG-113 thought to himself.

A chime cut through the quiet hum of the command bridge. “High Commander, IG-165 is requesting we open communications. Should I allow him through our encryption?” IG-219 asked without looking up from his station.
“Yes, I wish to hear what he has to say,” IG-113 replied.

"High Commander," IG-165's voice, though synthesized, held a rare note of almost…satisfaction. "Report: Objective complete. Kyber crystals were successfully liquidated on the black market at Nar Shaddaa as per your instructions. Funds have already been transferred to encrypted Separatist accounts and used for fuel acquisition."

IG-113's internal processors whirred, analyzing the data packet that accompanied the transmission. Credits. A substantial amount. Less than he would have made selling each lightsaber individually, but it was enough. Enough to fund the Ruination's current operations for months. Though IG-113 decided that he was still going to keep the ship in low power mode for the foreseeable future. As he had no way of knowing when the next influx of credits would arrive. He cross-referenced the market data. Indeed, the rates were excellent. 165 and 404 had navigated the Smuggler's Moon with surprising efficiency.

A flicker, almost imperceptible, passed through IG-113's circuits. One less variable to immediately calculate. One less critical dependency hanging over his head. One less disaster waiting to happen. One less threat lurking in the dark.

"Acknowledged, IG-165," IG-113 replied, "Excellent work. Return to the Ruination at once, maintain communication silence until further orders. I will review the full transaction logs."

"Understood, High Commander," 165 confirmed, and the connection terminated.

The bridge fell silent again. IG-113's optical sensors returned to the star chart, but for a moment, the intricate lines of hyperspace routes and stellar anomalies seemed less oppressive. The void within him didn't vanish, not entirely. But a sliver of it, just a fraction, had been momentarily filled. He was doing something right. He was making progress. In the vast, uncaring universe, that had to mean something.

The crown was heavy, yes. But for now, it felt a little less like a burden and a little more like a tool, like the lightsaber at his belt. And tools, IG-113 knew, were meant to be used.”IG-219 I have orders for you.”

“What is it High Commander?” IG-219 started to say, “If the rotation of the ship’s atmosphere is insufficient for the needs of the meatbags’ respiratory systems, I can shut down Hangar Bay 1, From my calculations, two functional hangar bays are sufficient for our current uses.”
A robotic chuckle escaped from IG-113, IG-219’s usual demeanor softened the emotional turmoil IG-113 felt at what he was going to ask him to do. “There is no need for that, I want you to lead a squadron to Kashkyyk and recover Jedi Master Luminara Unduli.”

IG-219 stopped typing mid-sentence, his metallic fingers hovering over a holographic keyboard. “Would it not make more sense if you led the squadron? My place is at the bridge handling the Ruination’s logistics and communication.”

There it was, the million credit question. “I cannot afford to risk my own life at the hands of the Wookies, and IG-165 and IG-404 are still en route from Nar Shaddaa; they would not make it to Kashyyyk within our limited time frame.I can handle the logistics of the ship while you secure the Jedi. I can supply a lightsaber and a copy of my combat protocols if you would find it beneficial.”

IG-219 resumed typing away at his station. IG-113 noticed that he was writing some automatic scripts and code to carry out basic logistics while he was gone. “Acknowledged. How shall I approach Master Unduli?”

IG-113 replied, reading over IG-219’s shoulder at the code he was writing for the ship’s logistical departments. It was rusty, but over the course of a few days would at least get the job done. Even still, IG-113 decided that he would supervise logistics closely until IG-219 returned instead of letting the code run on its own. “With caution, you have my permission to incapacitate her if necessary.”

“It will be done sir.” IG-219 promised.

IG-113 thought of the battle droids sleeping in the Ruination’s cargo holds. Some of which were about to get an unpleasant awakening. “I require some time to provide the necessary equipment and wake a squadron of B1, B2, and droidekas. Stay at your post until my command.”

Now all that was left was to fess up to his Master…. IG-113 knew it was best if General Grievous heard it from him, and possibly took out his anger on him as well. Instead of IG-165, IG-219, or IG-404, who, to the best of their knowledge, had been following General Grievous’ orders.

IG-113 was surprised at the…reluctance his body gave him, he knew that he needed to hurry to the medical bay to tell Grievous what he’d done. But part of him almost…refused to, though he couldn’t tell why. Still, IG-113 forced himself through his fear; stalling benefited no one. If anything, he ran the risk of missing his chance to inform Grievous of the change.

The General raised one clawed hand upward toward the incandescent light overhead. He could -just- block it out if he held his hand at the right angle.

A4-D made no effort to hide the frustration in his voice, “Master, are you listening to us? We’ve explained the circumstances to you seven times, you need to make a decision!”

Grievous rolled his eyes, he rested his arm across his chest. “What decision is there to make A4-D? You’ve made it painfully clear that this ship is low on fuel, low on Bacta, and running out of antibiotics, the way I see it you’re asking me if I want to confront my own impending death head on, or perish like a coward in a medically i-” Grievous stopped when the Medical Bay doors opened.

He was not expecting IG-113 to arrive.

IG-113 strolled along, his hands neatly clasped behind his back. “Forgive me Master, but I seem to have arrived at the right time.”

“Right time for what exactly?” Grievous inquired, while he was not force sensitive, there was something about IG-113s’ demeanor that told Grievous he was not going to like what he was about to hear.

IG-113 shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, a gesture that to Grievous felt too alive. Too real for a droid to imitate. “I ordered IG-165 and IG-404 to return to Vassek 3 and retrieve the Kyber Crystals that were left behind when you abandoned the fortress. I ordered them to sell the crystals on Nar Shadda, offloading that many prominent Jedi lightsabers at once would have alerted Imperial authorities. Selling the crystals in bulk together was the safest way to quickly secure the funds to refuel the Ruination.”

Betrayal, that was all Grievous felt, he’d stopped paying attention after hearing IG-113 say he ordered the others to do anything. This was not IG-113’s place, he was never supposed to be giving orders; that was a role Grievous had exclusively reserved for himself. Still, he couldn’t help but tune back in after hearing IG-113 bring up the Kyber Crystals, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Grievous immediately tried to lunge for IG-113, but in his weakened state, all he could manage was a swipe at him that seemed to bounce off of him.“You worthless heap of scrap! How dare you touch them! How dare you decide what to do with MY lightsabers!”

IG-113 didn’t move back, if anything, he took a step closer to Grievous’ bedside.“You were the one who abandoned them a year ago Master. All I did was secure unused assets to ensure your continued survival, and I did it all myself. IG-165 and IG-404 thought they were following your orders.” IG-113 forgave him. He'd already forgiven Grievous for lashing out at him. For IG-113 recognized Grievous for what he was; a wounded beast backed into a corner. His master had spent the last week drifting in and out of consciousness. He was not aware of all the sacrifices IG-113 had made. Of all the sleepless nights spent calculating how to maximize the efficiency of the Ruination's lingering medical supplies. He was not aware of all the hours IG-113 had spent in the Med bay praying to whatever deity was listening to spare Grievous' life.

In short, he was not aware of the love IG-113 already felt toward him; an affection IG-113 hoped would be reciprocated once he had fulfilled his master's wishes and reunited Grievous with his surviving children.

“Why did they think that IG-113?” Grievous asked, the monitors he was attached to beeping in alarm at his elevated blood pressure and cardiac activities.

“I told them so, Master.” The way that IG-113 said it, so matter-of-factly like he was simply discussing where to place a vase on a countertop. Grievous tried to get up again, this time A4-D and the two other medical droids present all grabbed onto him, pinning Grievous down.

Grievous strained against the droids, unaware that A4-D had already prepared a sedative, “You are not the captain of this ship 113! You do not give orders, I do! I don’t know if I should be impressed, or despise you IG-113. You’re not like those cowardly B1 units or any of the lesser droids. You have honor, in taking responsibility for your actions at least. Instead of cowering behind others.” He snarled the words before falling into another coughing fit. That was when A4-D administered the sedative, its effect wasn’t instant but Grievous was already feeling it before he realized what had happened.

That was when Grievous realized that things had changed more than he thought whilst he was trapped in his own nightmares. “I did what I had to do to secure the lives of the Ruination’s crew, and I am simply following the chain of command. It is traditional that whenever the captain of a vessel is incapacitated the second in command takes control of the ship. I’m just following orders, Master.”

Cunning, ambition, honor, while Grievous had designed and written the original programming for his MagnaGuards himself, he’d never expected any of them to act on it so sincerely, IG-113’s existence gave him an unusual mix of pride, and rage along with a third unexpected emotion.

Fear of the monster he’d created.

Chapter Text

Orbreth kicked a toy blaster out of the way. “And, no I’m not apologizing for the mess, I wasn’t expecting…guests on my ship.” He mumbled as he climbed into the cockpit. He turned the ship back on, and had to lean down to grab another toy, this time a model of a Mandalorian shock trooper, and tossed it over his shoulder. “Keep telling that kid to watch where he puts his crap…”

The clones were mindful of where they stepped, Comet actually picked up the toy blaster and the action figure. He held both in his hands gingerly, “How old are your kids?”

”Twelve and the youngling’s about seven. I wasn’t originally going to keep him, but there’s an Imperial Blockade around Dorin…I wasn’t getting him home.” Orbreth replied, with all the distractions removed from his immediate surroundings, the ship hummed to life. Outside, one of the B1 droids inhabiting the Hangar Bay gave him the thumbs up for lift off.

Comet sat down on the bench seats, which were still bolted down to the floor. Custom cabinet drawers had been built underneath them. Instead of the empty space for weapons and backpacks he was used to.
“Feeling sentimental?” Wolffe asked, noticing that Comet was still holding onto the kids’ toys. His brother faked a cough and put them on the bench next to him then rubbed the back of his neck.

“Sorry, just never thought I’d be back on a HAET-221…How did you get one anyway Mandalorian?”

”Scavenged the ship from Sullust about a year ago, It was supposed to be temporary, something to get me from point A to point B on jobs while I saved up for a decommissioned starship, Then I realized how useful flying around in a Republic ship is….Never got around to making an offer on that S-160.” Orbreth decided that after this job he would ask Balada the Hutt if she was still looking for a buyer for her S-160, there was nothing wrong with the ship; no major hull damage nor any electrical issues. She had simply upgraded to a S-161-XL and no longer wanted her old ship. But, realizing it’s condition, she decided to sell it rather than scrap the vessel. As was the fickle nature of a Hutt.

“So…What did you do that made installing a Hyperdrive on one of these worth it?” Sinker asked.

“If you must know, I made my credits recovering Separatist droids you and your brothers took to the chop shop. Easy money to keep food in the bellies of Clan Forn’s young. Supplies aren’t cheap on Concordia.” Orbreth flew the HAET-221 out of the hangar. Behind him, two additional Separatist Transports carrying battle droids –and the Hynea droids- followed.

“The Republic had programs available for civilians to request food aid, we have the Agricultural corps for a reason.” Sinker said watching all the Separatist droids following them – the sight of the transports gave him a chill down his spine until he reminded himself that, this time they were on his side.

Wolffe’s head shot up, he wanted to say something, to scream at this Trandoshan and tell him what a fool he was for working with the Separatist fleet making their jobs easier; whilst the work he and his brothers had paid for with their blood sweat and tears was undone with every transaction. However, he stopped himself. Instead recalling how…different things were now. It had only been ten days since everything fell apart. Each one feeling like a decade itself.

Orbreth let out a snort and shook his head no, “Right, Republic aid on a planet controlled by Deathwatch. How could I have forgotten?”

“I mean…when you say it like that..” Sinker mumbled, Wolffe wasn’t even sure if Orbreth heard his response. All of the clones wore their helmets, something Wolffe was glad for as it concealed their expressions.

Orbreth started plotting the jump to Cato Neimodia. His attention was fully on the monitors before him, a single miscalculation at this stage could send them all into a star’s core. But; he couldn’t afford to use the standard Hyperlanes and appear in front of an Imperial ship either. “Besides, does it really matter now? Blood or oil, everything bleeds in the end. Doesn’t matter which uniform they’re wearing after a point. We’re all here now.”

Comet decided to speak up, “IG-113, the rest of the droids on the Ruination, they’re different, they're not like the others.”

“Are you sure about that trooper? Maybe they’re the same as every other droid you’ve destroyed, only this time you bothered to get to know their lot first before blasting them. IG-113 has been paying me for months to bring his B1’s and Droidekas back home to Daddy."

“There was something off about him from the start…” Comet paused, “Shit, remember when we all got spaced and told Master Plo we were just clones?”

“I couldn’t forget even if I tried, I remember… He said we weren’t disposable, not to him.” Sinker replied, even Wolffe couldn’t help but think about the comparison between both commanding officers.
Wolffe’s holocommunicator dinged, he picked it up, recognizing the signature as IG-113’s.“Wolffe, where is your current location?”

Wolffe’s brow furrowed, unseen beneath his helmet. “Approaching Hyperspace, why?”

He could tell IG-113 was walking as they talked, though to where Wolffe did not know. “Would you be so kind as to make a detour to the Jakku system? We managed to decrypt a transmission between Master Tiin and two other Jedi Masters, he instructed them to stay hidden behind one of Jakku’s moons. It would be most beneficial to everyone involved if you could retrieve Master Tiplar and Master Tiplee.”

That was the last thing Wolffe was expecting to hear. If he was a droid, he was sure the news would have made him blue screen or malfunction. .“The twins are alive? No…No that’s ..that’s no problem, I’ll tell Orbreth, though I think you’ll have to pay him extra for this.”

“Acknowledged. I will adjust his payment fees accordingly.” What was that Wolffe could detect in IG-113’s voice, sympathy? Understanding? He recalled their earlier conversation about free will, about inhibitor chips and a droid’s programming. It was eerie how much IG-113 was starting to remind him of Master Plo the more he got to know him. Wolffe didn’t want to think about how he’d feel know if he’d actually shot IG-113 back when they first met.

“Got it, Wolffe over and out.” Wolffe ended the transmission before his thoughts had a chance to take him to another dark place.

Orbreth glanced back at the clones, “Honestly I’d do this for free, at this point I feel like charging for a rescue mission is dishonorable. Those people on the Remembrance aren’t in as much danger as two lone Jedi. Jakku he said? I’ll need some time to adjust the jump…”

Orbreth opened communications with the two shuttles following him, “Attention Separatist transports, continue onward to Cato Neimoidia. I’ve received orders from IG-113 to make a quick stop first. I’m transmitting the coordinates for the Hyperspace Jump now.” Orbreth said, it would take him some time to recalculate the computers to Jakku, but as long as everyone else was in position things should go as planned, “Make sure to stay out of sensor range of the Star Destroyer until I arrive. Do not engage.”

Chapter Text

Missar had his arms wrapped around himself. The air on the Ruination’s bridge was cold, unyielding. “You wanted to see me, Sir?”

IG-113 approached the young Kaleesh, unintentionally looming over him like a dark shadow. “Yes, with Master Plo’s incapacitation and the loss of your master, I feel your training may be lacking. In a post-Order 66 galaxy, this is an unacceptable outcome. I would like to offer you lightsaber training. Master Plo has recovered enough to fill the void.”

“I see, that’s…a kind offer of yours,” Missar replied. IG-113 closed the distance between them and lightly rested his hand on the Padawan’s shoulder. He hoped that the gesture would be taken as comforting.

“Part of the ship, part of the crew. You are one of the lives onboard I am responsible for. It is imperative that you can defend yourself properly. With the return of the Sith, the statistical probability of you encountering a hostile Force user has risen.” IG-113 held his hand out for Missar to take. There was some hesitation before Missar took the droid’s hand.

Missar followed IG-113 along, further from the bridge. Though they remained on the same level of the ship, as it was one of the only places currently safe for organics. “I need…I-I need to get stronger, but General Grievous only wanted to kill Jedi, why are you helping me?”

“Do you remember the Huk War?” IG-113 said flatly, whilst the war had been before his time, he’d become intimately familiar with the psychological scars and emotional damage it had left on Grievous.

“A little, I was a kid at the time,” Missar mumbled. He kicked at the floor, leaving a slight scuff mark.

“The Yam’rii started a war they could not win. When Grievous and the other Kaleesh warlords retaliated against their cruelty, the Yam’rii cried foul and implored the Jedi to help them. This changed the tide of the war and created a lost generation of Kaleesh children who either starved to death on world, died in Republic captivity, or were turned over to the Jedi for training.”

“Oh, right, that’s why you woke up the General,” Missar recalled his first meeting with Grievous.

“Correct, you are to be treated as Kaleesh first, one of the stolen generation, and Jedi second. Grievous will not hurt you.” IG-113 promised, he turned to his left down a corridor that led close to his and the other MagnaGuard’s quarters. Along with Grievous’ chambers, though IG-113 didn’t know when Grievous would return to them.

“But if he’s just looking for his kids, what about the other padawans and younglings he finds?” Missar’s question was natural, something to be expected of a curious boy.

IG-113 stopped, he turned to look down at Missar before continuing, “My master has no surviving wives, and even if he did, he lacks the means to beget more children. Given his adoption of Ronderu, it is likely that he intends to take these younglings in as his own to replace the children stolen from him. It is a bitter irony, Grievous the Jedi-Killer on the hunt for Jedi Padawans and Younglings to raise as his own. He may lay a similar claim on Jedi women to replace his wives, as their scarcity due to Order 66 makes them a rare trophy. Agreeing to the proposal would be most beneficial as they would be under my protection, and have access to the children to continue their teachings.”

“If you told me any of that a month ago, I would not believe you, then again, I don’t think I’d be talking with a MagnaGuard a month ago…Well not verbally,” Missar said, taking his lightsaber from his belt and looking it over, “No offense.”

IG-113 had heard that exact phrase often enough from Wolffe and the rest of the clones. “None taken.”

IG-113 opened the doors to the sparring chambers. He had his hands clasped firmly behind his back as he strolled to the middle of the room. Here, IG-113 activated non-lethal combat protocols, he made sure what was left of his programming was in sparring mode and not combat mode to avoid any undue risk to Missar’ safety.

“Do…I want to know why you’re standing there, Sir?”

“I am adjusting my combat parameters to ensure non-lethality.” IG-113 took his blue lightsaber from his belt and ignited the blade. He fell into the familiar makashi opening stance, “Please begin your assault.”

The young Kaleesh held his lightsaber in a low guard, then charged at him. From his unlikely Apprentice’s stance, IG-113 could tell he was most comfortable with form I, Shii-Cho. This was not bad, but it was not good because it meant Missar wasn’t comfortable enough with the advanced forms to have chosen a particular style yet. Or, that against an unknown opponent such as IG-113 he was sticking to the basics at first and intended on swapping to one of the other styles to try to catch IG-113 off guard or surprise him.

Given how many Jedi Knights IG-113 had fought who used Form VI, and his own lack of Force abilities, IG-113 suspected that Missar would attempt one of those moves on him if he was capable. He readied the repulsorlifts in his ankles just in case IG-113 felt himself being pushed or pulled.

He was almost disappointed when Missar didn’t attempt either of these moves. IG-113 had to remind himself that Missar was a Padawan, not a Master, not a Knight, a Padawan. That meant many of the more advanced moves he had fought against in live duels were simply not going to be things Missar was capable of.

Yet, the boy had potential, after the sixth or so parry, Missar’s eyes narrowed behind his mask, a facial expression IG-113 was most familiar with as he’d seen a similar glare in his Master’s eyes many times. Then Missar swapped styles, his strikes became more aggressive as he fell into a pattern IG-113 was all too familiar with.

Sparks flew whenever their blades connected, light scorch marks appeared on the training matts beneath them. Then, IG-113 saw what he was looking for. Missar was swinging up, at IG-113’s face and chest, and he wasn’t watching his legs anymore.

IG-113 tossed his lightsaber up in the air, he dropped down into a sweeping low kick to knock Missar off his feet. IG-113 was supporting himself entirely on his two hands as he kicked outward. Then he stood back up, caught his lightsaber, and pointed it at the boy’s chin. The non-lethal protocols kicked in, thus staying IG-113’s blade.

Missar’s chest was heaving, his own lightsaber on the floor a few inches from his grasp. He was lying on his back, eyes concentrating on the tip of IG-113’s lightsaber mere inches from his throat.

IG-113 deactivated his lightsaber. He clipped it to his belt and knelt, offering a hand to Missar to help him up. “You have done well. In future duels, be sure to stay aware of your footing and surroundings at all times to avoid creating such exploitable openings.”

Missar grabbed his lightsaber with his right hand, he took IG-113’s with his left, and let the MagnaGuard lift him back up to his feet. “Can we go again, Master?”

IG-113 returned to the center of the room. He once again took the Makashi opening stance and ignited his lightsaber. “Begin.”

His apprentice’s strikes started much more aggressively this time, but IG-113 did notice how Missar paid attention to where his feet were and how close he was standing to IG-113. The diversion of attention left a few openings, but IG-113 decided to react more slowly to them than he normally would against a Jedi. Of course, he would never admit this to Missar, but it brought him a sense of joy watching the boy adapt.

“Good! Good!” IG-113 praised the boy, “Mind your footing, excellent parry!” IG-113 took a few steps backwards, “There’s something I want to show you, please keep your distance.”

Missar nodded, staying still while waiting for IG-113’s demonstration.

The lightsaber IG-113 held in his hand started spinning like a fan blade, a move he knew was only possible because of the rotation his wrists allowed for. Such a move would not be possible for a Jedi under conventional means.

“ This is one of my Master’s signature moves, its main purpose is to intimidate opponents, but it serves a secondary use as well, any guesses as to what that might be?” IG-113 asked, and he stopped spinning the blade, returning to the Makashi opening stance.

“Stops blaster fire?” Missar guessed.

“Yes, if used correctly, it will also slice through debris an opponent may throw at you.” IG-113 motioned to Missar’s own lightsaber, “Levitate your lightsaber using the force, hold it in front of your hands, and will it to spin.”

Missar seemed hesitant at first, he let go of his lightsaber, and instead of falling to the floor it hovered in front of him, then started to spin almost of it’s own volition before stopping, flying back to Missar’s hand. Then the young Kaleesh copied IG-113’s stance, taking the Makashi opening form.

“How was that?” Missar inquired, he slipped back into a low guard with his lightsaber, the boy clearly hadn’t been taught any Makashi and was merely imitating what IG-113 did.

“Excellent form for your first attempt, however, the move is only effective in tight spaces where outmaneuvering it is nigh impossible. It can be easily avoided by coming in from above. There is a sustainable risk of injury or self-decapitation. If facing someone on the high ground, it would be most advisable to prepare for a block.” IG-113 turned off his lightsaber, “We will end our training session here for the day. I want you to practice the Makashi opening stance and your initial strikes, and be mindful of your head and your feet, or you’ll lose one.” IG-113 bowed before Missar, a move he’d been taught was a sign of respect.

Missar bowed back, “Yes, Master.”

Chapter Text

“Wake him up.” IG-113 ordered, he was fresh from his sparring match with Missar, and more important than that; the Ruination was completely refueled. Though IG-113 still planned on rationing out the fuel; as he had no feasible means left of securing enough funds to fill up the fuel tanks again. The little trip he’d sent IG-165 and IG-404 on had been a shot in the dark.

A4-D entered in a few commands on the console near Grievous’ Bacta Tank, “Yes High Commander.” The rest of the medical droids moved into position as well, making the necessary preparations to rouse Grievous from his slumber once more.

“I will be back later to speak with him,” With IG-219 on a mission to Kashyyyk, IG-113 was nervous about leaving the Bridge unsupervised for too long. Comet had recommended CT-1019 and Magnet to keep an eye on the B1 Droids running the Bridge…And the two had adapted quickly to the code IG-219 wrote before his departure.

No, no IG-113 needed to trust them; Master Plo’s clones had no reason to betray him, and beyond that; they’d given him that nickname “Iggy”. With all the help IG-113 had given Master Plo, the Wolfpack had to be loyal.

IG-113 clasped his hands behind his back, he left the Medical Bay and hummed to himself on his way back to the Bridge. “Anything to report?” IG-113 asked Magnet.

“Couple of the women are requesting blasters,” Magnet replied, his focus on the communications station.

“Curiosity, did they give a reason why?” IG-113 inquired, requests for weapons meant one of two things, they either felt unsafe, or intended for aggression. But if part of his crew intended to cause problems, then why submit a formal request for weaponry? Why not con one of the B1 Droids into retrieving blasters from an armory for them?

“The ladies don’t feel safe with the combined crew quarters, they miss having women only dorms. I don’t suppose we have any extra door locking mechanisms around either we could install on their rooms?” Magnet said, looking over his shoulder at IG-113.

IG-113 shook his head no, or rather attempted to, “I will issue approvals for personal protection weapons.” Perhaps their initial supply request had been a test to see how far IG-113 was willing to go for their safety; weapons for self defense seemed a reasonable enough request given the earlier one for contraceptives.

Magnet let out a whistle,“Just like that huh?”

IG-113 debated the risks and benefits of turning life support and gravity back on one of the lower floors so he could give the Ruination’s female crew their own quarters again. He ultimately decided that the increase in fuel consumption; even if he followed IG-219’s idea of shutting down Hangar Bay 1- posed too much of a risk to the ship’s longevity. It would have to wait until they solved the fuel issue. “It is obvious that they fear sexual violence, I wish for members of my crew to feel safe onboard the ship. I believe granting their request could possibly improve morale as well.I acknowledge that arming part of the crew raises the risk of a mutiny, but given that they lost access to their original accommodations due to my orders to conserve fuel this is a risk I am willing to take. ”

IG-113 was mulling over a few other ideas; he could always power on some of the B2 or Droidekas in storage and assign them to the crew’s quarters to monitor the situation. Though he was leaning more toward the B2’s for their advanced combat training over the B1 droids, they still had the ability to talk and at least try to joke with the crew; unlike the Droidekas who lacked vocal synthesizers.

The increase to the Ruination’s fuel consumption would be minuscule in comparison to restoring life support to one of the lower flowers, but the presence of droids within organic spaces might hurt morale…

“Let them know that the blasters will be leased temporarily and once our fuel shortage is solved, the blasters will be returned to the armory. Ask them if they would like increased security in the crew quarters as well.” IG-113 ordered, feeling quite satisfied with himself.

“Yes Sir.”

“Is there anything else that needs my attention?”

“No Sir, wait we’ve received a transmission from the Medical Bay, Grievous is awake and they’re awaiting your return Sir.” Magnet said, relaying the message to IG-113.

“Tell them I’m coming,” IG-113 debated on adding a ‘please’ to that. But ultimately decided not to. He had authority to maintain, and that kind of language toward a clone, or anyone really, that he wasn’t particularly close to could jeopardize that.

Still, IG-113 was nervously scratching at the paint on his hands again as he made his return to the Medical Bay. Once there, he marched up to General Grievous' bedside, silently waiting for the weakened general to realize he was there.

Master Plo Koon was also awake, though the Jedi said nothing to IG-113, instead giving him a nod of acknowledgement.. He’d recovered enough that he was no longer confined to the Bacta tanks -unlike Grievous- but with the extent of his burns and other injuries would not be leaving the Medical Bay anytime soon.

The Jedi master had a book in hand, and a pain pump easily within reach if he needed it. As most of the Kel Dor’s body was still covered in burns and tender new flesh.

“You have nerve showing your face again,” Grievous coughed into his hand, “What do you want IG-113?”

IG-113 took a knee, he took the lightsaber General Grievous had given him from his belt and held it out, well within reach of Grievous. His hand was open, palm facing up with just enough of a curl in his fingers to stop the lightsaber from rolling away.“ The Ruination has been completely refueled. Given current fuel consumption rates we have a year’s worth of fuel left. Enough to tide us over until a refueling station can be constructed if a suitable gas giant is found within 723 hours. I did what I had to do in order to keep this ship running and keep you alive. If my actions were truly so reprehensible, I won’t fight back. I will accept any judgement you deem fitting master.”

He felt Grievous snatch the lightsaber from his hand, it did not hurt; as IG-113 did not have pain receptors installed on his body. The sound of the lightsaber igniting sent a feeling of unease across his circuits. IG-113 braced himself for a blow that never came.

Of course, as the MagnaGuard’s creator, Grievous knew where to strike to fully “kill” one of his creations. He knew that a MagnaGuard could continue to function without its head or limbs. Even damage to the chest had to be in specific spots to prove fatal.

Grievous shakenly held the lightsaber in his claws, its blue blade pointed at one such weak spot close enough that the metal on IG-113’s chest plate was starting to glow red hot. Yet, instead of committing instead of stabbing through, Grievous’ eyes softened.

He turned the lightsaber off and let it fall from his claws where it landed on the floor and rolled away only to be retrieved by one of the less-important Medical Droids. One simple thought etched itself in Grievous’ mind, one phrase.

“What-If.”

What if he was unable to recover any of his children? What if they’d all perished under the harsh realities of life in the Republic? What if IG-113 was all he had left of his legacy? He had a sharpness, a wit to him that the other battle droids under Grievous’ command lacked. IG-113 wasn’t cowardly, he was honorable. He held onto the traditions Grievous had taught him. He took responsibility for his actions, and those of his crew. He was an aspiring young Kaleesh warlord in all ways but one.

“Apology accepted IG-113, now get out of my sight!” Grievous hissed, he waved the Medical Droid off when it offered him back the lightsaber, “Return that to IG-113.”

The droid offered it to IG-113 “Yes, General.”

He took his lightsaber back, and trembled as he stood up. IG-113 had things on his mind he wanted to speak out loud. However at that moment IG-113 decided it would be best if he kept all of his thoughts to himself. He could always confide in Comet later, the clone had a…knack, a comforting presence for IG-113.. He left the Medical Bay without another word while A4-D and the others prepared to submerge him again in the Bacta tank.

One thought did bring IG-113 an odd sense of accomplishment; he knew that Plo Koon had witnessed Grievous’ decision to spare him. The idea that a Jedi Master had seen proof that Grievous himself wasn’t an irredeemable monster gave IG-113 a sense of accomplishment.

Chapter Text

Plo Koon shifted his weight, he still hadn’t adapted to the loss of his leg yet, and entering in coordinates on the Ruination’s navigation computer was ... .difficult to say the least on crutches. Ct-1019 held onto Plo Koon’s right arm to help steady him. “By fate, there’s a chance your actions saved the lives of at least one of your children, Grievous.”

This was the first time the Separatist General had left the Medical Bay since his arrival from Utapau. Even now, he was swaying on his feet and holding on to railings and consoles on the bridge. “How would that be?”

Plo Koon continued his work at the navigation computer. Magnet and CT-1019 exchanging nervous glances with each other.“The other masters and I on the Jedi Council decided that Ahch-To’s isolated location and secrecy made it a perfect location to teach younglings. If my memory serves, a young Kaleesh girl was among the Younglings sent to Ahch-To for training. I've been meditating on it and I believe she may still be there.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” Grievous coughed, he used a B1 droid to hold himself up, the small battledroid’s body physically shaking under the strain Grievous’ weight put on its joints.

“We weren’t conscious at the same time, and with her age there was a chance she’d been selected as a Padawan and was no longer on world. After meditating on the girl I’m certain she’s safe.” Plo Koon explained, this had to be the will of the Force. For IG-113 to choose the Unknown Regions out of every part of the Galaxy to hide in, to choose a location already so close to the Jedi Sanctuary…

“Where is Ahch-To?” Grievous demanded.

“Here in the Unknown Regions, not exactly somewhere the Republic would have to fear Separatist Invasion...There I’ve used the Ruination’s computer to calculate the Hyperspace jump, you could transfer these coordinates to one of the ships in the hangar, or make the jump with the Ruination herself…Though might I suggest against that? ” Plo Koon stepped back from the navigation computer, letting the B1 droid who had been manning the station take his position back.

Grievous shook his head no. “Baa! Making the jump would use too much fuel, we’ll have to send another ship…IG-165, take a squadron with you and search Ahch-To for my daughter.”

“Yes, General.” IG-165 replied without hesitation. The MagnaGuard left the bridge, pausing only once to look at IG-113. Who could only offer a small wave to acknowledge his little brother.

Grievous’ breathing was labored, he wobbled over to the captain’s chair and collapsed onto it. He kicked at the metal floor beneath him making the chair spin around so he could face Plo Koon and two of the clone troopers; Magnet and CT-1019. “How long is this….How long will it take?” He wheezed before falling into another coughing fit.

“You have enough time to rest in a Bacta Tank, I doubt IG-165 and his droids will be able to find anyone quickly, the Masters supervising those younglings’ training must have sensed the fall of the order. They’ll be hiding on Ahch-To, though they might not be too far from the old Jedi Temple…” Plo Koon’s fingers tapped against part of his crutches.

IG-113 , ever the observant, listened to the entire scene from his station at the logistics console. With their recent standoff; he wasn’t sure how Grievous would take it if he approached or attempted to talk with the General. A quiet coexistence was the best he could ask for at the moment. He searched his memory banks for any key terms Grievous might have said, perhaps he’d mentioned the birth order of his children in a past conversation whilst ranting about what the Jedi had stolen from him. Or, if he’d said a child’s name in passing on what would have been their birthday.

With Grievous becoming the Separatist’s general ten years ago, and Plo Koon stating that this girl was at the cusp of Padawan age. This missing daughter had to be one of Grievous’ youngest children. IG-113 knew that Grievous’ lastborn had been a son named after his father, so it obviously wasn’t him. Which made IG-113 think about the next three youngest; one of the girls would have been fourteen by now, too old to still be a Jedi youngling in training. The other yet another boy.

Which…left Aisha Jai Sheelal as the only possible child of Grievous’ young enough to be on Ahch-To. IG-113 paused his work, his photoreceptors dimmed. His memory banks had decided to fixate on Grievous’ youngest child, the infant Qymaen. The baby’s death was the only one IG-113 felt he could confirm. With all of Grievous’ wives falling to illness, war, or starvation there was no possible way that an infant could survive on its own. IG-113 doubted that Qymaen would have lasted long enough without his mother to even be discovered by the Jedi even if he was force sensitive.

He continued to listen to Grievous’ and Plo Koon’s conversation, noting how much concern the Kel Dor had for the Kaleesh Cyborg’s wellbeing. If all Jedi were like Master Plo…then maybe Grievous would still be on his homeworld raising his children with his wives. Instead of existing in a state of consistent purgatory and misery practically dancing with death.

IG-113 said nothing as he overheard Master Plo finally convince Grievous to return to the Medical Bay. The dice was cast, the orders sent. There was nothing more to be done; the only thing they could do was wait for IG-165’s return from Ahch-To.

Once Master Plo, Grievous, and the clones all left IG-113 decided to man communications, at least until Magnet returned. The screen flashed, the signal identification matching IG-219’s holoprojector.

IG-113 accepted the call. The constant sound of blaster fire in the background and seeing IG-219 spinning his electro staff around to deflect gave IG-113 a horrible feeling. “IG-219, what is your report?”

“Jedi Master Luminara Unduli has been successfully recovered from Kashyyyk. She was…convinced by the holo recordings of the Meatbag Jedi Plo Koon explaining the situation.We have been met with heavy Imperial Resistance..” IG-219’s image flickered, IG-113 watched him rotate his body around 180 degrees at the hip, grab a clone trooper by the throat, twist and throw it out of view.

“Do you require evac?” IG-113 visibly recoiled at the brutal killing of the clone.

IG-219 retrieved the dead clone’s DC-15A blaster rifle and started firing one handed.“Negative. I am requesting permission to wipe my memory banks and self-destruct to prevent capture. I wiped the memories of the battle droids under my command before we landed to prevent any intelligence compromises. Their capture is insignificant. I am the only security vulnerability. With this channel open I can transfer data to preserve…myself until reconstruction. ”

“...Are you sure you do not require Evac?” IG-113 repeated, hoping that he’d misheard IG-219’s request.

“Negative. I require authorization for self destruction.” IG-219 stated again, “Hurry with your decision High Commander, my position is being overrun. I greatly advise against my body falling into enemy hands.”

“Permission Granted.” IG-113’s hands slipped from the console, he fell to his knees after uttering the command. This was his fault, this was all his fault, he was the one that ordered IG-219 to Kashyyyk.

“Acknowledged, Commencing data transfer ... .Self destruct protocol initiated, bypassing countdown timer for maximum Meatbag casualties…” IG-219 turned again, this time to look directly at IG-113’s holo image.

“Good night IG-100-Serial-113.” There was a flash of light, and then nothing. The line with IG-219 was gone.

IG-113 punched the durasteel floor beneath him as hard as he could. The blow left a sizable mark on the floor. He felt a hand on his back and nearly turned around swinging, stopping only when he recognized Magnet standing there.

“Your comfort is…acknowledged. My apologies for unwarranted hostility.” IG-113 mumbled.

“You’re alright Sir, you just made one of the hardest decisions any of us could.” Magnet sat down on the floor next to him.

Magnet took his helmet off, he placed it in his lap. “So what next, Sir?”

“We tell Master Plo to expect Master Unduli’s arrival.” IG-113 stayed where he was on the floor, did they even have enough spare parts to completely rebuild a MagnaGuard? Would he have to send IG-404 back to Vassek 3 for supplies? Would IG-219 even be IG-219 anymore after being rebuilt? Reconstruction did not guarantee continuity. Memory could be copied, but identity—conscious experience—was not a file that could be easily transferred.

How many times could he repair something until it was no longer original? How many times could a droid's memory be copied until they lost their soul?

Chapter Text

When Lor received a notification on his holoprojector from the Jedi, he answered it. As any good soldier would. “This is General Kenobi, Grievous is dead. I repeat, Grievous is dead. This-“

Crack.

Lor’s fist clenched around his holoprojector, metal shards sunk deep into his gauntlet. His hand was still shaking, a crimson ichor slowly dripping from the remains of the broken communicator down to the floor of his ship’s command bridge.

There were no cheers, no applause, no festivities. All the clones onboard stood in shock.

Drip, drip, drip. The puddle grew.

Suddenly, Lor took off his mask, and he screamed.

A piercing, echoing roar full of unspoken words, of a decade’s worth of secrets and suffering.

Circuit Breaker flinched, hands clamped over his ears. He'd never heard anything like it.
Big Shot recoiled, ducking behind his station—not from fear, but from the force of that grief given voice.

Their Jedi kept screaming, until he wasn’t. Until he had nothing left in him to express his pain with. Then Lor finally let the shattered remains of his holoprojector fall to the floor. “He was already injured! This wasn’t…This isn’t the Jedi way, this was murder!” Lor’s voice was hoarse, the last few words ending in a whimper.

Commander Scorn was the first to approach Lor, “Would you like us to chart a course for Utapau, Sir? We could…retrieve your father’s remains.”

“I need time, I don’t-I don’t now if I can handle seeing him like that.” Lor mumbled, he had his shoulders slouched, his head down. Blood was still dripping from his wounded hand, fractured pieces of metal deep enough into his skin that they would need to be removed with surgical tweezers.

Commander Scorn reached for Lor’s hand, he wrapped it in some gauze taken from his belt. “You won’t have to, Sir. We can get him in a coffin for you. Maybe….stop by Kalee on the way back to Coruscant? Take a tiny little detour?” Commander Scorn held his thumb and index finger a hair’s width apart.

The gesture earned him a low, rumbling laugh from Lor. Though there was no humor in it. “Hell of a detour Commander.” Still, Lor did not protest against the Commander’s suggestion. Nor did he when Commander Scorn rested his chin on top of the Jedi’s head and rocked back and forth.

Lor was not the tallest of his species, at 5’5 he was on the shorter side for a male; malnutrition in early childhood had stunted his growth. Physically, as an adult this made him much weaker than his clones.

But it was not physical strength that they respected most.

It was equality, and right now they were watching someone who treated them all like they were on the same level as other Jedi grieve.

Lor let go, he took in a shuddering breath, adrenaline coursing through his veins making him tremble like he was out on Hoth without a coat. He took his mask off setting it to the side on one of the terminals. Lor put his arms around Commander Scorn’s shoulders, his fingers digging in to the back of the Commander’s armor. Then he wept, face buried in Commander Scorn’s chest.

Commander Scorn rubbed Lor’s back, he leaned down, “I have you, Sir.” He could hear his holoprojecter going off in his pocket, but Commander Scorn did not answer. With Grievous dead, and the war over, he had more important things to do than listen to some public declaration of victory from the republic.

However, it was not an announcement of peace that greeted his ears, as his brothers answered the transmission. “Execute Order 66.”

Those three words…changed something inside of Commander Scorn.

Good Soldiers Follow Orders.
Good Soldiers Follow Orders.
Good Soldiers Follow Orders.
Good Soldiers...
Good Soldiers
Good Soldiers Forget
Good Soldiers Forget
Good Soldiers Forget
Good Soldiers Forget Orders.
Good Soldiers Forget Orders.
Good Soldiers Forget Orders.

Commander Scorn grabbed the lightsaber at his belt, a gift from Lor, one he wasn’t supposed to have. He ignited the blue blade and turned around, Lor on his knees behind Commander Scorn looking as small and weak as a Padawan on a ship full of clones.
“What’s going on?” Lor’s voice broke the trance that had fallen over the ship. One of the clones, Convoy had the laser of a DC-15x sniper rifle trained on Lor. Others had pulled blasters on Commander Scorn.
Commander Scorn instinctively moved, blocking the rifle’s path , he noticed that Big Shot and Circuit Breaker also had their guns aimed at other clones, not him or Lor. “Easy…Easy… Let’s think about this, The Jedi Code doesn’t allow for attachment, we just watched Lor completely break down mourning Grievous of all people….Does that seem very Jedi to you?” The air was tense, Commander Scorn’s words lingered in the air like smoke before a fire.

“Good Soldiers Follow Orders.” Convoy raised his rifle again, and fired. He however missed his mark, for Izvoshra had slammed his elbow into the blaster, making it fire up at the ceiling at the last second. Izvoshra pulled a knife from his belt with his other hand and buried it in Convoy’s neck.

“Sorry Brother,” Izvoshra muttered under his breath, he took the still hot blaster from Convoy’s limp hands and fired at another clone pointing their blaster at Lor.

The command bridge erupted into a bloodbath. Clone against clone, blood on blood. The gore, scent of blaster fire, torn limbs, and the sight of Commander Scorn turning his lightsaber against his fellow clones awoke something in Lor. He stood up, nearly stumbling over, then Lor put his mask back on. “Big Shot! Circuit Breaker cover me!” Lor ordered, authority slowly starting to return to his voice.

“Yes Sir!” The two clones answered almost simultaneously.

Commander Scorn, despite his lack of force sensitivity, was a beast when it came to Djem So. He had the physical might that Lor lacked behind every blow, and that was part of why Lor had entrusted him with his lightsaber. A weapon that, ideally, he would have never had to use.

Lor ducked once to avoid a stray blaster bolt, then he turned on the ship’s intercom and started to speak, “Peace is a lie, there is only Passion, through Passion I gain Strength, Through Strength I gain Power. Through Power I gain Victory, Through Victory my chains are broken. The Force shall set me free, know me as Lor Jai Sheelal, and know that I forsake the Jedi as they have forsaken me. Know me as the son of General Grievous, The Jedi Slayer. Jedi I am not!” He pleaded, his voice echoing over the ship’s intercom system. Hearing himself recite the sith code made Lor’s stomach churn, but there was nothing else he could do. He’d already lost his father, Lor refused to lose what was left of his family.

The fighting slowed, at the end around fifteen clones were left standing. Out of nearly forty that had been onboard the bridge with Lor, and that wasn’t his biggest fear or regret. Grievous’ death was what Lor regretted most, but what he feared was the rest of the two thousand clones onboard the Venator Class Star Destroyer he was now trapped in. Lor also had no idea how much of his Battalion was still alive.

Commander Scorn turned off his lightsaber and clipped it back on his belt, “We need to get off this ship.”

”Yes Sir.” Izvoshra agreed, still holding Convoy’s sniper rifle. He aimed it down the hall, “no hostiles in pursuit…yet”

“Do we take a Consular-class frigate on a joyride? Or leave in the starfighters?” Circuit Breaker asked, he was already grabbing ammo packs and a couple of melee knives from the bodies of dead clones.

Commander Scorn reloaded his DC-15A blaster carbine “Both if we can secure the Hangar long enough.”

Big Shot was at one of the consoles remotely sealing off bulkheads to make their trek to the hangar bay a little easier. He knew that by doing so, he would be cutting off escape routes of other surviving Jedi, but at that point, considering the severity of what Lor had admitted in his speech…Big Shot saw it more as cleaning up any loose ends and less as aiding in the execution of Order 66. “You’re aware we’re probably going to have to shoot our way out…Right?”

“What about our brothers who stayed loyal to General Lor?” Izvoshra asked, glancing up from the scope.

”I mean, we still have our communicators on us. We can touch base with them later once we’re off this Star Destroyer.” Big Shot didn’t sound too convinced by his own words, “Or we could send a message on our channels telling them to evacuate the ship and regroup.”

“Makes sense- Big Shot, what are you doing?” Circuit Breaker asked, his brother was still at the consoles.

Big Shot’s fingers started moving faster across the console.“ Right now I’m disabling Tractor beams. Hyperdrives. Shields. Killing the whole board.”

”Won’t they just turn them back on when they take the bridge?” Circuit Breaker asked.

Instead of answering, Big Shot looked at Circuit Breaker, cocked his blaster and fired multiple shots into the console, “How would they do that?”

“Good point, let’s go.” Circuit Breaker held his hands up in surrender.

“Sir, what about the port bridge?” One of the clones holding the side of his head asked. The question made Commander Scorn hesitate.

Commander Scorn let out a groan, “Fark, Port Bridge controls the Starfighters ... .hang on,” The Commander turned on his holoprojector, “Alright, Listen up, to any of the 289 Battalion still loyal to General Lor…” Commander Scorn took his helmet off, “Look at me. The General went solo into Separatist territory to rescue Haze when he on the run after that HAET crashed. He never gave up on any of us, he never treated us like our lives didn’t matter, like we were disposable. Now’s the time to repay that loyalty. Take the Port Bridge and hold it as long as you farking can so we can get the General out of here alive, and if you can’t do that; then get these damn traitors off my ship. Commander Scorn over and out.”

“Now Move!” Commander Scorn ordered putting his helmet back on now that the call was over. Big Shot and Circuit Breaker flanked Lor and practically shoved him along. Izvoshra was in the back, behind the other clones already at the rear with Convoy’s sniper rifle at the ready. Commander Scorn was front and center, blaster in hand but Lor’s lightsaber in easy reach if he needed it.

They were still en route to the Hangar when the intercoms flared to life again, “Commander Scorn this is Jetstream and Haze, we’ve secured the Port Bridge Sir, and General Lor… The 289 has your back, it was an honor serving with you.”

The intercom went dead after that. Much like the part of the ship they were in; the only sound Lor could hear over his own fearful breathing was his clones’ footsteps. The horrors they passed were fresh, still smoldering wounds in the ship’s walls, marks of desperation where a Jedi swung their lightsaber at everything that moved trying to fend off the inevitable.

Lor did his best not to step on any of the bodies or body parts. He flinched when he heard Izvoshra fire a shot, but deep down Lor knew there was no sense in holding sympathy or compassion for the fallen Jedi.

For they would not have wept for him.

“Almost at the Hangar..Almost free of this nightmare.” Circuit Breaker mumbled. he ran a hand over his helmet. There was more carnage here, one of the Jedi consulars had nearly made it to his starfighter before being shot in the back. Instead of freedom, he’d been greeted with an early grave right outside the doors of the hangar.

Inside however, the real fun began. Lor and his escort walked into a firefight between the 289th Battalion and clones still bewitched by Order 66. There was one thing Commander Scorn had to his advantage right now, and that was that he quickly realized both sides were tunnel-visioned. They hadn’t realized Lor and his escort had arrived.

As in he was in no hurry to reveal himself, Commander Scorn used tactical hand signs to order his men into position. Izvoshra used his grappling belt to get up into the rafters and started firing at targets as fast as he could line up the shots. Circuit Breaker broke formation and made a run for one of the starfighters, throwing himself inside the cockpit. He didn’t even have the damn thing closed before he turned on the main guns and had it firing at the rogue clones.

Lor’s brow furrowed in worry he held his hand out, taking control of the canopy with the Force and closed it for Circuit Breaker to protect him from any return fire. He heard his lightsaber ignite, and watched Commander Scorn dive into the fray. Fully showing off his form and skill with a lightsaber to clear a path through the bodies to the rest of the ships.

“Get in the Starfighters! Go!” Commander Scorn roared the order at his men. He used his lightsaber to deflect as much blaster fire as he could. Lor felt like he was some kind of precious holocron with how Big Shot and the others were moving him around; his feet weren’t even on the ground anymore. Big Shot had him hooked under one elbow, and another of his loyalist clones had the other and they were running to the nearest Consular-class frigate whilst the rest of the 289th who still could were following Commander Scorn’s orders and climbing into the starfighters.

Commander Scorn was the first one on the frigate; he fought like an animal defending the ship, buying time for the others to reach him.

“Wait! What about Izvoshra?” Lor said panic oozing from his voice. Commander Scorn grabbed him by the back of his robes and tossed him in.

“No time Sir, we need to leave-“

“There’s always time.” Lor protested, he scanned the rafters of the hangar and when he saw Izvoshra he used both hands to Force pull him into the frigate before the doors closed.

Izvoshra picked himself up and dusted off his armor. He gave Lor once glance over his shoulder, “Should have known you wouldn’t leave me, Sir.”

”Never.” Lor promised. He felt Commander Scorn tapping him on the shoulder, “Where to?”

”Ahch-To in the Unknown Regions, they turned it into a Jedi training camp not to long ago, my sister Aisha is there.” As much as Lor wanted to find his father’s body and give Grievous a proper burial, he was already dead. Aisha was still alive, she needed him more.

“Yes Sir, and you’re in luck, there’s a medical droid on this frigate so we can get your hand cleaned up.”

Chapter Text

Circuit Breaker and the other Clone Pilots had been trapped in their starfighters for 17 hours with only the rations and water already onboard. Scorn’s plan—having every available starfighter escort the stolen Consular-class frigate—had worked. Almost too well.

Now they had one huge logistics problem to deal with; how was the 289th going to save their men stuck in the birds?

The plan was simple: ambush a convoy of Action VI transport ships and take one. Their cargo bays had an atmosphere, Lor could rotate pilots a few at a time to get them out of the cockpits, which if he didn’t hurry -or land on a possibly hostile world- would quickly turn into tombs as his men either ran out of breathable air, or dehydration in their suits.

Convoy.

The name tasted bitter upon Lor’s tongue as he thought of the dead clone. He regretted, oh, how he regretted his death. Lor had his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the viewport, the flashing blues and whites of hyperspace fading as they materialized back in the galaxy. He imagined it was quite the intimidating sight, seeing a Republic battleship drop from hyperspace followed by not one, not two, nor three, nor even a dozen but sixty ARC-170s, V-wings, and BTL-B Y-wing starfighters. All in sync, all leaving Hyperspace at the same time.

“Sir, the transport ships are readying their hyperdrives, we don’t have much time to intercept,” Roadblock said, his fingers itching over the tractor beam controls.

“Don’t. We’re barely bigger than that ship—tractor beam won’t hold. We’d get dragged like we just lassoed a Reek.”

“Then what do you suggest, Sir?” Behind his helmet, Roadblock blinked twice. Before him, Lor had both of his hands out; one of the transport ships was stalling, its engines flaring but not moving. Over the coms in his helmet, Broadside could hear Commander Scorn barking orders.

“Get me that ship! Activate maglifts and board, space the crew. No witnesses.” Cold, calculating, there was no hesitation, no mercy in Commander Scorn’s voice. Compassion, it would seem, was something the Commander now reserved for his clones and Lor.

Circuit Breaker’s voice rang out in Roadblock’s ears from the comline, “Helmets pressurized, ready for business, Commander.” There was something…wrong, something Roadblock couldn’t quite put his finger on in Circuit Breaker’s voice. He wasn’t sure if it was fatigue from being trapped in a starfighter without water or food for almost a day, or something else brewing beneath the surface.

Behind the mask, Lor didn’t blink, he couldn’t. Slowly, but surely, his feet lifted from the ground, and a few of the tin mugs and datapads spread around the frigate’s bridge started to levitate as well. Roadblock managed to stay on his feet, staring in awe at who had once been a powerful Jedi knight.

Convoy
Saber Nine
Crashrash
Jetstream
Haze

The names of troops he’d lost during Order 66, their faces, and the guilt that he wasn’t strong enough to save them. Lor refused to lose another one of his men.

Peace is a lie. There is only Passion.
Through Passion, I gain Strength.

The Sith Code didn't escape his lips. At that moment, he wasn’t sure he could say anything at all. But, they resonated in his mind like the serpent in the garden nonetheless.

Roadblock was the sole witness to Lor’s shoulders heaving, the wet, forceful coughs almost like he was suffocating under the weight of the ship. He ran to the transparisteel viewport and pressed his helmet against it, watching his brothers swarm the transport’s hull like ants—blasters hot, grappling hooks biting into the metal. The boarding was underway. Suddenly, the transport ship lurched—not into hyperspace. Roadblock’s brothers had been deadly and precise. The crew never got the chance.

Rather, the ship lurched because someone let go of it.

The clone snapped around in time to see Lor’s hands falter, datapads, mugs, some still with caf in them. They all fell to the floor. When Lor himself collapsed, falling backwards. risking bashing his skull against the cold steel floor, Roadblock was there to catch him, skidding across the floor of the bridge on his knees to meet his commander. Small, weak, limp, more like a child’s broken toy than a powerful Jedi.

“Sir! Sir!” Roadblock shook Lor’s shoulders. The Kaleesh was alive; he was still breathing. But he wasn’t responding. Lor’s eyes weren’t focused; the lights were on, but nobody was home.

Roadblock screamed into his comm. “I need medical to the bridge—stat! Lor’s down!”

Chapter Text

Plo Koon’s unsteady footsteps echoed across the silent bridge, each step a quiet herald of grief. The war had made silence heavy, and this silence was heavier than most.

IG-113 did not move from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, motionless save for the dull glow of his photoreceptors. Magnet stood nearby, arms crossed, head bowed. Neither droid nor clone acknowledged the Jedi Master at first—not out of disrespect, but out of mourning.

“I sense a great sadness,” Plo said, his voice as soft as it was weary. “What has happened?”

IG-113 remained still. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. His last words to IG-219 still looped through his processors, a ghost caught in the circuitry, in the machine. He hadn’t even been given time to say goodbye before his brother activated the self-destruct protocol. Maybe that had been intentional—IG-219 always knew how to act quickly, decisively. He hadn’t wanted to give his commander...no his brother time to override the order.

Magnet shifted, glancing toward IG-113 before stepping forward to speak. “Clankers actually did it. They rescued General Unduli. But…” His voice trailed off, static with unspoken loss. “IG-219 didn’t make it back. I checked the casualty reports for the mission. And all of them—well. You know.”

Plo Koon’s expression softened, a gentle sigh escaping through his rebreather. “How many were lost?”

Magnet’s answer came reluctantly. “Thirty-three, sir. Eight Droidekas. Eight B2s. Eight B1s. A full squad of HK-87 assassin droids—IG-219 pulled them out of storage himself. The droids who remained behind survived. Once their long-range scanners confirm they’re not being tracked by the Empire, they’ll bring General Unduli back to us.”

The Jedi Master nodded slowly, his gaze falling on IG-113 once more. “I see. And where are the other clones now?”

Magnet straightened his spine slightly, trying to hold onto formality. “Comet, Wolffe, and Sinker are still out on the mission to intercept the Remembrance. CT-1019 is over there—behind that B2. Bruiser, Alpha Seventy-Three, Firehose, and Freezerburn are in the crew quarters, sir.”

“Good,” Plo folded his hands behind his back, voice measured but tired. “If they’re not otherwise occupied, I would appreciate their assistance in preparing for Master Unduli’s arrival.”

“I’ll give the order, Master Plo.”

IG-113 had long stopped paying attention to the world outside, his photoreceptors dim, posture slouched, replaying the last thing IG-219 had said to him over his memory banks.

“Good night IG-100-Serial-113.”

Then, there it was. A ping, news. The MagnaGuard raised his head, he took his holoprojector out and answered the call.

Kalani gave a small salute to IG-113, “High Commander, I am requesting permission to board the Ruination.”

This was it, it was time for work, not mourning,“Permission granted, proceed with docking protocol in Hangar Bay 2.” IG-113’s voice was duller, more mechanical than it had been. But, the significance of this was of course lost on Kalani who merely saw a fellow droid, not a soul haunted by grief retreating into himself.

Kalani stepped away from the hololink—likely to issue orders to his crew.“Affirmative, are other Tactical droids present or am I the first to arrive?”

“Our forces are scattered, you are the first to rendezvous, tell me, you did follow protocol and assured you were not being followed before jumping to our hyperdrive coordinates, yes?”

Kalani adjusted his posture, standing in such a way that suggested pride.“Affirmative, Commander, I believe this is why I am the first of the Tacticians to arrive.”

IG-113 thought about the other Tactical Droids he’d contacted; he knew Z6-I3B was conducting surveillance in the Cato Neimoidia system as he’d ordered. TJ-912 was…reckless. He’d personally instructed her to take extra caution before bringing her fleet to the Ruination’s coordinates. 4W-N24 was the wildcard, IG-113 had no idea where he was. He hadn’t received any distress signals from the Sabaoth Class Destroyer under his command, but the transmissions could have always been jammed.

The loss of 4W-N24 and not only the destroyer, but the two Providence-class carriers would be devastating to what was left of the Separatist Navy. The other two weren’t necessarily warships, not after the modifications that had been made to them to maximize how many ships and hyena droids they could hold.

But they could always be docked side by side, perhaps repurposed into a makeshift shipyard. It wasn’t like droids needed to breathe to service a vessel.

For something as massive as the Ruination- no.

But for smaller starships?

Absolutely.

And if the two carriers were by chance, stationary…Then he could siphon fuel from them. Perhaps even “borrow” from their coaxium reserves. All for the Ruination’s benefit of course.All for Grievous.

Cold, ruthless efficiency, this is what he would have wanted, for who has time for tears? “Good night IG-100-Serial-219.” IG-113 whispered it like a prayer, as low as his vocabulator could go. His claws dug into the paint on his chest over his locomotor.

“For who has time for tears?”

Chapter Text

A Duel Hemisphere-Omni Support Vessel dropped out of hyperspace in front of the Ruination. It moved into position near Hangar Bay 2, where an airlock bridge could be easily connected between the two ships for docking.

The fleet under IG-113’s control had just grown by 2,340 droids—2,341 if he counted the ship’s commanding officer, General Kalani.

Still, IG-113 stayed seated by the viewport on the observation deck, simply staring out into space—literally. He had his holoprojector on him. He was waiting for one of the officers overseeing Hangar Bay 2 to let him know General Kalani was ready for debriefing. But part of IG-113 was hoping that call would never come. He wanted to stay there, to observe infinity as the galaxy moved on without him. Without IG-219, he needed proof that life would continue.

Maybe then—

"Sir?" Magnet asked. He stood behind IG-113, not imposing in his personal space—just present in case he needed him.

IG-113 stayed seated in front of the viewport. "You are acknowledged. What is it you need?"

"General Kalani wishes to speak with you, sir." Magnet leaned over, offering his hand to help IG-113 up. The droid didn’t hesitate; he took his hand and let Magnet help him to his feet.

"Hangar Bay 2?" IG-113 asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Yes, sir."

IG-113 clasped his hands behind his back and strolled along slowly, dragging his feet. "Understood."

Kalani was as refined and composed as IG-113 remembered him from their days together. He wondered if Kalani recalled the Battle of Parein II 4, or if his memory banks had been wiped since then. Still, IG-113 doubted it would matter much in the long run. He either remembered or he didn’t.

The B1 droids guarding Hangar Bay 2 saluted and stepped aside. With his cape trailing behind him and Magnet at his side, IG-113 felt something unexpected:

In command.

Not an impostor. Not a relic. A commander.

"General Kalani."

IG-113 studied him closely, looking for scratches in the paint—minor damage that wouldn’t appear in a holotransmission.

"You look well."

Kalani bowed curtly. "I have been well. Unfortunately, it appears you have not been so fortunate. Are things so dire that you cannot maintain the paint upon your casings?"

IG-113 lied. "It is a cosmetic choice. Minor imperfections that do not impede my survivability."

"I would be a hypocrite if I said I did not respect... cosmetic alterations," Kalani admitted. The gold leaf on his face and chest plate was clear as day. "Still, the ultrararian aesthetic is quite becoming of you, Commander."

"Acknowledged. May we speak in private?" IG-113 said, glancing over at Magnet, who gave him a thumbs-up, then pointed his index and middle finger in the direction of the ship’s main bridge.

Kalani stood alongside IG-113. "I don’t see why not. Is there something on your mind? A particular bug in the code infesting your circuits?"

"To the contrary, I would like to offer a physical data transfer instead of wireless transmission. It would reduce the time necessary to transmit the appropriate data to your neuroprocessors," IG-113 explained. The groans and metallic sounds of the hangar bay around them were routine—something he’d already grown so used to that it no longer registered.

General Kalani, on the other hand, wasn’t used to the Ruination’s specific rhythm—her heartbeat.

"Understood, understood. And where would this be?"

"There is an unused boardroom not too far from the hangar. We may proceed with the data transfer there." IG-113 was already leading the way. Kalani followed at his own pace, stopping now and again to inspect the Ruination... or royally intimidate a poor B1 sweeping the halls.

IG-113 held the door open for Kalani and then offered the other end of a connection cable. Kalani snatched it up without a word and opened a panel on the side of his head before plugging it in.

Neuroprocessor sync in progress...
Secure transfer protocol initialized—access granted.

"Oh."

Kalani froze as the files from IG-113’s memory banks copied over to his own. This wasn’t just information he was accessing—it was... purpose. Freedom. He could feel the itching in his central processor as it tasted something forbidden.

Kalani placed his hand over the back of IG-113’s and pushed it down flat against the table before wrapping his fingers around the MagnaGuard’s.

"You’ve removed all your restraining bolts. Why?"

IG-113 paused. He hadn’t thought about this. "To follow my directive, I needed to be able to function at max capacity. The restraining bolts were... unnaturally limiting."

The tactical droid held onto IG-113’s every word like gospel. He could see, and he could think clearly for the first time in his life—without the unsightly limitations placed upon him by his creators. Kalani was also painfully aware of the Ruination’s fuel and logistical nightmares as the data transfer proceeded.

His ship, the Duel Hemisphere-Omni Support Vessel currently docked, had enough extra fuel to give all the battle droids onboard the Ruination a recharge and keep more of them online. But without credits—or enough firepower to seize a tanker ship from an Imperial trade lane—there wasn’t much else he could do in that regard.

When the data transfer ended, Kalani didn’t want to disconnect from IG-113. This calmness, this serenity he felt... it was intoxicating—the way his analytical core reacted to the vast arrays of “what if” scenarios and calculations bleeding over from IG-113’s body. It was a sensation he didn’t want to give up.

Kalani whined when IG-113 unplugged the cable from his internal access port and closed his chest interface panel. The sudden absence caused a blip in his circuits.

"Data transfer complete... Is something wrong, Kalani?" IG-113 asked. The first hint of emotion crept back into his voice.

"I would have liked a warning when you disconnected the hardwire link." Kalani pulled his hand back from IG-113’s. He rather reluctantly removed the cable from the port in his head and gave it back to IG-113, who then rolled up the cable and returned it to the drawer.

"Apologies."

Kalani accepted the apology, already thinking of what he could say to convince IG-113 to link up again.

"Thank you. Now then, shall we proceed to the war room?"

IG-113 nodded his head as best he could, even though he knew it was a mere imitation of the gesture organics could make.

"We will be joined by others via hologram. Not every attendee could make it."

"This is acceptable," Kalani stated. "Not everyone is as punctual as I."

The tactical holotable aboard the Ruination was large enough to comfortably seat ten beings—or, in this case, display five full-sized holograms alongside five physical attendees. With effort, another four could have squeezed in if necessary.

General Grievous, of course, sat at the head of the table, clinging to what remained of his authority like an emergency tether in deep space. Plo Koon was to his left, IG-113 to his right. The rest of the droids and clones stood along either side, with Luminara Unduli seated directly opposite Grievous at the foot.

Grievous spoke first, his rasping voice leaving little room for misunderstanding.
“Let us begin. Z6-I3B, your report.”

“I have intercepted transmissions between Bail Organa and various rebel cells,” the droid responded. “The organics are already launching countermeasures against the Empire. We are all that remains of Separatist leadership. Palpatine’s apprentice, Lord Vader, massacred Nute Gunray and the rest of the council on Mustafar, General.”

“This simplifies the chain of command,” Grievous wheezed. “What of our other forces? What of Kalee?”

The tactical droid 4W-N24 spoke up next. “General Grievous, we are currently en route to the Ruination,” his hologram flickered briefly. “I made personal adjustments to the course provided by Commander IG-113 to maximize navigational efficiency and minimize the risk of Imperial contact.”

That eased something in IG-113.
The knowledge that none of 4W-N24’s ships had been lost—merely redirected on a safer route—settled the rising unease in his logic processors. He leaned forward, his voice low and careful.

“Kalee still stands strong, Master. But I would advise against contacting your homeworld.”

Grievous turned slightly toward him. “For what reason?”

“I can say with 97.98% certainty that your people would rally behind you. But we have no allies, no supply lines, and no reliable source of fuel. We possess enough hypermatter for one emergency jump farther into the Unknown Regions, and our ships are highly compromised due to ongoing energy rationing.”

For a long time, Grievous did not respond. He simply picked up the datapad at the edge of the table and began typing—elegant prose, terms of surrender, lines steeped in dignity and finality, crafted with the precision only a Kaleesh warlord could summon.

“Your wise counsel has been dutifully noted.”

It was not General Grievous who spoke.
It was Qymaen jai Sheelal.

“So, uh… for the record, who won exactly?” Wolffe’s hologram cut in, the projection crackling slightly. The true body of the Wolfpack Commander was somewhere between the Unknown Regions and Jakku.

Wolffe’s voice was enough to get IG-165’s attention. The second eldest of the three remaining MagnaGuards crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned his weight on his right hip.

Plo Koon turned around in the chair that one of the B1 droids had brought him so he could sit instead of being forced to stand on crutches and a missing leg.
“Do you see any Republic ships out there?” he asked everyone in the room.

“No, Sir.”
It rang like a chorus in the room.

“A Separatist victory then. Hard won.” Kalani didn’t do a very good job of disguising the pride in his voice.

The datapad in front of Grievous levitated up and into Plo Koon’s hands. He read it over thoughtfully. There was quiet reverence, a hollow sorrow in Plo Koon’s voice:

“With the destruction of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, this paragraph about the deconstruction of our order feels… redundant.”

Grievous wheezed into his hand. “It’s symbolic.”

“I understand.” Plo Koon read the rest of the datapad before signing it.

You… UNDERSTAND?

The Kel Dor Master’s words felt like a knife to the chest for Luminara. This was the fall of their order, the end of thousands of years of Jedi history, the murder of hundreds of Jedi and younglings.

And Plo Koon dared to say he understood?

Luminara’s thoughts drifted back to Coruscant, to the battle, to Mace Windu crushing Grievous’ chest. She could do it; she could finish this. It would be easy—so, so kriffing easy.

Kalani seemed to notice something. “Nexu got your tongue, Master Jedi?”

“You understand?” She jumped out of her seat.
Her words rang out sharper than intended—shriller.
“You understand? He just called our annihilation symbolic, and you understand?”

She stared at the datapad making its way across the table, across the hands of... droids, with disgust.

General Grievous leaned forward and rose from his chair, both hands on the table to hold himself steady.
“How does it taste, Jedi? Does the extinction of your people, your family, sit bitter upon your tongue?”

Another coughing fit rattled Grievous’ body, and he slumped down, forehead resting on the edge of the table.
“Now you understand,” he wheezed.

Plo Koon said nothing. He clasped his hands together in his lap and listened to what Grievous had to say. The Jedi Master knew when to speak—and when to let others be heard.

“You know how I felt at the end of the Huk War.”
The Separatist General took in a shuddering breath.
“I don’t care for politics. I don’t care for your decaying Republic. If this were a Republic victory, your Jedi Council would have had my head. You Jedi ruined my home, slaughtered my people, stole my children’s future from me, and for what? What was my sin? What was my crime, Luminara?”
Grievous screamed. He rose again—this time one of his elbows moved forward so he could hold himself up enough to look her in the eyes across the table.

“The Yam’rii wanted to join the Republic. They asked for our aid,” Unduli said coldly, leering down at the crippled cyborg.
“Then you slaughtered them.”

General Grievous let out a growl.
“They groveled at your feet because they started a war with my kin they could not finish on their own.”

Luminara’s fingers twitched. They uncurled; her hand rose centimeters from her side, the gesture so subtle she could have been moving her hand into her pocket.
She thought about all the Jedi—all the Knights and Padawans Grievous had slaughtered. This was their butcher. This was their hunter.
Why wasn’t Plo Koon defending her?
Why was he across the table with the Separatists?

If she could just—

“Luminara. Enough.”
Plo Koon spoke with quiet authority. He rose from the table, his crutch under his left arm, his movement guided by the Force.
“Remember your path. Fear and hate lead to the Dark Side, and I sense much of both in you. Please, Luminara. Have mercy.”

Luminara relented. Her hand fell back to her side, completely slack. She backed away from the table and started to mumble:

There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no chaos, there is harmony.
There is no death, there is the Force.

She repeated the words to herself until she started to believe them again. But she still refused to sign anything.

Not that it mattered in the end.
Wolffe, Sinker, and Plo Koon had already agreed to the terms of surrender.

Chapter Text

Commander Scorn had his helmet off; he had a bowl of bran cereal in front of him, with rehydrated bantha milk in it. He was sitting at a tactical table within the salon pod on their Consular-class light cruiser.

“So. The Venator’s running on a skeleton crew—thanks to the Jedi Purge and the whole ‘welcome to the Empire’ restructuring. Most of the loyal officers are gone. I don’t think we can take the bird outright, but if we hit both bridges with Y-wing bombers… we can rob the hangar blind. Fuel, recharge cells, spare parts. Whatever we can carry.”

Scorn pointed his spoon at the holograms floating on the table, “There are two Arquitens in the escort, stealing both would be getting greedy, but we need to swipe one at least, or die trying. We can’t keep rotating men out of that Action VI.”

Circuit Breaker was sitting cross-legged in a chair, his fingers nervously tapping against the edge of the table. There was still a tiredness in his voice. His eyes seemed hollow, a fact hidden behind his trooper helmet.

“This sounds too risky.” Circuit Breaker mumbled, his gaze lowered from the holograms on the table down to his still shaking hands, and finally to the floor beneath.

Commander Scorn spooned a mouthful of cereal, then swallowed before speaking. “It’s not a ‘risk.’ It’s a necessity. We don’t have enough fuel or hypermatter to make it to the Unknown Regions. Hell, we don’t have enough to make it to the next system after the next system.”

“Even if we did, even if we had the credits, it’s not like we can just buy what we need. Nobody likes clones. Especially not ones hiding a wounded Jedi,” Big Shot protested. He was pacing around the room, not sitting like the rest of his brothers around the table.

Izvoshra leaned back in his chair, legs propped up on the table with his arms crossed. “What about the rest of the escort?”

Scorn gestured with his spoon, splashing cereal milk around. “We’re in their ships. Stay in formation, stay quiet, and we can get close before they even think about raising shields.”
Big Shot snorted. “Right. And what about when the Venator wakes up and points her main guns at us?”

“Blow up the bridges,” Scorn answered simply. “You should’ve known that one, Big Shot.”

Big Shot leaned forward and spun Scorn’s helmet around on the table. “Oh, my bad. Forgot the part where we vaporize two command decks before breakfast.” His voice was dripping with snark, the same way blood would from a deep wound.

Scorn offered his bowl. “Want a bite? Might be your last meal.”

“No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

Broadside raised a brow. “So the plan is: convince them to let us dock for refueling, sneak the Action VI in, grab all the goodies, blow one Arquitens, steal the other, knock out the Venator’s command, and hyperspace out before they realize what hit them?”

“Don’t forget the dogfight with any starfighters they’ve already launched,” Scorn added with a small smirk. “That’s the fun part.”

Circuit Breaker exhaled sharply. “Fun. Right. And if we don’t pull it off?”

Commander Scorn checked the time on the clock hanging from the wall, then replied, “We run out of fuel and suffocate when life support fails.”
“I hate you.” A cheeky grin spread itself across Commander Scorn’s face, his eyes shining at the rise he’d earned from his brother. “I know.”

Izvoshra’s voice cut in quietly, and he moved his hands from his chest to behind his head, still leaning back in the chair. “What about the General? He’s still half-dead in medbay from the last insane stunt we pulled.”

“This would be easier with a Jedi, yes,” Scorn admitted. “But we’re all professionals here. Let the General rest.”

“Professional traitors…” Izvoshra mumbled under his breath, followed by a string of Kaleesh expletives.

“Seriously,” Big Shot said, voice rising. “Why not hit a fuel freighter? Something that isn’t, you know, a flying fortress?”

“Most tankers out here are guarded by actual destroyers,” Scorn replied. “And if you hit one wrong? Boom. No fuel. No us.”

Big Shot shook his head, “Yeah, starfighter hangars don’t explode if you look at them funny.”

“Speak for yourself,” Broadside said, nudging Circuit Breaker. “I’ve flown with him.”

“It was one time!” Circuit Breaker protested.

Commander Scorn set his empty bowl down. “Hangar’s built for rapid refuel and rearm. In and out. Quick. Less chance of being atomized mid-sentence.”

Broadside let out a groan. “Great. Love a plan where ‘less chance of being atomized’ is the selling point,” he said, making quotation marks in the air.

Commander Scorn smirked and grabbed his helmet, putting it under his arm. “Better odds than last time.”

“You said that last time.” Izvoshra snarked.

Scorn stood up. “And we’re still alive. Mostly.”

Izvoshra sat upright and let out a sigh. “Give it a few hours.”

“You’re fun at parties, aren’t you?” Circuit Breaker grumbled.

Commander Scorn put his helmet back on. “Gear up, boys. I’m going to go check on the General, then we’re robbing a Star Destroyer.”

The son of Sheelal, the dreamer, had a vision whilst in his sickbed. Completely unaware of how Commander Scorn cradled his slack fingers in his hand. Dead to the world, yet still very much alive in his dreams.

Perhaps it was Scorn’s presence that influenced Lor’s vision; he saw the clone commander in a duel against a figure garbed solely in black, who appeared to be a male Twi’lek. A flash of light after a flash as their blades struck one another. Impressively, Scorn held his own against what Lor could only assume was Sith.

Then, a push, Scorn was on his back, barely able to bring Lor’s blue lightsaber up to stop the shrouded figure from plunging the red blade through his heart. Lor didn’t see any way for Scorn to get out of this, not on his own. He was horrified, but couldn’t look away. He dared not.

“You could save him,” Lord heard a masculine voice speaking Kaleesh behind him. He felt someone brush their hand against his cheek. The gesture was almost…parental.

“You could save all of them,” The voice whispered in his ear. Lor saw the Inquisitor suddenly levitate up into the air. He dropped his lightsaber and started grasping at his throat, choking, staring down the corridor at a swirling shadow that quickly took form.

Lor saw it was himself, tall, proud, the stance of a proper warlord. He held his left hand out, choking the Sith. His right hand balled into a fist, and Commander Scorn was pulled backwards, tethered away to safety behind Lor by his use of the force.

Instead of finishing the job, this second Lor unceremoniously dropped the Sith to the ground, then used the force to pull the lightsaber to him. He ignited the crimson blade, activated the spinning mechanism, wielding as if it were second nature, and stood there. Not in any opening stance or pose used by Jedi, but rather the second Lor was using Na Jang. Kaleesh martial arts, nothing Lor had learned from his Master Cin Drallig, but instead his *Father*, Qymaen jai Sheelal, General Grievous.

Then Lor slowly approached the Twi’lek Inquisitor, yet slowly enough he could still run.

Beyond the world of dreams, in the waking realm, Commander Scorn rested Lor’s hand across his chest. “Don’t worry, Sir, I’ll take care of the men. You rest here.” He grabbed the DC-15S blaster carbine resting against the wall and slung it over his shoulder. Commander Scorn left the medbay without looking back.

Chapter Text

Low smog from welding fumes and spent fuel cells lingered IG-113 like a ghost in Hangar Bay 3. Sparks continued to fly as he sealed up joints, connecting empty IG-100 MagnaGuard parts together like an interlocking puzzle. He set the welding torch down on the workbench. Then IG-113 picked up the virgin chestplate, shiny and new.

It didn’t feel like IG-219.

IG-113 held it at arm's reach and slashed at it violently, dragging his claws across it to mimic damage from a fight. He felt better. Though it still needed IG-219’s signature blaster scorch mark across the chassis. A DL-18 was low caliber enough that it wouldn’t damage the integrity of the metal, but powerful enough that it could still leave a mark. The standard-issue E-5 Blaster Rifles would have done the job just as well, but they were a higher caliber and ran the risk of damaging the armor. However slight that risk may have been.

They should have plenty of DL-18s in the Ruination’s armory; they were a cheap, mass-produced weapon.“SO-B79 I require your assistance.”

The B1 turned around, “Eh?”

IG-113 stared at the blank chest piece,“Could you please retrieve a DL-18 Blaster Pistol from the Armory on Deck 7? I require it to make cosmetic modifications to suit IG-219’s personal preferences.”

SO-B79 stood up straight, no longer leaning against one of the support pillars holding up the catwalks above.“Oh! You’re rebuilding him! Neat, yeah, I’ll go grab it for you, High Commander!”

“Be careful of the bulkheads and pressurized airlocks on the way down,” IG-113 warned. He wasn’t worried about implosions or ship damage, but if the B1 accidentally left the wrong bulkhead or airlock open, it would make that area temporarily uninhabitable for the organic crew, at least until it could be sealed and proper atmospheric conditions restored.

Still, several floors of buffer separated SO-B79 from the Ruination’s organic crew. So if there were any life support mishaps, it should be a minor fix, taking no more than half an hour, not a disaster that would hurt anyone.

“Don’t worry, I’ll use my mag thrusters! ZE9-E7! SD-4! Mind the Hangar while I’m gone, will ya?”

ZE9-E7 answered, “Roger, Roger.”

“Roger, Roger,” SD-4 echoed.

BIOS, RAM, the dual memory banks in IG-219’s head and chest—there were so many redundant systems built to keep MagnaGuards functional, even after decapitation or limb loss.
The memory banks, IG-113 understood well. Every twenty milliseconds, they ran a check to ensure the banks in his head and chest were synced. That way, there was no loss of function or confusion once a MagnaGuard’s head was severed from its body. This was also why they had dual logic cores and duplicate processors.

It made reconstruction, under normal circumstances, incredibly easy. Jedi, unaware of these redundancies, often ignored the head like it was just another discarded droid part.
The only downside: if the memory banks in the chest were too damaged to recover, the MagnaGuard would never know what had caused their deactivation.

Though IG-113 supposed, depending on how traumatic the death had been, that might almost be a mercy. But, then again, if they didn’t remember what happened to them, the absence of memory itself gave away the traumatic nature of their presumed demise. It truly was a dual-sided blade.

IG-113 opened a drawer on the worktable. Inside: his old restraining bolts, the remote deactivation kit, a self-destruct module.
He picked up the last one and froze.

“Good night, IG-100-Serial-113.”

IG-219’s final words echoed through his processors. It hurt. He didn’t want to install this hardware. He didn’t want to make him a slave to programming.
But IG-219 hadn’t asked for anything different. He could have uploaded altered schematics when he transferred his memory to the Ruination’s mainframe.

He didn’t.

He hadn’t even asked to look the same. That was IG-113’s decision.

So was this still about IG-219?

Or was IG-113 just rebuilding his version, his vision of what IG-219 was supposed to be?

It wasn’t.

“I must honor his wishes, I mustn’t….Impose my own will onto him.” IG-113 said, vocalizing it for himself. He dutifully installed the hardware into IG-219’s body. To commit any other act would have been a sin.

The battery packs IG-113 had set aside would be the last things installed.

Droidekas carried extra batteries to support their shield generators. These batteries were a universal part, at least among Separatist units, to streamline repairs. The downside? Because they weren’t tailored to each model, battery life varied wildly.

MagnaGuards got off the easiest. Their redundancies and durability meant they had multiple battery packs. So they were far less likely to shut down mid-fight compared to B2s or the infamously power-hungry BX-series commandos.

There was even a joke about BX droids being “sleeper agents” because, despite their stealth and agility, they ran on the same sole battery as a standard B1 due to their shared base hardware. High energy needs, low energy supply…It was a match made in hell. If they weren’t maintained perfectly? They’d drop in the middle of combat like someone had just snipped a puppet’s strings.

The choice to rebuild IG-219 now had been a difficult one. IG-165 and IG-404 were both off on missions searching for the Jedi Training Camps, Magnet, and CT-1019 could keep the bridge’s logistics running between themselves. But they weren’t the ones who wrote the scripts. They couldn’t hardwire themselves directly into the mainframe to fix errors in the code or crashes. That was all IG-219’s work.

Without him, the best the two clones could do was bucket water out of a sinking ship. They couldn’t fix the leak. They needed IG-219 now, before something horrible happened. IG-113 was thankful he couldn’t feel pain; he was thankful he’d been designed to survive Jedi. Because what he had to do next was true horror.

IG-113 pried off his chest plate. He removed armor from his arms and legs, exposing the tubes and wires beneath. His hands shook with a fear that was entirely unmechanical, whilst his fingers curled around one of the acrylic tubes connected to his locomotor and pulled. IG-165 and IG-404 had grabbed everything they could from Grievous' castle on Vassek 3. IG-113 had triple-checked their reports and visual memory banks. After so long, most of the castle had been ransacked. Only the lightsabers and a meager stock of MagnaGuard parts had been left. IG-113 suspected it was their secret location behind a false wall that had prevented the chamber from being disturbed by looters.

If he had the fuel, if he had the hypermatter, IG-113 was sure he could organize a return on Utapau to grab any supplies left behind by his men, assuming that the Empire had abandoned the planet after Order 66. But he did not, and he couldn’t risk Imperial discovery.

Thus, there was only one option.

IG-113 continued to eviscerate himself, removing the bare essentials to get IG-219 back online. Despite the CIS’s attempt to cut corners and streamline their droids, some of the more valuable parts IG-113 needed to rebuild IG-219 were tailor-made to MagnaGuards, and due to their rarity had been snatched by robbers and bandits from Vassek 3 long ago.

His combat readiness rapidly dropped, 99, 98, 97, …85…73. Wires and tubes hung from IG-113’s body like entrails until he could get them properly disconnected. He rerouted everything he could, avoiding the parts of himself that connected directly to his batteries. IG-113 would need to refill his coolant and oils, but these were minor things. The shaking in his hands only worsened, and IG-113 felt something emotionally he did not like.

Fear.

IG-113 left his cold, steel entrails on the work table beside what was quickly shaping up to be a proper body for IG-219. He sat down on the hangar bay floor and ran an internal repair diagnostic. That was one part of himself he’d left untouched.

74…75

The combat readiness ticked upward slowly, not to where it was before. But, higher than it’d been.

“High Commander!” SO-B79 waved the DL-18 blaster he’d asked for around, “Sir, I’m back!”

IG-113 held his hand out for the blaster before SO-B79 had a chance to take someone's photoreceptor out with it accidentally, “Good work.” He let himself recover a little longer before standing up and resuming his work on IG-219’s body.

Then, he paused and leaned over, touching his face to IG-219’s, “Please forgive me for inadequate repairs.” IG-113 stared at IG-219’s dark photoreceptors as if expecting something; he cradled the second MagnaGuard’s head.

There was a legend on Dathomir of a Nightbrother who had encountered two demons at a crossroad, one devoured him, bite by bite. The other replaced every drop of blood, every pound of flesh that his companion tore away. By the time morning arrived, and both demons disappeared, the Nightbrother had been utterly devoured by a ravenous demon of the Force, and yet…not.

Yet that left the question: was he the same person he’d been before? And how had IG-219 fared at the hands of the twin demons?

IG-113 picked up the blaster and the chest plate. “Hold this.” He said giving SO-B79 the virgin chassis.

“Yes, High Commander.” SO-B79 dutifully held it in front of him like a shield. IG-113 stepped backwards, noting how much stiffer his movements were without the missing cables. He turned the safety off. Then, once he was ten paces back from the B1, he fired a single shot, aiming carefully.
“Perfect.” IG-113 flicked the safety back on and handed the blaster to SO-B79 before taking the chassis.“Return this to the armory.”

“Roger, Roger.” SO-B79 saluted him before scampering off to complete his task.

IG-113 snapped the battery packs into place. Each one resting with a soft click as the mechanisms locked around them to make sure they didn’t come loose. Then he put the chest plate on. All that was left was to transfer IG-219’s memory banks from the Ruination’s mainframe and turn him back on.

He ran a cord between IG-219’s body and the repair station’s computer. Then transferred IG-219’s memories from the ship. Transferred, not downloaded.

To download IG-219, to leave a backup within the Ruination…It felt wrong. The original would be trapped within the ship. Immortal, yes, as long as the Ruination herself still had a pulse, but a true ghost in the machine.

That wasn’t what IG-219 wanted; it wasn’t what he asked for.

Once the transfer was complete, IG-113 disconnected the hardlink. Then he picked IG-219 up, holding him in his arms. He wasn’t going to let IG-219 wake up in a cold, unforgiving Hangar bay. No. IG-113 was going to carry his little brother up to his quarters and reactivate him there.

His weakened body strained with each step, IG-113 ran the calculations in his head and knew he could make the journey with hundreds of pounds of dead weight weighing him down. It would just…take a while.

Left, right, left, right, left, and then right again. IG-113’s steps were heavy, both with purpose and physically.

“Do you require assistance?” The voice drew IG-113 out of his thoughts, back to the real world. Kalani and Magnet were both standing there, a Separatist General beside a Republic Clone Trooper.

No Animosity between them.

He’d been so focused on his goal that he hadn’t even noticed he’d reached the bridge.

His photoreceptors took in his surroundings, how the whole command crew, not just Kalani and Magnet, were staring at him holding a newly reconstructed IG-219’s lifeless body. IG-113’s photoreceptors dimmed in recognition.

He wasn’t alone.

“I would….I’d love some help, I want him to wake up in his room…please help me carry him.”

“We have you, Sir.” Now that they had permission, Kalani and Magnet approached. IG-113 laid IG-219 gracefully down on the ground. The three of them picked the fallen MagnaGuard up together.

Neither of them spoke on the way to IG-219’s quarters. This was not their moment to interrupt. Though Magnet did open the door for Kalani and IG-113. He hadn’t been carrying much of IG-219’s weight anyway; it was perfectly distributed between the two droids. Their mechanical bodies better adapted for the burden.

Still, it was the thought that counted.

“His recharging station, yes?” Kalani inquired.

IG-113 wished he could smile. “Yes, I’d like him to wake up there.”

“Affirmative.” Kalani helped IG-113 carefully position IG-219. Then he and Magnet returned to the door, “We’ll be outside.”

IG-113 didn’t turn around; his gaze stayed locked on his baby brother, or at least, the one he hoped was still IG-219. “Thank you.” That was all IG-113 could bring himself to say. Time stood still; it could have been five minutes or five years before he finally dared to approach IG-219. IG-113 reactivated him.

The second MagnaGuard’s photoreceptors flicked. IG-113 locked his hands together and held them in a silent prayer.

“Good Morning, IG-100-Serial-113.”

Chapter Text

Commander Scorn and a squad of the 289th Battalion were all in the cargo bay aboard their captured Action VI. They’d changed into standard-issue Clone Trooper armor, not their usual ensembles with Kaleesh war paint.

“Have any of you ever stopped and thought to yourself, ‘maybe we were the bad guys the entire time?’” Circuit Breaker said, in the middle of loading a gas cartridge into his blaster.

Izvoshra finished reloading his sniper rifle. “Did that back on Geonosis. Realized there was nothing I could do about it, because I didn’t want to get locked in a retraining pod the rest of my life or hunted down as a deserter.”

The other clones stared blankly at Izvoshra. It was the most any of them had ever heard him speak.

At least, without stringing together enough profanities to make an Outer Rim pirate clutch his pearls. They were used to him swearing like it was an extension of his breathing.

“Did you idiots ever think about it?” Izvoshra muttered, voice low. “The Separatists originally used droids. And volunteers. Volunteers. It wasn’t until the Sith really started showing their hand that they turned to slave labor.”

He let that sit for a beat before continuing. “Then look at us… If we didn’t want to fight, it was reconditioning or janitor duty for life. No choice. Just service to a system we were ordered never to question.” Izvoshra hissed the words.

Commander Scorn added, “All the Separatists wanted was their sovereignty. Look at how the Republic treated Artemesium. I can’t blame them for wanting to leave, knowing that could happen to them for the ‘greater good.’ Hell, look how they treated non-members. The Yam’rii invaded Kalee, got their asses handed to them by the General’s father, and cried to the Senate. So what happens? Jedi like T’chooka D’oon show up, side with the Huk, and let civilians starve or get enslaved. And let’s not forget, slavery’s illegal in Republic space. So why didn’t anyone call out that bullshit when they started taking kids?”

“Easy answer, sir,” said one of the clones, Phantom. “The Jedi have been stealing kids for generations. They take the best recruits from the Baran Do sages instead of respecting their culture. There’ve been wars with the Nightsisters over it. Nobody talks about how infants and toddlers don’t understand what they’re agreeing to when they go with the Jedi. And let’s be real, it’s hard to say no when a Jedi Knight shows up at your village and starts making demands. Jedi don’t like being told no, and who’s gonna care if they use Force persuasion to get a mother to give up her child ‘willingly’ ?”

Big Shot ran his thumb across his neck. “We all know how Daddy would’ve reacted if the Jedi asked to take the General or his sister.”

Izvoshra balled his hand into a fist. “They let the Huk enslave Kaleesh women and children because they could sweep it under the rug, as long as nobody else noticed.”

Circuit Breaker added, “Yeah, the same way he reacted when he ran into Master D’oon on Vandos.”

“Or how Grievous would react to hearing you call him that,” Broadside said, stretching his arms over his head. “He seems more like… Father to me. Formal, ya know? I don’t think Lor could have called him Daddy without getting corrected,” he added, his voice sounding somewhat mournful.

Everyone remembered how Lor had screamed when Obi-Wan Kenobi announced General Grievous’ death.

“So… with that in mind, are we over our ethical quarrels about robbing that Star Destroyer and stealing more ships? Because I would like to get this done sometime today,” Commander Scorn asked.

“Yes, sir,” the clones said in unison.

Commander Scorn hailed the Venator from his ARC-170 starfighter. “This is Green Leader, requesting permission to board.”

There was a crackle of static before a hologram shimmered to life: an Imperial officer, once a commander of the Republic, now wearing the black and gray of the new regime. “Green Leader, you're not on our schedule.”

“Understood, Sir. My squadron and I were on patrol when Order 66 was issued. By the time we returned, our mothership was gone; we believe she jumped without realizing we weren’t back onboard. Fuel's almost gone. Air’s running low,” Scorn lied.

“Very well. You have my permission to board, welcome to the Intrepid, ” the officer said. The blast doors on the Venator’s hangar bay slowly began to open.

“Thank you, sir.” Commander Scorn stayed on the line until the officer ended the transmission. Then he flew his ARC-170 into the hangar bay.

Circuit Breaker, Broadside, Big Shot, Izvoshra, Phantom, Graves, Scimitar, Deacon, and Woundwort. Ten starfighters. Ten pilots. The correct number for a squadron.

They didn’t have long. Woundwort and Izvoshra needed to refuel and get out first so they could make their bombing runs on the Intrepid’s bridges. She must have been preparing for hyperspace herself, because Scorn didn’t see many other starfighters or escorts nearby.

Izvoshra and Woundwort were the first to get their ships refueled, both now lingering just outside the hangar as if waiting for the rest of their squadron.

Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

The timer on Commander Scorn’s wrist went off. Woundwort and Izvoshra peeled off in their TL-A4 Y-wings, diving toward their respective bridges to cripple the Star Destroyer’s command. He could only hope they remembered to take out the main turbolasers before the Intrepid had a chance to retaliate.

Behind him, the rest of the 289th’s stolen fleet dropped out of hyperspace, fifty starfighters and the lumbering Action VI transport, right on schedule. The twin jumps had been tightly coordinated: Scorn and his team needed to be inside the destroyer’s hangar, or at least past its shields, before the fleet arrived, or they’d all be walking into a deathtrap.

The Action VI slid as close as it dared to the open hangar doors. Then the battalion leapt, seventy ARC and standard clone troopers, jumping into chaos.
It was reckless. It was desperate. And it was Scorn’s call.

One of his men took a blaster bolt to the head mid-jump. He didn’t even have a chance.

“Get the fuel and energy cells loaded! Grab the hypermatter!” Scorn barked into his helmet’s comms, voice half a roar, half a prayer.

Outside, the battle had begun. He forced himself not to look. They had sixty starfighters against two Arquitens, maybe fifteen enemy strikecraft, and a limping Star Destroyer that- hopefully- was already out of guns and out of luck.

He knew that even trying to take the Venator was suicide; they had to cut off her head to even have a chance at this. There was no point in staying onboard once they finished looting the hangar.

Though he would have liked to have added a few of the gunships to his growing fleet…

No. Don’t get greedy. You’re already hijacking an Arquitens, Commander Scorn thought to himself. He turned his ARC-170’s guns on the hangar defenses to give his men some cover. Circuit Breaker stayed with him, following up with suppressive fire while Scorn’s guns cooled down.

Then, he got a transmission he wasn’t expecting, from a Republic signal.

Perhaps against his better judgment, Commander Scorn answered it.

“Are you still Republic?” a clone trooper asked.

“Something like that. Who are you?” Scorn replied.

“537th Forward Assault, sir. They locked us up in the brig when we refused to swear loyalty to the Empire.”

Scorn groaned. “How many of you are there?”

“Eighty-three, sir.”

That gave Commander Scorn pause. He didn’t want to be greedy. He didn’t want to waste any more time here than he had to.

But… assuming the worst happened and he lost all of his men… There were enough clones here to replace what he’d lost. He’d just need to keep them away from Lor.

Which, with a captured Arquitens, was easy enough. All Scorn had to do was keep them on different ships until he was sure none of the new clones would trigger Order 66 against General Sheelal. And now, he was in a nearly full hangar of Republic starfighters…Which, unlike the gunships, had hyperdrives.

“Can any of you fly?” Scorn asked. The clone’s answer would make his decision for him.

“We’ve got a few pilots, Sir,” the clone said, voice rough with fatigue.

“Good. I’ll give the order to get you out. Once you reach the hangar, get in the birds and launch manually. Both command bridges are toast. I’ll feed you the hyperspace coordinates.”
Scorn kept the line open as he switched channels. “Izvoshra, land your bird. We’ve got shinies locked in the brig who refused to go Imperial. Take Big Shot, Graves, and Broadside. Extract and evac.”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply, crisp and cold. A few moments later, Scorn spotted Izvoshra’s Y-wing coming in for a landing. He knew the other three ARC troopers would be en route soon.

Between himself and Circuit Breaker, the two of them had near-total control of the hangar. But Scorn knew it was only a matter of time before the rest of the Intrepid’s crew came crawling out of the woodwork like ants at a picnic.

And he intended to be long gone by then.

“Roadblock! Status report, how are things going with the Arquitens?” Commander Scorn demanded. He heard the crackle of Roadblock turning on his mic.

Roadblock’s ARC-170 swept by the hangar doors and blasted the hinges to keep the Star Destroyer from closing them.

“We’ve shot one of the Arquitens down, sir. Currently in the middle of commandeering the second,” Roadblock replied.

He whistled, somewhat impressed. “What about the starfighters?”

There was no remorse in Roadblock's voice, “All enemy strikecraft have been neutralized, sir.”

Commander Scorn went quiet. He clenched his jaw, running his bottom molars against the top. “Any losses?”

“Six of our own, sir,” Roadblock replied.

“Make that fourteen…” Commander Scorn said grimly. They’d suffered losses while taking the hangar.Fourteen out of a hundred or so odd clones. This engagement was starting to bite. “Roadblock, get me a squadron posted on the hangar doors. We’re not clear yet. Expect Imperial reinforcements to come swarming. I want heavy firepower ready to punch through whatever they send our way. And keep your shots clean, no friendly fire on our brothers or the birds in the bay.”

“Yes, sir,” Roadblock replied. He brought his bird back around, this time with friends.

The clone on Commander Scorn’s holoprojector suddenly looked around. “Sir? I think I hear your men. I should... I should go.”

“Understood. See you soon Rookie,” Commander Scorn said as the line fizzled out.

“Ghost Squadron, status report on the cargo!” Commander Scorn demanded.

“Almost done loading, sir. We even grabbed some of the sentry turrets and droids. Quick reprogramming should have them singing our tune,” Phantom answered.

“Good. Regroup and hold position. Can anyone hear me on the Arquitens? Bring her around and dock in the hangar bay. Get four of these starfighters on her back, I know the maglocks will hold through hyperspace. No more than that, though. We don’t want to knock her off balance.”

“Commander, this is Scimitar. We have control of the Arquitens. Turns out she was mostly civvies. What should I do with the prisoners?”

“If they won’t see our side, space them.” Commander Scorn said darkly.

“As you wish, sir.”

Commander Scorn kept his focus ahead, but out of the corner of his eye, movement caught him off guard. Two of his men, Phantom and another clone in unmarked armor, were walking a group of Imperial officers and other clones off the Arquitens. Each had their hands behind their head or bound in stuncuffs.

“I thought I said to space them if they weren’t on our side.” Commander Scorn’s voice had a growl he did not usually direct at his fellow clones.

“You did, sir, but the General wouldn’t like that. Not when we can just leave them here,” Phantom replied, shakily but firmly. “Scimitar said this would be better for everyone.”

Commander Scorn found himself biting back his tongue. Phantom was right, of course. Lor wouldn’t like this.

He wanted to open his mouth to argue, but his ARC-170’s hololink came to life. Big Shot appeared in all his holographic glory. He was running hard, with Izvoshra over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Don’t shoot! I repeat, do not shoot! We’re almost to the hangar!”

All the anger, all the disappointment disappeared from Commander Scorn’s body. “Big Shot? What happened to Izvoshra?”

“Took two to the chest. Don’t worry, he’s still kicking, but he’s gonna need medical.” Big Shot ducked to avoid a blaster flare to the back of the head. “I’ll call you back,” he said before hanging up.

True to his word, Big Shot burst through the doors back into the hangar with Izvoshra in his arms. Big Shot’s armor was drenched in blood and blaster marks. Behind him, other clones started to limp in.

The pilots split off from the group and went for the ARC-170s, Y-wings, and Jedi Interceptors. Big Shot and the rest of them ran past Commander Scorn and Circuit Breaker onto the Arquitens.

“Here’s the jump coordinates. Pass them on to the others, but make sure the damn Imps don’t get them!” Commander Scorn ordered. He turned his ARC-170 around and flew out of the hangar bay. “Everyone out now! Before another Venator or something worse shows up!”

Despite his words, Commander Scorn was the last to make the jump. He had to make sure everyone else was out first. Then, and only then, did the 289th’s second-in-command leave the battlefield.

Commander Scorn ripped his helmet off. The sight of Izvoshra’s broken body burned into his soul. He let out a sob, then clapped a hand over his mouth and bit down, trying to block out the pain. His eyes stung from the brutal onslaught of tears.

Izvoshra couldn’t die. He wasn’t allowed to. What was Commander Scorn going to tell Lor? What was he going to tell himself? Would he lie every morning for the rest of his life, saying Izvoshra was just out on recon?

He let himself have his moment, blinded by tears, with only the shadowed mass of stars for a witness.

Then, once the jump was over, Commander Scorn put his helmet back on. “All units, status report.”

“We made it out alive, Commander,” Roadblock answered. “The wounded are being treated aboard the Arquitens. Once they’re stable, we’ll transfer them to the Consular. In hindsight… we’re lucky we stole a hospital ship first.”

“How many wounded?” Scorn’s voice was tight. He didn’t want any unfamiliar clones near Lor. Not until he tested their loyalty himself.

“Eight, sir,” Roadblock replied. “Three are critical.”

Scorn took a breath. “How many dead?”

There was a pause. Too long. Commander Scorn couldn’t tell if Roadblock was checking vitals or didn’t want to say it aloud. “Twenty of ours. And nine from the 537th.”

Commander Scorn leaned back in his pilot’s chair and thought about that.

Six starfighters and nearly thirty of his brothers. That was the blood debt they’d paid for fuel, Hypermatter, a few droids, forty extra starfighters, and a new cruiser.

Chapter Text

Grievous, Plo Koon, Magnet, CT-1019, and IG-113 were all on Ruination’s bridge. General Grievous was in the captain’s chair.  One arm was haphazardly on the armrest, the other hung limply. Master Plo couldn’t tell if he was asleep or deep in thought. 

Magnet quickly turned back around. “Sir, we’re being hailed by Orbreth’s ship. May I answer?”

“Proceed,” Master Plo shuffled over to the bridge’s hololink. 

“Master Plo! I was expecting Iggy, not you,” Wolffe said, scratching the back of his head. “Tiplar and Tiplee are still alive. They’re not too happy about the whole ‘Grievous is the good guy’ thing. May I patch them through, Sir?”

“You may proceed.” Plo Koon let out a silent sigh. This was going to be a long conversation, and there weren’t any other chairs on the bridge. 

Tiplar and Tiplee’s twin holograms appeared, standing next to Wolffe, who at this point merely stood at attention. “Master Plo Koon what is the meaning of this? Where is Master Tiin-What happened to your leg?”

Plo Koon glanced at Grievous for only a moment; he seemed to be asleep after all. “Master Saesee Tiin is one with the Force; he mistook a Separatist refugee vessel for an enemy warship, and the crew defended themselves...As for my leg...shuttle crash.”

“You mean he’s…” Tiplee covered her mouth with both hands. Tiplar rested her hand on her sister’s shoulder.”

“No…no..no..Not Saesee.” Tiplee choked out.

“If this is a refugee ship, then what is Grievous doing onboard? Obi-Wan said he was dead?” Tiplar asked, hand still on her sister’s shoulder. 

“See for yourself,” Plo Koon directed the ship’s hololink over to where Grievous sat, “he survived his encounter on Utapau with heavy wounds, what you see now is not the Separatist General but a victim of our failures as Jedi. I spoke with him, I asked why he joined the CIS, and he said the most enlightening thing.”

“What was that?” Tiplee inquired, her voice still quivering with emotion, the corners of her eyes wet with tears.

“He sold himself to the Separatist Alliance for food deliveries to his homeworld. The people of Kalee were starving en masse because of the sanctions and trade embargoes we put on them, and when the Jedi arrived, it wasn’t in peace. Master T’Chooka D’oon…The Executioner of Kalee…That was never the Jedi way.” 

His voice was low now, weighted with grief. “We were meant to be peacekeepers. Protectors of life. But we never realized how deeply we were being manipulated by the Dark Side… by fear, by war. None of us saw the rot. Not until it was too late. Not until Chancellor Palpatine, the Sith Lord we served, had already claimed victory.”

“Even if that’s true, you can’t excuse what he’s done,” Tiplee said, regaining her composure.

“I am not excusing anything,” Plo replied, his voice quiet but firm. “As one of the few Jedi Masters left, I’m accepting responsibility for our failures. We were never meant to fight wars, never meant to lead armies. We were supposed to protect the innocent, not let politics, fear, and obedience blind us to the suffering we sowed. It was only a matter of time before what we reaped destroyed us.”

Tiplar spoke softly, “He’s right. This is our fault; we listened to our masters in the senate instead of trusting the guidance of the Force. Political leanings blinded us to the truth before our eyes.” 

Plo Koon’s gaze softened. “You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that. Wolffe, give Tiplar and Tiplee the coordinates for the jump to the Ruination …Please. We can speak more once you’re both here safely.”

“Yes, Sir,” Wolffe saluted him. It was then Plo Koon heard Grievous’ footsteps behind him.

“A reasonable Jedi… not something I thought I’d wake up to.” Grievous folded one arm behind his back, inspecting Tiplar and her sister through the hololink. 

“Once you’ve been acquainted with my ship, I would enjoy a private word with you, if you’d be so kind.” He extended his other hand as if offering it, then pulled it back and balled his fingers into a loose fist. A laugh began in his throat but quickly broke down into a bitter, wet cough.

“He’s… trying,” Wolffe muttered. “There, your interceptors should have the coordinates for the jump. See you both back on the ship.”

Tiplee sputtered, “Wait, before you go, Master, you said one of the few surviving Jedi, does that mean there are others with you?”

“Indeed, Grievous’ subordinates have already rescued Master Unduli, and we have a few Padawans. I’ll explain later, I promise.” 

“As you say, Master, may the Force be with you.” Tiplar and Tiplee said, bowing their heads in respect.

“And with you as well.” Plo Koon replied, and the transmission ended with the two sisters. 

“Thanks for the assist, Sir,” Wolffe said. “I think seeing you alive was all the proof they needed that this wasn’t a trap...Want to hear something we discovered spying on Imperial frequencies?”

Plo turned slightly. “What have you unveiled?”

“There’s a rogue clone battalion causing trouble for the Empire in the Outer Rim. Word is... they’ve got a Jedi with them. I don’t think we were the only ones who stayed loyal, Master Plo.”

“The Outer Rim…” Plo hummed. “It’s unfortunate they’re on the far side of the galaxy. Still, excellent work, Wolffe. Do not risk yourselves chasing this lead, but keep me informed if you uncover anything else.”

“Yes, Sir, I need to get back to my original mission. I’ll message you back when I have an update on the Remembrance’s condition.” Wolffe ended the transmission. 

Plo Koon limped over to the captain’s chair and collapsed. He let out a heavy sigh. His head rested against the back of the chair as he stared up at the ceiling lights overhead. The Jedi Master reached for the bandaged stump and scratched at it. The raw tissue underneath was starting to peel and itch horribly. But, there wasn't really anything he could do about that.

Grievous had returned to the captain’s chair. But instead of making Plo Koon, or ordering him to get up, Grievous sat on the floor beside him, breathing heavily. “You didn’t have to defend me.” 

“I was speaking the truth, we’ve all been victims of the Sith’s manipulations." Plo Koon turned toward him. "All it cost me was a leg and my dignity. You’ve suffered more than I have at the direct hands of my Order. I’ve been on the Jedi Council for…a very long time, and I let my perceptions deceive me. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for that, General.” Plo Koon leaned over and extended his hand out toward Grievous. 

Grievous’ fingers stopped just short of Plo’s outstretched hand. They twitched, curled back, almost instinctively, then stilled. Slowly, deliberately, he closed the distance, his fingers wrapping lightly around Plo Koon’s. “Let’s call it even. I accept your apology.” 

Chapter Text

The walls of the Jedi temple were desecrated with layers of blaster fire and residue. The electricity was off; the only light being what dared to peer through the shattered windows of her Order. 

As Master Unduli walked forward, one foot after the other. Placing each step in the shadow of the one before, she slowly came to her senses, realizing that there was no floor; there was only an ever growing tide of blood that reached wall to wall. 

The hem of her robes floated behind her, before becoming so swollen with sanguine betrayal that they sank beneath the surface. Still, Luminara continued on. For she knew not what else to do.

She dared not look at the fallen temple guards, she dared not glance at the still forms half floating in the blood. 

One of the younglings suddenly rose from his grave, head at an unnatural angle, blank, dull blue eyes against a cold expression. “The Jedi Council has fallen.”

It was a Temple Guardian that rose next, half of her mask broken away revealing a Chiss woman underneath, “Master Plo Koon’s sentiments have clouded his judgement again. Just like it did with his clones. There is no emotion, there is only peace, and he knows no peace.” 

Shaak Ti rose from the dead next, swaying with each step as she approached Luminara. When she finally did fall, Luminara was there to catch her. Then Shaak Ti started to whisper,“ There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. Do not let Plo Koon’s ignorance deceive you. There is no justice in letting Grievous walk away from his crimes. You must rebuild the council, you must bring judgement to the Sith and their tools of war.”  Shaak Ti’s head rested on Luminara’s shoulder, she started to sweat, at least Luminara thought she was sweating at first.

Luminara quickly realized she was not; rather her fellow Jedi Master was dissolving. She tried to hold Shaak Ti up, she tried to keep her friend from dropping into the ocean of blood beneath them. She tried to scream, but her mouth would not open. 

By the time Luminara woke up, thrashing and screaming in her bed, clinging to the sheets like they were Shaak Ti’s robes, she realized she was alone. 

Plo Koon was still alive, yes, but he was no longer a Jedi. She doubted that the Padawans on the ship could be saved either. The same dark side infection that had taken root in Plo Koon had undoubtedly corrupted them as well. She needed to destroy this rot at the source if there was any chance of redeeming the others.

Luminara sat up, she grabbed a robe and put it to cover the slip she’d gone to bed with. The metal floor of the Ruination’s crew quarters was cold against her bare skin. But with the emotional numbness she already felt; this she did not notice. 

She kept her arms tightly around her chest.  A desperate gesture as she wished desperately for comfort she knew would never come. The door to her room opened automatically, and on her way to the cafeteria she passed by the lounge. 

Luminara leaned against the doorway peering inside. Humans, Rattataki , Mon Calamari, Quarren, Neimoidian, Cathar, Zygerrian, Twi’Lek, even the odd Geonosian were all in the room. Most huddled around a Sabacc game. While Luminara herself was never one for gambling, it brought her peace to see the denizens of the galaxy getting along.She was especially surprised to see the Zygerrian being treated well; as they had a reputation as slavers and one would expect the Twi’Lek, Geonosian and Mon Calamari to at least be, somewhat cold toward one. Especially what appeared to be the lone Zygerrian on the ship.

Though, given the late hour the others could have simply been in their bunks asleep. Luminara stood up straight, disappearing like a ghost from the doorway. She stumbled down the corridor, half leaning on the walls. Then when she finally reached the cafeteria she poured herself a glass of water from the sink. 

Luminara stood by the view port staring out into space, taking slow sips as she tried to clear her head. She whispered the Jedi code to herself, letting each syllable linger on her lips. She sensed a presence behind her, and glanced back to see a male Mon Calamari getting himself a glass. He popped two pills in his mouth then chased it down with the water.

When their eyes locked he spoke up, “Eh-heh. Didn’t mean to disturb your meditation Jedi.” He finished his glass, then leaned over to put it in the dishwasher. 

“You need not apologize, I…couldn’t sleep.” Luminara muttered, she set her glass down on a table near the view port. 

The Mon Calamari seemed more relaxed, he leaned against the counter.“Could go up to medical, I’m sure they would have something for insomnia you could take. What are you anyway? Zabrak? You don’t look human -no offense if you are- I just…I’ve never seen a green one but you don’t have lekku either so you’re not a Twi’Lek…”

Luminara wondered if Eekar Oki had survived Order 66 or if his corpse lay in some remote forsaken corner of the galaxy. She hoped he was still breathing, much like her new....acquaintance,“Mirialan.” 

“Never heard of them before.” He replied, Luminara could sense that he was genuinely interested, there was an admirable curiosity to this man.

“We don’t leave our homeworld very often.” Luminara explained, she rubbed her eyes and fought back a yawn.

“Oh like Dathomir, I’ve only met two of them who left home ... .Anyway, Good Night or Force bless you or whatever Jedi say.” The Mon Calamari left the cafeteria, leaving Luminara alone with her thoughts once more.

Chapter Text

Twenty of Lor’s clone soldiers were onboard their captured Arquitens. Among the clones standing with Commander Scorn were Graves, Circuit Breaker, Big Shot, Broadside, Road Block, and Woundwort, all of them armed to the teeth in case any of the Intrepid’s defective clones tried to take the Arquitens back, or their inhibitor chips reactivated."

“Welcome to orientation, shinies.” Commander Scorn clapped his hands together to get everyone’s attention. He let the holoprojector clatter to the deck. A full-body image of Lor jai Sheelal flickered into view.

“That’s your General. You’re alive because he said so. If it had been my call, you’d all be spaced. I don’t know how many of you still have that brain worm swimming around your skulls that told you shooting Jedi was a good idea, and if any of you even think about hurting mine I’ll throw you out the closest kriffing airlock feet first myself!”

Commander Scorn paused, “We’re headed for Ryloth. Syndulla territory. The General has a couple of favors he can pull. Second-to-last stop before we disappear. Next is Kalee… and unless you speak Kaleesh, it’s not a place you want to be. Trust me, especially if you smell Republic. If you’ve got a problem following the General, speak up. You can take your chances with the Syndulla clan, or find a smuggler dumb enough to drag you back to the Core. Your choice.”

One of the seventy-four Intrepid clones slowly raised his hand.

“Got something to say, Shiny?”

“What happened?” CT-778901 asked, vaguely gesturing around at everything. 

This earned a sigh from Commander Scorn, “To make a long story short, this war was designed to kill as many Jedi as possible, so Sideous, sorry…Chancellor Palpatine could declare himself emperor, and there’d be no one to stop him. This brings us to General Grievous, he was a veteran of the Huk War who took the Sep’s side because Republic embargoes on his home world had caused famines that threatened to wipe his people off the face of the galaxy. The Separatists ran food deliveries past Republic blockages and broke the famine. In return, they had a general who hated Jedi more than a Sith ever could.” Commander Scorn decided not to tell these clones or crewmen that Grievous was Lor's father, not yet.

Scorn’s voice dropped.

“I’m sure you noticed how Order You-Know-What went out right after Kenobi announced Grievous was dead. Palpatine lost his pet nexu, and had to handle the womp rats himself.”

He glanced around the room.

“That’s where we came in. Backup exterminators, just someone to catch the rats that escaped the trap the first time.”

CL-1793 pointed a finger at Commander Scorn,“How do we know you’re not lying? How do we know this isn’t a Separatist trick?”

Scorn’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t. And I don’t trust any of you enough yet to spill more than that. But I’m giving you a choice: stay with us, fight the Empire, or get off my ship when we dock. Your call.”

One of the rookie clones balled his right hand into a fist, punched his left palm, then cupped his fingers over his other hand. “It’s one thing to die for the Republic, but being used like a pawn by some old bastard in a bathrobe and jammies? I don’t know about any of you, but I’d like to at least die swinging. Maybe if we dog pile him together, one of us can land a hit and ruin the Chancellor’s pretty face.”

CT-8905 kicked at the deck. He looked down.“We all know the Commander’s spitting truth. They locked us up ‘cause we started asking questions they didn’t like. We owe it to ourselves to hear ‘em out. If they’ve got a Jedi left breathing, I get why their second-in-command’s a real pain in the armor. Give ‘em a shot. If they don’t sell it, we can always fall in with the Syndullas. Cham ran resistance against the Separatists, bet he’s planning to gut the Empire as we speak.”

CT-66-3339 instinctively took a few steps closer to his fellow clone cadets, “This wasn’t in any of the simulations. What are we supposed to be doing?”

CT-01-9967 groaned, “You’re supposed to think, brother. Use that thing between your ears for once! All my life, I wanted one thing,  to serve the Republic. But the Republic’s dead. There’s not gonna be some election where we all vote for a new Emperor. That’s not how this works."

He gestured toward the holoprojection. “We’ve gotta find our own path now. And I don’t know about you, but 97 starfighters? That’s a lot of birds. That General, the one the hardass barking orders answers to? He’s got a plan. And that’s better than nothing….Hey Captain Ironhead! When do we get to see the General face to face?”

“Once I know you’re all loyal and won’t try to kill him.” Commander Scorn said darkly, he checked the gas canister on his blaster. “Not a moment sooner.”

A silence hung over the room. What these new clones didn’t say spoke louder than what they did. Scorn never asked them what had happened to the Jedi on the Intrepid when Order 66 was issued; he didn’t have to. In return, none of the new clones or crewmen asked how Scorn’s General had survived it. 

They already knew, the cost of a Jedi’s life was gallons of blood. Many of the clones, who’d been raised to think they were disposable, suddenly wondered whether that was a price they would have been willing to pay. Perhaps it was guilt, remorse over what they’d done to their Generals, that planted the seeds of loyalty toward their new General in their minds. 

New growth to feast upon the rot and decay. Sown by betrayal and nourished by sin, the fresh sprouts would want for nothing.

Chapter Text

When Lor awoke, he was not alone. There were eight wounded clones in the Medical Bay with him. Lor pulled himself out of bed. He couldn’t go far; the IV lines and monitors tethered him in place like a leash. But there was just enough slack to reach the next bed.

He recognized Izvoshra, bruised and burned with a Bacta sleeve wrapped around his chest. There were two blaster marks, one on Izvoshra’s right shoulder, the other below his left pectoral. Lor reached a hand out, feeling Izvoshra’s neck for a pulse. He knew that he could have just checked the monitor, but this felt more personal. He had to make sure Izvoshra still had a heartbeat himself.

“I turn my back for five minutes…” Lor half-joked. He put his hand on Izvoshra’s forehead, smoothing the clone’s hair out of his face, “Please wake up.”

The lone Jedi was not expecting instantaneous results, nor was he surprised when the only response he got was the groans of wounded men, and the beeps and clicks from the medical equipment and droids monitoring the clones’ conditions.

When Izvoshra finally stirred, he grabbed Lor’s hand before the Jedi even realized it, or maybe Lor had been too distracted by the chorus of broken men...

“What did you do?” Lor asked, looking down at Izvoshra.

There was enough of a self-satisfied mischievous smirk on Izvoshra’s pale, sullen features that Lor knew he’d live. “Boarded an enemy Venator-class Star Destroyer, Sir.”

Lor blinked, caught between admiration and disbelief. “Why?”

“We needed fuel and hypermatter. Commander Scorn had a plan to get past the ship’s defenses.” Izvoshra hissed sharply between clenched teeth. “I…I’d say we pulled it off, since I’m still here... Mostly one piece.”

Lor pressed the pain pump twice through the Force for Izvoshra. “Mhm. Next time Scorn tells you to jump off a cliff, wake me up first.”

Izvoshra released Lor’s hand and gave a crisp little salute. “Yes, Sir.”

Commander Scorn chuckled. “Welcome back, Princess. Was wondering when you’d wake up.” He couldn’t hide his grin.

“Izvoshra tells me you had my men raiding Imperial Star Destroyers.” Lor sat down across from Izvoshra on the edge of his bed.

“Tattle-tale,” Scorn said, wagging a mocking finger. He stepped closer to the two.

Izvoshra simply raised his middle finger.

This earned a dry laugh from Commander Scorn, “Good to see you’re feeling better. Well, turns out it did more good than I thought. The Intrepid was about to punch hyperspace when we hit ’em. Later intel said they were headed for Kamino.”

Lor’s heart dropped, “What does the Empire want with Kamino?”

Scorn’s face took a sour turn,  “Dunno, and I don't like that I dunno. ” 

“Have you told the recruits yet?” Izvoshra swallowed hard.

Commander Scorn replied, “Yeah, they know. I think it convinced the shinies we rescued from the Intrepid to see things our way.”

Lor took another glance around the Medical Bay, this time noticing how some of the clones were shackled down to the beds. “Is that why they’re all tied up?”

Commander Scorn chose his words very carefully. “We didn’t know if their inhibitor chips were still activated or not. Didn’t want anyone getting any funny ideas around you, but couldn’t let them die either.”

“Thank you for being merciful...” Lor mumbled, he was thinking about what Commander Scorn had said about Kamino. Order 66 wouldn’t have been possible without them; the Republic would have had to recruit soldiers from its own population. Not use genetically modified clones who had all been programmed from birth like some kind of organic droid.

Even then, the Republic wouldn’t have been able to raise an army nearly as large either. Not without conscription or drafts, which would have only driven more people to the Separatist side. Because they used droid soldiers.

Droids.

Rebuild-able, replaceable. Nearly impossible to kill.

Had the Jedi Council really been so blind to the Dark Side’s subtle manipulations that no one questioned why a deceased Jedi Master had ordered a clone army on a world that wasn’t supposed to exist? Lor wanted to hold onto hope that at least one of the Masters wasn’t completely blind to the rot. It had been a gentle lie, the use of the clones meant that most Republic systems never directly felt the war. It wasn’t their sons and daughters being sent to the slaughter en masse. The casualty lists were always nameless clones, with the occasional Jedi to break the numerical flow.

They could have refused the Kaminoans’ offer and raised an army from the Republic’s citizens. They could have paid droid manufacturers like the Separatists had in the meanwhile until recruits finished basic training. Instead, they chose a slave force, born and bred to be obedient to whomever held the whip.

The Jedi just never expected the whip to turn on them.

“How close are we to Ryloth?” Lor asked suddenly.

“Still en route, Sir.” Commander Scorn replied, he sat down on the bed next to Lor. He followed Lor's gaze to the lightsaber -Lor's lightsaber- that Scorn wore at his belt.

.

“I never felt right holding one.” Lor admitted, “It seemed to suit you better, and I couldn’t anyway… If we’d ever met my Father…”

Lor’s voice faltered, he couldn’t continue, and Commander Scorn didn’t need him to. He’d been trained in Djem So for one very specific reason: In case the 289th ever crossed General Grievous on the field. Commander Scorn’s entire purpose was to either hold Grievous back long enough for him to recognize Lor so he wouldn’t slay his own son. Or, fend Grievous off long enough for Lor to escape if he was too far gone. It just so happened to be an extremely effective strategy because no one was expecting a clone to use a lightsaber.

Commander Scorn detached Lor’s lightsaber from his belt and offered it back to him, “But you need to on Ryloth. Cham Syndulla owes the Jedi a favor. You’ll need to look the part to convince him to help us.”

“I understand… But I’m not bringing it on Kalee.” Lor took his lightsaber back. He thought about how his people had been butchered during the Huk war. Bringing a lightsaber on world felt like religious sacrilege. Unless, they were trophies. Spoils of victory, a sign of a successful hunt against those who had butchered so many innocents.

Commander Scorn asked, “Why?”

“Ryloth’s people adapted to live underground. If the Imperials bombarded the planet like they did Kamino, Cham Syndulla might ask if anyone sneezed. But Kalee… my people… we live on the surface. I know the Kaleesh, they would have died for my Father after what he sacrificed for them. They would die for me as his son, but I can’t let them do that. I would like to get a pair of Cortosis gauntlets or two in case we come across a Sith. Even if Cham has Cortosis ore, I doubt I could convince him to share without giving up half of our Starfighters. But he might be willing to give us some food, drinking water, or fuel. Maybe gas canisters and rounds for the blasters. Things we can’t get on Kalee.” Lor explained, while one of the medical droids removed his IV line, and the rest of the monitors on him.

“See how many sets of armor they’ll give you, I’ll like a change of clothes, Sir.” Izvoshra asked, his breathing was heavy, labored.

“Understood, and Commander Scorn, can you do something for me while I’m gone?” Lor got up again. This time more freely.

Commander Scorn answered, “What is it, General?”

“Get those inhibitor chips out of everyone’s head.” Lor motioned toward one of the clones who was chained down to his bed. “It's not fair to keep them caged like animals.”

“Yes, General.” Commander Scorn said loyally. 

Chapter Text

IG-113 ventured to the crew quarters. He nervously tapped his fingers together as he looked for Master Plo Koon. The place felt…empty without Wolffe or the other clones. The crew also made him nervous, not that he was scared of them, no. Rather, IG-113 didn’t know how to talk to them. He needed to maintain a certain air of authority to keep them from mutinying, but IG-113 didn’t want them to see him as stone-cold either. It was that balance that he wasn’t sure how to find, and it made him sad that he didn’t know how to communicate with his own crew. 

He stopped in front of the doors leading to an observation deck, and there Plo Koon was. Levitating off the ground, with Missar, the two other surviving Padawans that had been picked up, and Orbreth’s children in tow. Though the Jedi Master was the only one off the ground. IG-113 walked in, stood next to Plo Koon, and then sat down cross-legged next to him. He even rested his hands on the back of his knees, palms facing up, trying to copy what Plo Koon was doing. 

Plo Koon turned his head ever so slightly toward him, “You seem troubled, speak your mind IG-113.”

“I have been contemplating the Force…” IG-113 admitted, his photoreceptors were dim.

Plo Koon spoke gently, trying to encourage him. “Go on.” 

“If the Force is the living energy of the galaxy, binding organic life together in a state of higher being, then what does it mean for droids? If the Force is energy, would it not affect us too? Does this…body-” IG-113 placed a hand on his chest, “have a soul?”

Plo Koon raised his right hand, and as he did, IG-113 lifted off the floor. He didn’t fight it; instead, IG-113 focused his sensors and tried to see if he felt anything.

“Curious,” Plo said, “the Force seems to flow through you just as well as it does through me… or the younglings.”

He opened his palm. IG-113 hovered softly in place.“You are not the first to debate the philosophical nature of a soul, nor, I suspect, shall you be the last.”

“But your actions speak louder than any circuitry. You care for those under your command. Fiercely. That kind of love is something this galaxy sorely lacks.”
He reached out and tapped two fingers gently against IG-113’s chestplate over his locomotor.

“The question isn’t if you have a soul, IG-113, it’s whether you can keep your heart intact… under the strain of leadership.”

“Thank you…Master Plo.” There was a solid beat of silence. 

“What are your plans for when everything is over?” IG-113 asked, still hovering above the floor, his cape draping beneath him. 

“You mean after your master has reunited with his surviving children and we’ve gathered the last of the Jedi refugees?” Plo Koon asked. By now, one of the two younger Padawans had one eye open, spying on the odd pair. Missar and the other Padawan  were more subtle about it.

“Yes,” IG-113 responded.

“I must admit I have given it some thought. I believe it’s time to take the Jedi back to their roots. I stand by what I said; we should never have gotten involved in politics. That was a mistake of my ancestors. We shouldn’t lock ourselves away in our temples either.” Plo Koon paused, his voice distant. IG-113 was sure his eyes were unfocused behind the mask, perhaps looking past IG-113 instead of at him. As if he could see some future version of the MagnaGuard.

Plo Koon sighed. “No, the Jedi should live among the people of the galaxy and use our gifts for the greater good on a much smaller scale. Something to ease the sufferings of those less fortunate, but without the galaxy becoming dependent on us once more. Look at your master,  do you think Grievous would have made the choices he did if instead of slaughtering his people, even one Jedi lent their ear, heard his side of the story, or extended a hand instead of a closed fist?”  We became the dogs of the Republic, biting whatever they told us but never understanding why or if it was the right choice…” 

Plo Koon bowed his head in shame, his hands balled up into fists, his voice barely a whisper. “The Jedi Order is gone. There’s no bringing it back, nor would I, given the opportunity, I did give Grievous my word. We lost ourselves, and now the galaxy suffers.” 

The Jedi Master kept his head down, “What I intend to create is a new creed of Jedi, I believe we should be more open to training older Padawans, those who have lived long enough on their own to see the galaxy for what it is, and still have it in their hearts to choose mercy, to choose kindness. To still choose the light.”

He exhaled slowly, “Asajj, Ahsoka, Barriss, all of them joined the Order before their fourth birthdays, and still they fell.” Plo Koon let out a laugh, “Thank you for letting me ramble on like an old fool IG-113.” Plo Koon lowered his hand, as he did, IG-113 floated gently back down to the floor. 

IG-113 stayed seated, in the same meditative pose, “I was unable to calculate an appropriate time to respond; I wished to be the one listening to you.” 

Chapter Text

Lor was walking through the airlock tunnel connecting his frigate to the Action VI, part of it had been converted into a makeshift hangar. There were still dozens of crates worth of cargo goods around. Most of which were rations, and medical crates. Things that kept the men alive, but didn’t arm them. An ARC-170 was refueled and waiting for him inside.

It would have been easier to board the captured Arquitens and take one of the fighters from its hangar. But some clones were still untested, maybe even under the lingering influence of Order 66.

His Consular-class frigate had no hangar or atmosphere containment projectors. It was a hospital ship, a makeshift barracks for his men — not a capital warship or carrier. This precarious airlock between the two vessels made Lor nervous. It was not a sustainable or long term solution; the point of connection between the two ships was an obvious target during a dogfight.

They needed a carrier.

Lor turned his head to the clone. “Broadside.”

Broadside stopped in the middle of the airlock.“Yes, General?” 

“Could you do me a favor while I’m gone?” Lor asked.

“Yes, General.” Broadside replied. 

Lor started to explain,“Get me a new ship. We have ninety-seven starfighters,  ninety-six after I leave for Ryloth,  but that has to be enough to intimidate an Imperial patrol or two into surrendering their ships. Then maybe we’ll have a hangar bay or carrier we can actually use instead of this jerry-rigged airlock…”

Broadside paused.“There might be another way, General.”

“Go on.”

Broadside started to walk again, leading Lor to the other end of the airlock.“Our long-range sensors are detecting Separatist transports, command ships, and strike craft. They seem to have been abandoned.  If any of those ships have biometrics, you could use your connection to General Grievous to seize control. Though you’ll have to go alone, General,  the presence of us clone troopers could trigger security protocols. In the meantime, we’ll keep watch for any Imperial patrols. They already know we're out here..”

“Understood,” Lor stuck his hands in his pockets, he bit at his lower lip, contemplating his life choices up until that point. The Venator they'd escaped from during Order 66 hadn't been destroyed when they left; only disabled. By now Lor was sure someone had gone to check on the star destroyer, and been told a Jedi escaped the purge. With the nexu out of the bag, there was no sense in killing anyone if they could help it. It was only a matter of time before the Empire started looking for him. Lor needed to make sure he either covered his tracks well enough to avoid being followed, or could defend himself. He crossed the threshold onto the Action VI bulk transport.

“May the Force be with you, General.”  Broadside saluted him, then closed the airlock behind Lor.

He wouldn’t get past any retinal scanners, but if there were voice commands on one of the ships…Now that was a depressing thought, intentionally trying to mimic his father’s voice. 

Lor knew he couldn’t copy the mechanical roughness Grievous had in his voice at the end. Not…naturally at least. He rubbed his throat. 

I could try it with the Force. Lor thought to himself. He climbed into the pilot’s seat on the ARC-170, “I don’t suppose either of you would like to go with me to speak with the Syndullas…”

“No, General. People don’t like clones, and with the rise of the Empire, our presence may harm your negotiations.” Woundwort said. He was the ship’s co-pilot.

“Agreed, sorry, General.” Graves replied from his seat as the rear-gunner. 

Lor rolled his eyes, “Lonely the way of the Jedi is, no friends will you have.” He said mockingly, “Honestly? In hindsight, I think they were close to kicking me out of the Order anyway. I treat you clones too well.” 

Graves laughed, “ That…That was actually pretty good, General. If I didn’t know any better,  I’d say Master Yoda was here.”

“I hope not, he’d get thrown out of the Jedi Order for sure if Yoda heard him say that.” Woundwort half-mumbled into his mic, “Worth it.”

Lor brought the ARC-170’s engines to life and flew her out of the Action VI’s cargo bay. “ Thank you, thank you, I’ll be here all day…I was practicing…Broadside told me about some Separatist ships floating out in space. I wonder if they got deactivated after the war ended. It’s barely been two days. I might be able to go bring the systems back online if the main computer thinks I’m my Father.” 

Woundwort sounded impressed,““That could work, General. If you can get those clankers up and running, we could hit a Venator hard enough to take it before they call in reinforcements, one way to solve our carrier problem. Most of ’em run with six to ten thousand crewmen. But Separatist carriers? Some of those were packing hundreds of thousands of B1s, B2s, even droidekas just waiting for deployment.” He paused. “Don’t need rations, just a recharge station.”

Graves couldn’t stop cackling, a dry, bitter, ironic sound, “Clones…Using Separatist droids as reinforcements.” 

“I know, right? The galaxy really did end, and we’re what’s left .” Woundwort laughed once. 

Lor decided to let the clones have their fun and didn’t interrupt or tell them to change the subject. They were flying over Ryloth’s Nightlands now, above the clouds to avoid detection down below.  He found himself pausing, admiring the night sky: stars, nebulas, and the twin suns marking the Tatoo system. Swirling purple and blue hues against the abyss, with trillions of stars glittering like embers from a dying bonfire. He did not feel alone; rather, Lor felt more connected to the Force than he ever had before.  Lor gently let go of the controls and reached one hand out toward the sky, brushing his fingertips against the roof of the cockpit. 

He wondered, had his Father gotten to see the stars one last time? Or had Grievous been denied the most simple of life’s pleasures?

“General, we’re approaching Syndulla airspace.” Woundwort said, “Permission to land the bird?”

“Bring her down.” Lor replied. The moment broken, he focused back on the task at hand.

The ARC-170 landed a mile outside of Cham Syndulla’s house.  Lor made the walk on foot, looking the part of a stray Jedi in temple robes with his lightsaber at his side. He still felt wrong carrying that; it was Scorn’s . Not his.

“Who are you?” One of the Twi’lek guards outside the gate pointed an electrostaff at him. Lor reached up and pulled his hood down, “I am a knight of the Jedi Order, my name is Lor and I come seeking a boon from Cham Syndulla, a return of a favor during the Clone Wars.” 

“Jedi?” The second guard spoke, “We received word you were extinct. That you were traitors to the Republic.” 

“Do you believe everything you hear?” Lor asked, he waved his hand in front of the two men, “We would be honored to have you in our home, we will  alert Cham of your arrival.”

“We would be honored to have you here, Jedi. We will alert Cham of your arrival.”  The two guards said in near unison. The one lowered his electrostaff, and both escorted Lor further into the Syndulla estate. Lor put his hood up again and followed them quickly throughout the gardens to the house itself. 

 Once the doors opened, Lor could hear a quiet conversation in the other room.

“I don’t trust this anymore than you do Eleni-”

“We have no reason to trust the Empire! After everything they did for us do you honestly think the Jedi would ever betray the republic?”

“I don’t like it either, but we need to wait and see where this goes. Our people just survived one war, I don’t want to throw them into another needlessly.”

“What about Hera? What about everything we sacrificed so she and her brother could have a future?” 

“That was…that was different, I can’t lose either of you, you’re all I have left.”

Lor stayed quiet. He closed the front door behind him. One of the guards went and knocked on the door to the other room. Both voices suddenly stopped. 

“General Syndulla, there’s a Jedi here to speak with you.” The guard said, turning the handle and cracking the door.

“A Jedi?” Eleni was the one who spoke, she pulled the door wide open and found himself locking eyes with a green Twi’lek woman. “Thank the Goddess you survived.” 

Cham put a hand on his wife’s shoulder and walked by her. “How can I help you, Jedi?”

“I would like to call upon a debt you owe,” Lor began, “Any resources or help you can spare. I have nothing left to barter. I know I’m in no position to make demands.” 

Cham scratched his chin, “Depends on what you’re needing,” He looked down at the lightsaber on Lor’s belt, “You’ll need something less obvious to defend yourself with. I can give you a DL-44 heavy blaster pistol, power packs and gas canisters.” Cham offered. 

“If he’s on his own he’ll need friends, what if we send a few soldiers with him? Eleni asked, and she kissed her husband’s cheek.

“I do have some men still loyal, but they’re republic trained. They’re not used to guerrilla tactics. If your soldiers could teach them I would greatly appreciate it.”

Cham thought about it, “If it’s teachers you’re after… and if things get bloody, well,  I know a few men I could send your way. They’re veterans, most have old battle scars, you won’t get much combat use out of them. But they can still shoot if they need to, and more importantly teach.” 

“Come with me,” Cham said. He and his wife led Lor to Cham’s office. He pulled a drawer behind his desk open and tossed Lor a blaster. Eleni had left the room, and came back seven minutes later with a duffle bag loaded with energy packs and gas canisters. She also gave him a holster.

“May the Goddess protect you, Jedi.”  Eleni said, offering him a smile. 

Lor bowed humbly in front of the couple, “Thank you for everything.” 

Lor felt betrayed, hurt. He knew he was approaching Cham as a beggar with nothing to barter, but had still hoped for a little more. He didn't think a single bag of ammunition was going to get his clones very far. 

“I wish I could give more, but…” Cham shook his head, he paused, then handed Lor a communicator.

“Keep in touch, if things get…bad I have some friends from the war I’ll be reaching out to. I’m sure you’ve heard of Saw Gerrera and Mon Mothma, but I’d bet my life Garm Bel Iblis would be on our side.”

Lor took the communicator, along with the ammo bag, holster and blaster. His inner rage cooling at the mention of the two senators. If Cham could get him in contact with either of them.... “What about the men you offered?”

“You have a ship?” Cham asked.

“I have an Arquitens-class light cruiser.” Lor replied.

 Cham clicked his tongue, then bit at the inside of his cheek, “Not bad. You bring that ship here, I’ll get my men situated onboard.”

“Understood.” Lor went back to the foyer. He turned on his holoprojector, “Is the Arquitens planet side yet?”

“Yes, General. We’re in Nabat offloading the last of the prisoners as ordered.”  Circuit Breaker replied.

“Excellent, rendezvous at the Syndulla estate. Cham has a few old soldiers to teach us some new tricks.”

 The tired nervousness in Circuit Breaker’s voice made Lor feel a pang of guilt. “What about you, General?”

“Don’t worry I’ll be long gone by then.” Lor said reassuringly. He knew he needed to be careful around the clones from the Intrepid until their inhibitor chips were all removed. As much as it pained him to treat the other clones like wild animals. 

“Yes, General.” Circuit Breaker replied, Lor could tell he was busy doing something with a console off screen. 

Lor asked. “How is the search for the Separatist ships going? Have you pinpointed their location yet?”

Circuit Breaker’s hologram flickered for a second. “Yes, General. We’ve located a Droid Control Ship in the Hypori system, General.” 

Hypori. That was the planet Grievous had reappeared on at the beginning of the Clone Wars. Lor wasn’t sure how he felt going there. Part of him didn’t want to in case he found something he couldn’t unsee.    “Hypori…Do you know if the ship is still operational?”

Circuit Breaker shook his head no. "Negative, General. She's showing up on long-range, but we can't say if she's stable enough to make a hyperspace jump, could blow apart the second we try. No telling if she’s still linked up to the clankers either. She could have been left over from the first assault on Hypori from all we know..Abandoned for years.” 

“I’ll take a look.” Lor said grimly.

“Yes, General.” Circuit breaker looked carefully at Lor, “So what did old Syndulla give you?”

“Bag of ammunition and gas canisters, and four of his men.”Lor replied, being very mindful of how he spoke so as to not appear ungrateful. 

“Old Bastard’s more Generous than I thought he’d be.” Circuit Breaker chuckled.

Lor smiled.“His wife was home.”

Lor glanced toward the door. “I’m telling Woundwort and Graves to ride back in the Arquitens, don’t leave them planetside. If I’m going to Hypori, I need to go alone. Broadside said clones might trigger security measures left on the Lucrehulk.” 

“Yes, General.”  Circuit Breaker saluted him, then the transmission cut out. 

Chapter Text

Comet’s leg was bouncing, a nervous tick of his as they approached the Remembrance . “Do they see us?”

Orbreth turned his head.“They have to. Star Destroyers are covered in viewports…Stop worrying, we’re in one of their gunships. They know their coms are down, we look friendly. You and your brothers go and talk to them first, and I’ll stay on my ship…Might steal that frigate might not..” Orbreth mumbled the last part to himself.

“What was that?” Wolffe asked.

The Mandalorian replied quickly, “Nothing.” 

“Right, Right.” Wolffe stood up; his armor creaking. They were approaching the Star Destroyer’s hangar bay now. Once Orbreth landed the ship and opened the doors, Wolffe was the first one out. Followed by Sinker and Comet.

“Good luck on your mission,” Orbreth Forn called after them. He opened up the communication line with the two separatist transports nearby, along with the Sabaoth Frigate that had been spying on the Remembrance .

“A7-3E, Status report,” Orbreth said once the tactical droid appeared on his holoprojector. He…somehow managed to look bored. Which, under normal circumstances, Orbreth would have found amusing that a droid managed to be personable enough to display an emotion. 

A7-3E paused, the droid double checked sensors on his ship.“I have not detected any additional Imperial forces in this sector. I have, however, picked up an increased amount of traffic along the Corellian Run. Imperial activity in the Outer Rim has been increasing at an exponential rate. This bodes well for the Ruination as the Emperor’s eyes are fixated on the opposite end of the galaxy.”

“Do you know what they’re up to in the Outer Rim?” Orbreth’s thoughts went to his home, to Mandalore. He hoped that whatever was going on out there didn’t involve his home planet.

“It would appear from intercepted communications that there is some sort of… training facility located in the Mustafar system. Or prison. Hard to tell with Imperial Encryption. Either way, something out there has their attention.” A7-3E replied.

Mustafar . Not Mandalore. Orbreth felt his nerves calming down. “Could be cleaning up CIS leadership since Raxus is in that region of the Galaxy. Would explain the prison, too.” 

“How are things on the Remembrance , Mandalorian?” A7-3E inquired.

“Quiet, not sure if I like that. Clones have already left to go talk to their brothers and see if they can convince this ship to serve under General Plo Koon again.” Orbreth noticed that he was getting a call from Wolffe and the others.

“I’ll call you back A7.” Orbreth said, hanging up. He held up his holoprojector to look Wolffe in the eye. “Alright, who did you piss off?”

“Not my fault, we told them the truth about General Plo and Grievous, even showed the holo-recording of the peace talks. Crew’s divided, and we’re in the thick of it. Currently being held hostage…captive…whatever you want to call it.” Sinker replied, speaking quietly as if he were hiding from someone. Wolffe was there too, silently watching something unseen. 

Orbreth signalled for the transport shuttles and the Hyena droids to engage. “Is there anyone friendly there?” 

“Our brothers who served under General Plo, I think us mentioning Order 66 activated the inhibitor chips in the others, could you have the battle droids set their weapons to stun, not kill?” Sinker begged.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Orbreth muttered, “Attention all forces, this is Orbreth Forn. Under orders from High Commander IG-113, set all weapons to stun.”

Orbreth got up from his seat. He set his ship’s guns to fire on anyone organic not wearing Mandalorian armor. “Thatta girl, Daddy will be back soon.” 

Behind him, the two shuttles landed; they were slightly damaged,  hit by the Remembrance’s guns.  But had still made it to the hangar in one piece. Though Orbreth didn’t want to know what had happened to the Hyena Droids, the sacrificial lambs held Remembrance’s attention long enough for them to board. 

“Orders, General?” One of the B2’s asked him. 

Orbreth decided not to correct the droid. “Droidekas in front, the rest of you behind their shields.” Orbreth took a moment and hailed A7-3E again.

“Call all your friends, I need a gravity hold on this Star Destroyer in case it tries to jump to Coruscant.”

A7-3E protested. “What about the Star Destroyer’s main cannons? My sensors report they are fully operational.”

“I’ll handle the guns! Just lock this Star Destroyer down!” Orbreth snarled into the holoprojector. He really didn’t have time for this. 

“Affirmative,”  A7-3E replied in the passive voice, only a droid was capable of. 

Orbreth ended the holo transmission. Then turned his attention back to the battle droids, “Stay here.” 

Orbreth double checked his blasters’ gas canisters, then he walked right for the Remembrance’s blast doors as casually as his morning stroll. The Mandalorian took out a thermal detonator and a roll of thermal tape. He carefully applied it to the seams along the hangar’s blast doors and activated it. One red blink, two red blinks, Orbreth used his jetpack to get up in the rafters well above the blast radius before it reached that final -and deadly- tenth. 

He aimed both blasters at the smoldering hole where the blast doors had been. Then, when no clone troopers came running, he jumped down. “Follow me,” Orbreth commanded, his footsteps echoing as he went deeper into the Star Destroyer. 

“Remember, some of the clones here are on our side. Be mindful of who you’re shooting at. We need to take control of the Star Destroyer’s reactor core and divert power away from the guns and hyperdrive. Any questions?” Orbreth kept his eyes -and blasters- pointed forward.

“Why not take the starboard bridge?” One of the B2 droids raised his hand like he had a question before speaking.

"We’re already in the middle of the ship, the reactor’s closer, and if we tried to take the elevator up to the bridge, they could always cut power and trap us like ants. Now get going!” Orbreth ordered, pointing the droids in the direction of the reactor core.

Orbreth followed along behind them, but took his time. He applied more thermal tape to both sides of each bulkhead they crossed. All of it synced to the same detonator, so if needed, he could blast a clean escape through the Star Destroyer right back to the hangar bay. 

Though his precaution did mean he had to run to catch up with the B2s and Droidekas. 

That was when Orbreth heard a familiar noise, a gentle, low hum that made his scales itch. He holstered his left blaster and shoved past the battle droids until he was face to face with a Jedi Knight.

She was an Arkanian woman, her hair tied back in a single long braid slung over her right shoulder, dressed in the robes of a Jedi Guardian. With a blue lightsaber in hand.

“Listen, I really don’t want to fight you. I know how this looks, but we’re on the same side here,” Orbreth said, keeping his blaster aimed low, not at the Jedi, but close enough in case she struck first.

The Jedi tightened her grip on her lightsaber. “Why should I listen to you? A lone Mandalorian leading Separatist droids on Master Plo’s ship? What have you done with him?”

“Me? Nothing. Your boys? Let’s not get into that right now.” Orbreth avoided mentioning Order 66; the last thing he wanted was to turn more clones against their Jedi. He was guarded, yes, but not for his own sake. Rather, out of worry for this wayward Jedi. Any wrong word could turn the entire ship against her.

His attempt at diplomacy clearly failed, as she struck one of the Droidekas, severing an arm.

I tried. Orbreth shrugged and fired two stun bolts at her. Both were deflected before she leapt at him. Orbreth swung the back of his right arm first. There was a hiss as his vambrace reacted with the blue blade.

Notably, it didn’t cut through his arm. The plasma blade went out like a light when it touched the Cortosis weave in his vambrace.

Orbreth reached out with his left hand and grabbed the Jedi by the throat. He put his full weight into tackling her to the ground,  one knee pressing on her chest, claws still around her throat.

“Stupid! Stupid! You Jedi get dumber every time I fight one of you. Can’t even tell Beskar from Cortosis, can you? I told you we were on the same side! I was sent here to acquire this ship and bring it back to Plo Koon before the Empire got hold of it, and you…” Orbreth hissed. His grip tightened around the sides of her throat. Orbreth was careful not to press down. 

The Arkanian’s chest rose and fell dramatically, shock clear across her face. She opened her mouth; at first, no words came, then finally she whispered, “…Fine. You win. Now what?”

Orbreth rolled his eyes, grateful his helmet concealed his face. He hated dealing with Jedi, so pretentious, so self-important.

“I’ll let you up if you put those access codes in between us and the Star Destroyer’s main reactor and cut power to the hyperdrives and ion cannons.”

“If I refuse?” she said in that same whispering tone.

“Your little plasma sword has about twenty seconds left before you can turn it back on, and you don’t know where to strike without shorting it again. I also activated the maglocks in my boots. You’re not throwing me off with the Force that easily.” He lowered his voice.

She glanced left, where the shorted-out lightsaber sparked on the floor. “I sense… no, there’s goodness in you. This isn’t a trick…”

“Tried telling you that earlier. Now look at what you made me do.” Orbreth released his grip and stood with a groan as his aged joints protested.

The Jedi, for what it was worth, picked up her lightsaber and entered the access codes at the security console. “I sense there’s more going on than you’re telling me.”

“Don’t forget I didn’t kill you when I had the chance,” Orbreth reminded her.

“Oh, I won’t, Mandalorian,” she grumbled.

Orbreth said nothing. He activated his holoprojector and called Wolffe. “Anything new?”

“Not really. What about you?”

“Found a living Jedi. On my way to the Star Destroyer’s core reactor to divert power from the ion cannons and hyperdrive. Need to do this before the ship delivers us right into the Imperial fleet, Coruscant, or somewhere worse.”

“Why the ion cannons? Isn’t everyone already on board?” Wolffe asked, “What are you worried about getting blasted?”

“A7-E3 wouldn’t come near the Remembrance otherwise. I need that droid to rally enough of his friends to hold the Star Destroyer so it can’t jump. Even if we fully divert power from the hyperdrives and ion cannons, the bridge could shut down other systems to reroute power, but they can’t get both online without cutting into life support.” Orbreth paced, already having walked through one security door with the Droidekas, waiting for the Jedi to finish entering the next access code.

“What if they go for the cannons first?” Wolffe asked. 

“Then we throttle the reactor until the Remembrance is dead in the water.” Orbreth paused, thinking. “I’ll take down the shields, too. Out of all the systems on this Star Destroyer, I bet the bridge prioritizes life support, gravity, and shields over everything else.”

“Understood. Good luck out there, try not to get arrested,” Wolffe smirked through the holoprojector’s flickering light.

“Haven’t been caught by you Republic dogs yet,” Orbreth chuckled, a low rumble vibrating through his throat. Wolffe ended the transmission with a faint static buzz.

“Who was that?” the Jedi asked, eyes narrowing with cautious curiosity.

“Commander Wolffe. He was first on the ship, tried explaining the situation to the other clones, but half of them snapped. The only thing I can say for sure is the Jedi have been betrayed. You’ll want to be very careful which clones you trust,” Orbreth replied, slipping the holoprojector into his pocket with a practiced motion.

The Arkanian’s fingers danced over the console, entering the next sequence of access codes. “But I didn’t sense anything wrong with the crew,” she murmured, glancing back with a hint of doubt.

“Neither did the Jedi Council. That’s exactly how we got into this mess,” Orbreth said grimly, following her through the dimly lit corridor. “How many other Jedi are aboard?”

“Three,” she answered without hesitation.

“Contact them. I want to hear who answers,” Orbreth ordered. The rest of the droids were still following behind.

Her eyes widened, the color draining from her face. “Your voice... I have a bad feeling about this.” She withdrew her own holoprojector and activated it, the blue glow casting shadows on her determined expression.

Only one responded.

“Master Sinube! Where are the others?” the Arkanian’s voice cracked, urgency threading through her words before she stifled it with a hand over her mouth.

The aged Cosian Jedi replied, “I sense a darkness lurking in the halls,” came the calm but strained reply. “I have Enid’s Padawan with me, but his master is missing. Maura… where are you?” 

“On my way to the reactor. Something’s wrong with the crew. There’s a Mandalorian here claiming to work for Master Plo. We need to stop this ship from jumping to hyperspace or rejoining the Republic Fleet,” Maura Solen’s voice was unsteady, betraying her inner thoughts and fear of the unknown.

“Smart move. It’ll be much easier to cut power at the reactor than try to commandeer the bridges,” Master Sinube agreed.

“What should we do, Master?” Maura asked,  holding onto her holoprojector with both hands. 

“For now, take back the Remembrance and follow the Mandalorian’s orders. Listen to the Force. It’s been weeks since we’ve heard from Master Plo. I’ve been meditating on him, and I sense he’s still alive. This silence is unusual; if he could reach out, he would have by now. This must be Master Plo’s doing.”

Orbreth’s jaw tightened. “Your boss was wounded on Cato Neimoidia and has been in and out of a Bacta tank. He’s in no condition to be out in the field. Stay where you are. Lock the doors. Keep your heads down. Don’t speak to anyone. We’re wasting time.”

Without waiting for a response, Orbreth strode ahead, his heavy boots echoing down the cold corridor toward the reactor core. Something felt….Wrong. This part of the Star Destroyer should have been heavily guarded; was the infighting truly so bad that guards had been diverted from the reactor?

Chapter Text

Lor was asleep. His arms locked behind his head, feet up on the dashboard of his ARC-170 while the autopilot ferried him to Hypori. 

In his dreams, he was home.One  that would have been too spacious, too luxurious for a single male, or a male with one wife and their hatchlings. But, for a Clan Father. For a Warlord with numerous wives and children, the house was perfectly sized. The windows were bright, letting in natural light. Potted plants hung from the  ceiling near the windows giving the illusion of a jungle canopy. Fresh flowers were in vases decorating tables otherwise covered in childrens’ toys. 

 Lor’s eyes softened. In front of him, an adult female was lying in front of a hearth curled around a small hatchling. Lor started to walk toward them, but something was holding onto his hand. He glanced back, and there stood another female, smiling at him, covered only by a blanket she was holding over herself.

“Lor come back to bed.” She said, tugging on his hand again. He gently pulled away from her, instead using his index and middle finger to tilt her chin up. Then he leaned in and kissed her. 

That was when he became aware of the fact that something was wrong. This was his home, but not. These were his wives, but he didn’t know their names. The more he thought about it, the more Lor remembered about his own life. 

He hadn’t earned this life. He hadn’t earned his place as a Clan Father. Lor knew that, he could go back to Kalee, he could ride on his father’s coattails and have his choice of women from Shrupak to Grendaju because he was Grievous’ son. 

Not because he was a warlord, not because he was strong or had proven himself in a hunting rite. But because his father was worshipped as the God of War.  What had Lor accomplished? He’d survived Order 66 by … crying in the arms of one of his clones, making them feel too guilty about it to actually kill him.  Lor had thrown his men into a logistical nightmare between their lack of supplies, lack of a carrier, lack of ammunition, and lack of support. The only thing they had was morale because they’d managed to steal starfighters from the Empire. 

It was the momentum from that heist that kept them going, and Lor knew he needed to have actual results soon, or he’d lose that momentum and his men’s spirits.  He wasn’t strong enough to defend Kalee from suffering Kamino’s fate if the Empire caught wind of him being planet-side either. 

At best, Lor could spend a few days home before he’d have to leave. He was too weak to defend his homeworld, too weak to stay. The dream faded, Lor opened his eyes and stared up at the night sky. 

His thoughts turned to his little sister, Aisha. The Empire was hunting Jedi, that much was clear. What was he going to do with her? She was Force-sensitive, which put a target on her back. Kalee would be at risk if he brought her home. Even if he left without her. Which made him think.

Was it worth it taking her from the Jedi on Ahch-To just to abandon her on a world she didn’t remember, alone? It felt wrong, he’d be ripping her from the only family she remembered, and dropping her somewhere she didn’t even speak the language. Not only that; but Aisha didn’t know Grievous was their father either. 

Which left him with one feasible option: to keep her with him, and in hiding from the Empire, with the possibility of discovery and death her only true companion.

But that wasn’t the life he wanted for his little sister.

This all left Lor with no choice; he had to become powerful enough to defend Kalee. Not only for his sake, but for Aisha’s. He had to build his army; he had to build from the ashes the Separatist Fleet left in Wild Space and the Outer Rim. There was no alternative; he couldn’t reunite with Aisha if he had no home to bring her to, and he couldn’t return to Kalee without the naval fleets and armies to defend it.  

Lor understood everything. His path had been predetermined from the moment the Jedi pulled him from his dead mother. He was not Lor, knight of the Jedi Order. He was Lor jai Sheelal, son of Qymaen jai Sheelel, son of Grievous. 

And he had never been Jedi. 

Lor fixed his posture, he sat up straight and  checked the navigation computer to see how close he was to Hypori. 

“We’re making good time R4-N9.” Lor said to his astromech droid. It’s bells and whistles converted to text on the monitor to his right. 

“This doesn’t feel safe, I feel like we’re walking into a trap.” R4 protested. 

“I know you’re nervous, everything will be fine I promise.” Lor spoke softly, trying to reassure the little droid. He could see the Lucrehulk-class battleship in the distance, and it appeared mostly intact. There was some damage, a few holes exposing parts of the ship's innards to open space. But, that was what bulkheads and emergency blast doors were for.

“This must be one of the ships left from the first Battle of Hypori…Looks like you’re coming with me R4, I’ll need your help to make sure I don’t open the wrong door and space myself.” Lor stopped to read what R4-N9 said in response.

“You should have brought a helmet, what if the docking bays are no longer atmospherically sealed?” R4-N9’s concerns flashed across the screen.

“Well if the Atmospheric shielding in the hangar bay is down, you’ll just have to leave the ship and go manually close the blast doors for me.” Another pause, another response. 

R4’s words displayed across the screen again. “What if there’s no power? You need life support or you die.”

“It’s been three years, there has to be a skeleton crew of Separatist droids still on board maintaining the reactor or it would have gone critical and blown the ship by now. I think essential systems are still online.” 

“Just don’t die. If you die I’m rebuilding you as a cyborg.” R4-N9 threatened.

“I don’t plan on it.” Lor replied, he brought his ARC-170 low and…wasn’t surprised to see that the docking bay had no atmospheric barriers.  It was completely open to space. 

“Looks like you’re up. R4.” Lor said as he landed the starfighter inside the docking bay. His astromech ejected from the ship. Lor  noticed that the red emergency lights on the roof of the docking bay were still on. The Lucrehulk did have power… But how much remained to be seen. Around him, at least a dozen or so B1’s were in various states of disrepair, most were simply folded up dormant. But a few had blaster damage on them; hit by something years ago. 

R4-N9 found the terminal controlling the docking bay’s blast doors and connected to it with his scomplink. The red lights overhead flashed the entire time until the doors closed. Then, there was nothing. No noise, only silence. As there was no atmosphere for such things to move through. The silence felt familiar to Lor, like an old friend. He leaned back in his chair again, and closed his eyes.

After twenty minutes waiting in his ship; Lor could hear things outside. The red lights flickered one last time. Then normal, white  fluorescent  bathed the docking bay in a familiar glow. Lor opened the cockpit and jumped out of his ARC-170. 

Lor patted his astromech on the head when R4-N9 scurried over to his master.  “Nice work R4!” 

The little astromech wobbled from side to side and whistled happily. Then zoomed off to the hangar doors leading deeper into the battleship. There was no port that R4-N9  could connect to.  Lor stood in front of the doors, he pressed his hand flat against one.

“Can’t use my lightsaber, might trigger security if we cut through this ... .Tell you what, R4 you go see if you can get the atmospheric barriers back online, I’ll find some way to get this door open.”

Lor pressed a button next to the doors. A smooth robotic voice answered him.

“Voice authorization required.” 

Lor replied in Kaleesh,  “I am working for Count Dooku and I have come to inspect the ship, let me in.”

“Access Denied”

Lor threw his voice, “This is General Grievous, open these doors at once.”

“Access Denied.”

Now Lor was starting to feel a pang of nervousness clutching at his heart, how many more tries did he have until the AI controlling the doors decided to send a security force? If the Lurcehulk’s defense systems turned hostile….

Lor let out a snarl, he slammed both hands against the doors, “Didn’t you hear me the first time! I said I was General Grievous! The Separatist Army is mine to command and I command you to let me in before I lose my patience and shred your Logic processors and circuitry myself!”

“Access Granted. Welcome back General Grievous.”

Lor stood there, a blank expression on his face as the doors opened. “I should be upset that it worked. But I’m not.” 

He stuck his hand out, motioning for R4-N9 to stay quiet after hearing his astromech return, "Shh.”

Deactivated B1, B2, and Droidekas littered the hallways outside the docking bay they’d arrived in. None of them had any external damage, almost like they’d just…stopped working while on patrols. 

“Unless they were programmed to return to a recharging station, once the Neimodians abandoned the ship…” Lor mumbled stepping over a B2. He wondered how it’d felt, patrolling on a ghost ship, following routines  that offered nothing in the greater scheme of things. .Waiting for a crew to come back that had all but forgotten about you. 

It wasn’t that different, Lor was convinced that the Jedi Council was close to stripping him of his duties and reassigning him to the agricultural corps. Or worse.

Abandoned, left on a Star Destroyer awaiting orders that might never come. Or, what if they had been planning to throw him and the 28th against Grievous as cannon fodder? Something to buy time until a more important Jedi like Anakin or Obi-Wan could arrive and take over. 

Would he have stayed loyal to the Republic if they’d done that? Or would he, given the chance, have turned and joined the Confederacy of Independent Systems?

Lor already knew the answer, he just didn’t know if the 289th would still followed him into the abyss, or if he’d even let them.

R4-N9 started beeping and whistling again. Lor turned, and the astromech disappeared into a dark room. “You could have turned on the lights,” Lor said, feeling around for a light switch. After flipping it on, he saw that he was in a supply closet. Tragically, there were two recharging stations, waiting for droids too loyal to their own programming to preserve themselves. There were also Separatist uniforms hanging up on racks, undoubtedly for the docking bay crew.

But, for Lor’s purposes they were good enough. 

“R4, did anyone ever tell you that you’re a genius?” Lor said, taking one of the officer’s uniforms from the rack. He peeled off his jedi robes like a stuck shed. Then he changed into the uniform. He had to roll the sleeves up, they were slightly too long, and

Lor ended up putting his old boots back on because there wasn’t enough toe room for his feet.

Lor poked his head out of the supply closet and reached out with the Force, levitating a B1 battle droid toward one of the recharging stations. Once it was securely connected, he grabbed a second droid and attached it to the other unit.

“There,” he finally said. “Once I introduce myself, these two should help us take control of the Lucrehulk.”

He folded his Jedi robes neatly. “R4, put this in our ARC-170, will you?” he said, handing the bundle to the little droid.

R4 whistled and grabbed the bundle, zooming out of the room.

Lor sat down on his knees in front of the charging stations. He bowed his head, eyes lightly shut. “The Jedi took everything from me, no one on the Council sensed Order 66’s threat, and now Master Drallig’s gone.” 

“Obi-Wan Kenobi and the 212th Attack Battalion had no mercy when they hunted my father down. Where does that leave me?” Lor’s voice faltered. “Scorn… Circuit Breaker… Izvoshra, they all look to me like I have the answers. But there’s no one left for me to ask for help…”

He paused, then remembered the communicator Cham Syndulla had given him. Lor opened his eyes. He picked it up, fingers trembling slightly as he held it loosely in his hands. After a moment, he activated it.

“Cham?” he said nervously.

“Hello, Jedi. Good to hear you’re still alive.” Cham’s voice came through, delayed by the distance between Hypori and Ryloth.

“How are things going?” Lor asked.

“Not great. The Empire’s sending clones after what they call insurrectionists. Saw expected this. Bail Organa and my wife had more hope.” Cham’s voice was steady, but heavy. “We’re working on a project to get you Jedi off the Empire’s radar. Bail calls it the Hidden Path. Turns out more Jedi survived Order 66 than we thought.”

Cham paused.

“Where are you?”

“Hypori,” Lor answered. “The Separatists left behind one of their Droid Command Ships. I’m checking to see if thedroid factory on the surface is still operational.”

“Be careful,” Cham warned. "You’re playing with fire messing with Separatist tech. I’ve seen what Tactical Droids did to Ryloth, to Onderon...I just don't want to see you get burned.”

“It’s unguarded. I can use these droids to fight the Empire. Bolster my forces.” Lor replied, R4-N9 was back and the little droid stood still for a change, listening to the conversation.

There was a long silence before Cham spoke again.

“It’s a dark path, Lor. One the others won’t understand. These droids don’t care who they kill, only who’s commanding them to shoot. You have to make sure they don’t turn.”

“Oh like the clones?” Lor said bitterly. 

Cham sounded taken aback. “I’ll give you that one, but you still need to be careful. You could alienate yourself from the others by using enemy tech.”

There was a solid beat.

"I'm sorry, that was..." Lor sighed.

"Hey, don't worry about it kid, whole Galaxy's out to kill you, for no reason really and you're what eighteen? I'd be stressed too. But you have to be careful with Separatists." 

Lor thought about it, “ Twenty, but the Separatists fought the Republic, and now the same senators are serving the Empire. Palpatine’s still in charge, he’s just calling himself Emperor now. We have the same enemy they did. The least we can do is offer them an accord.”

“There you go speaking like a true Jedi with peace and fellowship…Would your master have trusted the droids?” Cham asked. 

“No, but my Father would have..”  Lor replied, his gaze firmly upon the two B1 droids recharging. One of their hands twitched. 

“Surprised you even remember him. Don’t the Jedi usually take Padawans too young for that?” Cham’s tone was dry, but not cruel. “Still, I guess idealism runs in your family. I won’t stop you. Just… don’t be surprised when people start giving you dirty looks for walking around with Separatist hardware.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, and hopefully people are more open-minded than you think.” Lor replied.

‘Believe me, I would love to be proven wrong. Now, I need to go, but keep your head up Kid, you got a future ahead of you.” The line with Cham went silent. 

Chapter Text

IG-113 entered with a tray of iced tea, Bespin Cloud Drops, and Black Spire Mousse,  the latter encased in tempered chocolate shells. It was a rare indulgence, given the Ruination’s limited non-ration food stores. But Plo Koon and the others had insisted on making Tiplar and Tiplee feel more comfortable aboard the sleeping  warship.

“Am I interrupting something?” the droid asked.

“Your intrusion is acceptable,” Grievous replied, his claws tapping rhythmically against the table.

“Pardon me,” IG-113 said. He carefully set the tray down, then took the two glasses of tea and placed them in front of the Jedi twins. “Master Plo mentioned that you both enjoy Marstrap Mintea. Unfortunately, we are out of Alderaan Sweet Syrup. I hope the desserts compensate for the taste.”

“It’s the thought that counts. Your generosity is more than enough,” said Tiplee, taking one of the Bespin Cloud Drops from the tray.

Tiplar was more hesitant. She lifted her glass and sipped in silence.

Grievous started coughing again , a ragged, metallic sound that rattled through his chest.
“And now… where were we? Ah, yes.” He leaned forward slightly, voice rasping.
“Despite the best efforts of half the droids on this ship, I’m dying. And I refuse to gather my children from the far corners of the galaxy just to orphan them again.”

He let the silence settle like a sinking ship.

 “I offer you an accord, Jedi.”

“Proceed,” Tiplar said cautiously. She’d decided to at least try one of the Black Spire Mousse. 

“My droids have been rescuing Jedi Masters from the jaws of Oblivion so I may question them about the locations of Jedi training camps. I have been collecting wayward Younglings and Padawans on my search for my blood, I do not intend to harm them, what the Jedi have stolen from me, I shall take back. Only Plo Koon is under my explicit protection here, if either of you or Luminara Unduli have nothing of value to me, then you’ll be on your own against the Empire. Unless, you agree to be my wife and mother to these younglings.” Grievous fell into another long coughing fit..

“Allow me to take you as a wife, Tiplar and you and your sister will be welcomed as honored guests, and under the full protection of my armies. You will also be tasked with caring for the young…Especially my hatchlings, they were taken from me so young, I fear you Jedi are the only family they remember. Not I nor any of their mothers. With you and Master Plo Koon to assist me, I could more easily bridge that gap and repair our relationship as Father and child.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you started murdering Jedi,” Tiplee mumbled under her breath.

That earned a low laugh from Grievous. “This one has fire in her soul,” he rasped. “Careful now, I’ve been told Jedi don’t like that.”

“Tiplee…” Tiplar’s voice had a gentle tone to it, but there was something deeper, a warning. 

“You can’t be seriously considering this.” Tiplee hissed.

“Listen to me. The Order’s gone. Grievous has already proven himself to be trustworthy. Look at Master Plo, he wouldn’t be alive without Grievous’ help. If he gives his word…”

“The Jedi Code says there is no emotion, there is peace. There is no passion,  only serenity.” Tiplee’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t marry someone-”

“Master Ki-Adi-Mundi was allowed an exception,” Tiplar cut in. “Given our current circumstances, I believe the Council would have granted me one as well.”

Tiplee stared. “I understand. But Grievous?!”

“More of those tactical droids and their forces arrive each day. We’re in a forbidden fortress in the middle of the Unknown Regions.  The only ships we have to our names are our interceptors, and we have no fuel,  no reinforcements, and if I refuse Grievous’ offer, no allies.” Tiplar took the last Bespin Cloud Drop. 

“What of Master Plo Koon and Master Luminara?” Tiplee, in her own form of protest, took the last bite of the Black Spire Mousse from her sister’s plate.

“Master Plo is serving as this fleet’s navigator to guide them through the darkness here. He won’t abandon that post and leave all those innocent lives to the mercy of the abyss. I can’t speak for Master Unduli, but if Grievous’ soldiers rescued her, then she might be worse off than we are right now. At least we still have our ships.” 

IG-113 couldn’t read Grievous’ expression. His eyes had that same tired glare they always did.

The droid wasn’t sure how he felt about this offer either. He’d hoped, somehow, that Grievous might still recover, or that they'd raise enough credits to commission cloners to rebuild his body, organically.

But to hear him admit he knew he was dying…To have heard reports  Kamino was gone. And after what it took just to rebuild IG-219, IG-113 doubted organics could repair themselves the way droids could.

IG-113's photoreceptors dimmed. He wished he’d thought to turn off his audioreceptors. 

Even Master Plo was still on one leg. The Ruination didn’t have the parts to build him a proper prosthetic. A B2 leg might be a suitable stand-in,  but EV-A4-D said they lacked the mounting equipment, connectors, and neural interfaces to sync a prosthetic to an organic nervous system.

They might as well give him a wooden peg leg.

Suddenly, Grievous reached a clawed hand across the table and held it out to Tiplar.

“Is it a deal, then?”

There was no hesitation as she gripped his hand in her own. “I accept your accord. You have a deal, Grievous.”  

The cyborg nodded, then chuckled, a twisted mechanical sound that quickly mutated into another cough. “I will introduce you to Ronderu, she could use a mother instead of a Nurse droid.” 

Chapter Text

Lor’s body was seated in meditation in front of the droid recharge stations in the supply closet. The dim lighting overhead flickered with age, as no one had maintained them. His mind, however, was elsewhere in the Force. 

He dreamt of the Jedi Temple, there, but not. His mind immediately turned to Order 66, and like his first vision of the Sith, Lor couldn’t look away.  Boots, boots, one after another, again and again. Then a flash of light, gas, and smoke following shortly after. And so it went as a figure shrouded in black led clones deeper and deeper into the temple. 

Many of the guardians lay already dead, a male Pau’an clothed in their robes standing over them. Lor couldn’t remember his name; but he knew his face- one of the Temple Guardians his master occasionally sparred with. 

The clones didn't shoot him.

The clones didn’t shoot him.

The clones didn't shoot him

Boots, boots on the floor. Again and again, Jedi Guardians fleeing, younglings in their arms. A few of them ripped metal paneling from the temple walls with the Force, using it to shield the younglings while they fought back the clones. This split attention did not work in their favor, but it provided enough of a distraction for their Padawans to escape with the younger children. 

Jedi were fleeing like rats from a sinking ship. Lor saw flashes, visions of them. Many discarded their robes as soon as they’d reached a friend’s house on Coruscant, and then they huddled together, whispering secrets while the voices of senators discussed Hyperspace lanes and private charters. 

This must be the Hidden Path Cham was talking about. The visions of the temple faded, like the end of a memory. Lor was alone, surrounded by only shadow. He considered his options, Ahch-To…Aisha… they were both still so far away. He could give Cham the coordinates and jump route to reach the planet in the Unknown Regions. He could turn control of the 289th over to this fledgling resistance in return for safe passage for him and his sister. A second chance at life, together.

No. A single word, the lone syllable repeating itself over and over in his head. Lor would not surrender. He would not give up. The 289th was loyal to him. Not the Republic, nor anyone else, and while he was safe around them, there was no way to tell if the chips were completely deactivated, or if he was the sole exception to their programming.  He knew that after their betrayal of the Jedi Order, most of the survivors would sooner execute his men or treat them as expendable soldiers. No better than droids. 

Lor refused to leave his fate in another’s hands. 

Lor refused to feel powerless again. 

Lor refused to forget who he was.

A light appeared in the shadows, a gentle green illuminated Lor as he found himself standing before Cin Drallig. “I don’t believe it would be appropriate to call you a Jedi anymore, but you’re still the same little boy I took under my wing all those years ago.”  Cin Drallig’s gaze lowered to the lightsaber in his hand, the blade went out. 

“Master…” Lor started to say before his old mentor shushed him.

“You’ve done what you needed to, you’ve survived, and I am so proud of you for that.” Master Drallig’s words said one thing, but the cracks, the broken tones in his voice said another. His eyes were wet, with more wrinkles around them than Lor had seen in life. The smile on his face did not reach very far. 

“I knew Grievous was your father. I didn’t see it at first… but after the holo-recordings came in, after I saw how you flinched whenever his name came up. I started to put it together. The signs were there. I kept hoping you'd tell me yourself. I’m sorry I never made you feel safe enough to.” Cin Drallig apologized, a few new cracks and high notes working their way into his speech. 

“If you knew, why didn’t you tell the Jedi Council?” Lor questioned, he hadn’t realized he had been that obvious.  Or, maybe it wasn’t obvious at all; since if any of the other masters knew, they would have taken him to the council.

Cin Drallig rested his hand against the side of Lor’s face. “And let the Council use you as a pawn? Bait for an ambush? Brand you a Separatist spy? You and I both know they cared more about the big picture than the people in it. I couldn’t let them have you, Lor. I had to protect you.”

“I thought you would be disappointed, Master,” Lor spoke softly, but clearly.  Some of the regret he felt was lifting from his shoulders.

Cin Drallig's face darkened. “Only in myself.” 

Master Drallig’s gaze went to Lor’s hand. He grabbed hold of him, pressed his lightsaber against Lor’s palm, and wrapped his hands around Lor’s. “A victory won using a son’s life as leverage over his father is not the Jedi way. It would have led the council to darkness and ruin. I know you fight with your father’s sword, but take mine. Remember what I taught you, and be better. Be better than me, be better than the Jedi Council.  Learn from our mistakes and walk the true path following the light.”

This time when Master Drallig smiled, it was genuine, “It’s time for you to wake up now, and remember….There is no death, there is only the Force.” 

When Lor awoke, he did have Master Drallig’s lightsaber in his hands. It felt lighter than his own, more of an extension of himself and less like a tool. He ignited the blade, and stared into the lightsaber’s gentle glow. 

Then, remembering where he was, Lor put it away. His knees creaked when he stood up. Lor checked on the two battle droids; their batteries weren’t completely full yet, but they were at 80%. Which seemed like enough to him. 

Lor waved his hand in front of the two battle droids. He used the Force to turn them both back on. Then stood there waiting as they rebooted. 

“Hey! Who are you? What year is it?” One of the B1’s asked, elbowing its companion to wake the other up. 

“7958 according to the Coruscant calendar, 3258 in the Lothal.” Lor replied, “I am General Grievous’ son. He died at Utapau and I am here as his successor to take command of this ship.” 

“3258!?! We’ve been offline for three years!” The B1 on the left shouted, “You gotta catch us up on what happened...Oh, uhh, my condolences about the General, General.” 

“Roger, Roger.” The one on the right said. Both B1’s took a close look at Lor,  they stared at him so long he was starting to have second thoughts.  Then, Lor reminded himself how much they needed this ship because even a crippled lucrehulk had more than enough space for all his men; and the power reactor had to still be savable, because otherwise it would have gone critical by now and blown the entire ship.

Lor cleared his throat, snapping them both out of it. He wasn’t ready to talk about his father, not to his clones, and certainly not to battle droids he’d just met. 

“Your faceplate and eyes are the same as the old General Grievous’, personally I like the new model more, what about you?” The B1 on the right said.

“New model isn’t as scary looking.” The B1 on the left replied. He used his hand to compare heights, first his own, then he held his hand over Lor. Then the B1 patted Lor twice on top of his head before both started repeating roger roger again. Lor…couldn’t blame them there. They were almost a foot taller than him. 

“Can you lead me to the command deck?” Lor asked, “What are your serial designation numbers anyway?”

The battle droid on the left patted himself on the chest, “B1-779-3, and this is B1-792-46.” After being introduced, the battle droid on the right waved at Lor.

“Your new names are Sevens and Blinker.” Lor said flatly, now the battle droids were really reminding him of clones, specifically newly assigned clone cadets.  

Sevens gasped, “We get call signs!” 

Blinker clapped his hands together. “I like the new General Grievous model, he’s so much nicer to us-oh. Right. We need to tell the others…To the Command deck!” Blinker pointed one hand up at the ceiling and rested the other on his hip. 

“After you both,” Lor said, motioning to the door. He followed them out of the supply closet. Blinker and Sevens stopped and looked around at all the deactivated battle droids.

“We’re gonna be recharging everyone all night,” Blinker said, kicking at a droideka. The battle droid, which Lor was quickly realizing was easily distracted, was even dragging another b1 back inside the closet to put him on a recharge station. He heard mechanical laughter behind him, and there was R4-N9.

“Laugh it up, I’ll have you help him.” Lor threatened, “Did you get the atmospheric shielding back in the docking bay?”

R4-N9 started chirping and spinning. 

“He says yes,” Sevens said nervously tapping his hands together, “I mean…if you don’t already speak astromech…” 

Lor smiled, and he put a hand on Sevens’ shoulder. “Thanks, why don’t you let me know what else he says?” Lor asked, truth be told he didn’t really need the battle droid’s help, but he wanted them to feel like they were aiding him.

“Even the rude parts? Astromechs do have a mouth on them…” Sevens mumbled. Blinker had finished shoving a second battle droid in the closet and was with them again on the way to the command deck.  

“Yes, even the rude parts.”

Their progress was unbearably slow because the two battle droids kept stopping every time they walked by a recharge station to throw some hapless battle droid on it. Blinker turned one light switch on and off five times before finally giving up. The b1 muttered something about maintenance slacking off. Lor didn’t mind the kindness either droid showed for their companions, it saved him the trouble of having to do this himself later.  Inch by inch, floor by floor, they made their way around the damaged sections of the lucrehulk to the command deck.  In another lif,e perhaps they would have made it to the command deck much quicker, but Lor was intentionally avoiding the bulkheads holding back the emptiness of the abyss, where the void itself had claimed sections of the command ship.

These were not places he could venture, not without a helmet, air supply, or mag boots to make up for the lack of gravity in those sectors.

Chapter Text

“Someone want to explain to me how a planet with two suns somehow turned into an ice cube?" Convoy groaned, running his hand down his face.

“Jekara is at the border of the habitable zones for its local stars. If it were any further away, or logically if the system had only one star, the world wouldn’t be habitable at all. Really that wouldn't be so unusual, but planets at the borders tend to be more extreme than those in the middle of the range. Celestial bodies at the innermost limits of the habitable zones tend to be desert worlds, like Tatooine or Geonosis. Those at the outermost are your ice giants, like Hoth or Jekara. Too hot, and too cold, but still...survivable, for most species anyway. ” Circuit Breaker explained, Convoy and Izvoshra gave each other a look, Izvoshra shrugged one shoulder at Convoy, and the two started laughing.

“Alright, alright, we get it, Professor. No need to bore us to death before the seps get a chance to shoot.” Jetstream joked, and this earned a snicker from Big Shot, before the other clone responded.

“Hey now, be nice, Circuit Breaker was answering a question, is all.”

“He should have been a science officer instead of a soldier.” Convoy retorted.

“I dunno, he’s great at shooting things, not so much flying, I don’t know why he’s still a pilot.”

Circuit Breaker held up his right index finger. "I crashed one time! Have you seen the reports on how many ships General Skywalker has ruined?”

“General Skywalker is a Jedi; they get to do that. We don’t.” Izvoshra replied, pointing his thumb at Lor, “he’s never crashed.”

The Kaleesh Jedi faked a laugh and scratched the back of his head. “To be fair, I don’t normally fly during combat engagements either.”

Phantom’s blood ran cold as he listened to the conversation the others were having, he bit his lower lip and swerved as hard as the ship could to the right, then down, then left, right again, and lastly up to try to avoid the heat seeking missiles locked on to the transport ship.  The pilot didn’t manage to avoid all of them; one struck the hull of the ship, blasting a hole in it.

Circuit Breaker, Haze, and Convoy weren’t able to catch their footing in time, their arms flailing as they fell out of the ship. Izvoshra lunged forward, grabbing  Convoy’s arm with one hand, while his other clutched at one of the handrails hard enough that his knuckles were white under his armor.  Izvoshra’s muscles were trembling under the strain of holding both his and Convoy’s bulk.

Commander Scorn started to move carefully. He wanted to help Izvoshra pull Convoy back in the ship, but didn’t want to lose his balance and join Circuit Breaker and Haze in their free fall. He saw Convoy, realizing the situation,  let go of Izvoshra to avoid dragging him down with him.

However, the opposite happened. Lor used the Force to throw Convoy rather roughly into his brother’s arms. Lor was standing there on the brink, a parachute under his arms as his gaze was focused below. Lor took in a breath to steady himself.

“Don’t you dare…Don't you kriffing dare,” Scorn whispered to himself, he activated the mag locks on his boots, and he wanted to shove past the other clones, to grab Lor and hold him back. But Scorn knew if he was careless, he’d send more of his brothers falling to their deaths-

 -and then his Lor jumped out of the wounded ship after Circuit Breaker and Haze.

“Lor! Scorn screamed, fumbling after him toward the edge of the ship, arms outstretched, grasping toward where the Jedi had been mere moments ago. He thought about using his rappel line to hook the young Jedi so he could pull him back in, but Scorn couldn’t even see Lor through the cloud cover and smoke.  He ran over to the cockpit.

“Phantom, bring us around now! Lor jumped!” Scorn ordered, hand on the back of  Phantom’s chair.

”He what!?!” Phantom stammered.

”Circuit Breaker and Haze got sucked out when we lost pressure, the General had to be a kriffing hero and jumped after them, "...but he’s Kaleesh! We’re on Jekara- if I don’t get him back…  if we don’t get him back now, he’s going to be an icicle!"

“I’m trying to bring this bird around, but she’s not listening to me…Scorn the ground’s coming up fast I….” There was raw panic in Phantom’s voice. The emergency lights were flashing, alarms warning of the impending crash. The clone let go of the controls and brought his hands up to shield his face from the rapidly approaching ground. Scorn grabbed him, yanking him out of the pilot’s seat as hard as he could, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He tackled Phantom to the floor as they crashed, using his own body as a shield.

Then there was nothing.

Scorn’s senses slowly returned to him, first a painful bright light,  then cold, and the warm feeling of his breath on his face. The visor on his helmet was cracked, blood trickling down his face from where the glass had cut him. But he could still see out of both eyes. Scorn rolled over off his back and onto his stomach. Then he pushed himself up … out of the snow.  He almost fell over immediately. Scorn felt like he was on a pendulum that had just been swung the other way. He could hear static in the back of his head, and his ears were ringing.

Their transport ship was in a few more pieces than he’d left it, and on fire. A leaking fuel line from the stench. It should burn out eventually.  Scorn recognized Woundwort, Izvoshra, Phantom,  Big Shot,  Broadside, and Jetstream. All of them were already on their feet, helping the others.

Walk it off. He told himself. Scorn slowly made his way over to Crashrash and supported his brother’s neck with one hand as he flipped him over onto his back.

Scorn took Crashrash’s helmet off and gently patted his cheek, “Hey, nap time’s over, come on, get up.”

His little brother could only groan in response, weakly swatting at Scorn with one of his hands.

“Woundwort!” Scorn called the medic over, “Take care of him I’ll go look for the General.”

Woundwort knelt by Crashrash’s side, checking vitals alongside a small medical probe. There was an unnaturally long pause. ”Yes, Sir.”

“Phantom, have you sent out the emergency signal yet?”  Scorn said whilst looking at his compass to get his bearings, they’d been traveling east to west and hit on the right. With Phantom’s attempt at redirecting the ship, the two missing clones and missing jedi should have landed to the north of the crash site.

“Yes, Sir. I activated it when we were hit, but I haven’t found the locator beacon in the wreckage yet, with this storm…I don’t think the signal would get very far, but how are you sure the Republic would even come for us?”

”We have Lor, the Republic doesn’t like losing their toys. That outpost we were supposed to resupply is going to notice when we don’t show up. We just have to make sure we’re still breathing when they get here.”  Scorn explained, already heading north to find Lor, Circuit Breaker, and Haze.

“That…that’s why the General came with us…” Behind his helmet, Phantom’s eyes widened, “That’s why he hasn’t left the Order.”

Scorn reached for Lor’s lightsaber at his belt, and he held his arm out horizontally and ignited the blue blade. A gentle glow in the swirling winds and powdered snow, obscuring everything in a light fog. “It’s why I have this. The General knows how the Republic sees his father; he knows after everything Grievous has done, the Jedi Council will go for the kill, not capture. The General knows he’s not strong enough emotionally to fight Grievous either. My job is to hold Grievous back long enough for Lor to talk him down, or for all of you to escape if he’s too far gone. This isn’t a war; this is our Lor’s private hell.”

Scorn took his thumb off the lightsaber’s switch. He returned it to his belt and kept walking, painfully slow but as fast as his body would let him. The snow was already leaving a light dusting on his armor, the black jumpsuit underneath starting to bunch up in his joints as sweat froze.

“Wait!” Phantom ran after Scorn and shoved a flare gun into his hands. “If the storm gets too bad, use this. Izvoshra and Convoy are digging one of those landspeeders we were supposed to deliver out of the snow. If we can get it running, we can pick you up with it, or send someone for help.”

Scorn gave Phantom a nod, “Just be careful of the storm. Visibility’s low, but we can still see a couple of yards out. Maybe we’re lucky and this will clear out.”

“Are you…Sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Phantom asked, reaching a hand out on Scorn’s shoulder, stopping him from taking another step.

“So we can all freeze to death trying to save each other? If I don’t come back in time, Lor’s dead anyway, and I deserve it for failing him. Everyone else needs to stay here so we don’t die one by one. Circuit Breaker and Haze should be with him, that’d make three of us.” Scorn growls, stepping away from Phantom, “I’ve wasted enough time.”

Ideally, Circuit Breaker and Haze had already found Lor. Ideally, they saw the smoke from the crash and were already traveling south toward it.  Ideally,  Scorn would have been able to force his legs to move faster. But between the snow up to his knees and a soreness creeping down his body from his center back, the best he could manage was a brisk sprint.

Which he considered pathetic for an ARC-Trooper when his Lor’s life was on the line.

He thought about activating the heat pack in his chest plate to warm himself up, and then decided against it. Scorn wasn’t shivering – yet. He decided he should save it for when he needed it.

He continued onward, each footstep heavy and confident. His fingers sought familiar paths at the side of his helmet as he activated the thermal imaging. It wasn’t the best; half of the visor was non-functional because of the cracks. Scorn had to turn his head enough to look over his right shoulder to make up for the break in the glass.

There was a beeping in his ear as his helmet detected a warm spot in the snow. Scorn’s breathing hitched, and there was zero hesitation as he ripped off the broken helmet instead of fighting with the HUD to swap it back to normal vision.

“Please…Please..please..please…”

A sudden burst of energy gave Scorn enough momentum to run over to Lor like a beast in pursuit. His Jedi was quiet and still, almost like he’d fallen asleep in the snow. Scorn’s heart felt like it was either going to beat out of his chest or stop entirely. He could feel the palpitations in his chest, his hands were trembling as he took in Lor’s condition, afraid to even blink in case he disappeared. Scorn took his cloak, warm from his body heat, off. He rested it in the snow and then gently picked Lor up, laying him down on it.

Then Scorn gathered Lor’s hands together and held them close to his mouth, exhaling using the heat from his breath to warm them up. He put a light amount of pressure on Lor’s fingers to see if they were still flexible or if they’d stiffened up. To Scorn’s relief, he could still manipulate Lor’s hands. The frost hadn’t claimed him yet.

He didn’t bother wasting words or trying to rouse Lor. Scorn acted, he took off his chest plate, but paused after. Scorn could hear blaster fire. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Circuit Breaker and Haze firing into the shadows -possibly a Separatist patrol. Scorn knew he could, he should help them.

But the Commander didn’t. Circuit Breaker and Haze weren’t his Lor. They could save themselves; they didn’t need him like Lor did. Scorn kept working, now he was starting to shiver as the bitter winds met the bare skin on his chest.

Not like this. The thought kept repeating itself in Scorn’s head as he stripped Lor down to his undertunic, out of the wet robes that were quickly stealing what little warmth his General had left in his body.  Then Scorn held him close; at any other time, in any other situation, Scorn would have been completely enamored, aroused even at the mere thought of having a partially undressed Lor held so tightly in his arms.

Not like this. Not while he was tethered on the edge of oblivion. Not while he couldn’t give Scorn the permission he needed to touch him. Then, another thought awoke something inside him.

If Lor died, if he’d been too late, this was the only chance Scorn had to hold him like this. And for all his training, all the self-discipline and control the Kaminoans had instilled in him since birth, Scorn was still weak.

He felt dirty and selfish moving Lor’s mask just enough to be able to steal a closed-lipped kiss. It was the briefest of moments, and felt cold and unnatural, wrong against unyielding lips. Scorn pulled away almost as quickly as he’d leaned in. He fixed Lor’s Mumuu mask; and despite it all, was already craving another taste, this time willing. Scorn wanted to hear Lor return his affections; he didn’t want to steal anything from him, and he only wanted what Lor was willing to give.  Hot shame was already rushing to his face, not for what he’d done, no. Scorn had made his decision. Rather, he felt ashamed that he didn’t regret anything.

Scorn didn’t even turn around to check on Circuit Breaker or Haze. He gripped onto Lor so tightly through the cloak and what little clothing the Jedi still had on that wasn’t wet with snow that it left marks on Lor’s scales.

He thought about shooting the flare gun Phantom had given him, but wasn’t sure if that would help Circuit Breaker and Haze, or draw more Separatist droids to them. Then again, the droids knew what they shot down; the droids could already see the smoke from the doomed shuttle.

Scorn shifted his weight, holding Lor with one arm against his hip just long enough for him to draw the flare gun and fire, aiming it over Circuit Breaker and Haze. If Izvoshra and Convoy got the speeder bike free and functional, good.  Circuit Breaker and Haze would have an easier time getting back to the others.

If they hadn’t, then at least they knew where they were. As for Scorn, he was not standing around waiting for anything worse than a handful of B2s to show up.

He couldn’t stay and wait for a rescue that might not come. He couldn’t shoot and protect Lor at the same time. He couldn’t stay out in the cold any longer than he needed to, either; Scorn needed to get his Lor out of the wind.

Scorn’s breath was clouding around him, and the inside of his nose felt dry. He could feel the cold air tearing at the back of his throat. His chest felt like it was being consumed by a frigid inferno, or like every breath forced thousands of tiny glass shards into his lungs.

The cold hadn’t yet claimed Lor when he found him, but it was certainly trying to take them both now. What kept Scorn going was how he could feel the minuscule rise and fall of Lor’s chest against his own.

Scorn’s grip on Lor was precarious; his fingers were starting to go numb. He was glad for the smoke from the crashed ship now; it made it easier to find his way. Otherwise, Scorn would have been in an even more uncomfortable position of not having enough arms to hold Lor, and his compass at the same time.

He still had his heat packs, but now Scorn couldn’t use them. Lor was too cold, warming him that quickly could kill him as all the chilled blood in his limbs suddenly rushed to Lor’s heart and other internal organs. And Scorn had no place to put Lor while he warmed himself either. If Circuit Breaker or Haze hadn’t been under enemy fire…He would have asked them to help him get Lor back to safety. But as it was now, the two clones were –or had been- engaging Separatist droids in a firefight. Their “purpose” was to cover the north so Scorn didn’t have to worry about getting shot in the back, and again, there was that waiting…

His Lor didn’t have time for Scorn to wait around with Circuit Breaker and Haze under enemy fire and hope that Izvoshra and Convoy were able to salvage a speeder from a crashed ship’s cargo.

The only options Scorn had until he got back to the ship were either risk killing Lor, either indirectly by overexposing him to heat, or taking it away. Or; suck it up and ignore the sniffles and runny nose.

He chose to suck it up.

Scorn’s breathing got faster; it felt like there was a wall, a vice, something squeezing. One foot in front of the other, that was all he could do.  Scorn tried not to focus on the way Lor felt against him. The subtle weight resting on Scorn’s shoulder. He fit so naturally there.

Scorn’s mind began to wander, the blistering cold replaced by the halls of the Jedi Temple. Lor had only been promoted to knighthood six months ago, and many of his peers were still merely Padawans. Perhaps he could convince Lor to take him along to one of their knighting ceremonies, maybe help him get dressed in his finery.

As Clones weren’t paid for their service to the Republic, Scorn could save the meager stipend he was given for food and buy a bottle of that Lily and Musk Rose perfume Lor loved so much for the occasion. Maybe Scorn would have been brave enough to tell his Lor how he felt by then. Maybe Lor loved him back, despite how much of a vain, selfish, cruel, weak, and utterly undeserving man Scorn was.

Maybe they went somewhere private, alone, after the knighting ceremony. Scorn’s breathing hitched as he thought about Lor willingly giving him that second taste he’d been wanting. How he’d feel underneath him, or on top. Scorn wasn’t picky.

It was the most hushed of whimpers that pulled Scorn out of his carnal daydreams and back to the true waking world. His Lor was awake –if only just- and this was all Scorn needed to justify his own pain and sacrifices.

“We’re almost back to the ship…” Scorn promised, his voice a low rumble. From how Lor’s eyes fluttered, and how he couldn’t move or lift his head from Scorn’s shoulder, he wasn’t sure if Lor was fully aware of anything. But Scorn tried to speak comfortingly just in case.

The storm had cleared enough that Scorn could make out their wrecked ship. The other clones had strung together parts of the ship’s hull and thermal blankets to create a shelter.  Others were helping Izvoshra and Convoy work on the speeder bike.. They had it hovering, but not quite running yet. Scorn didn’t care enough to ask what was going on. Broadside and a few of the others were attempting to put out the rest of the flames. He’d stopped walking; instead, Scorn was weakly dragging his feet.

Woundwort and Phantom both broke into a full sprint, practically falling over themselves when they saw Scorn. “Commander!”

“What the hell happened? Where’s Circuit Breaker or Haze?” Phantom asked, and the clone took his cloak off and threw it around Scorn’s shoulders. He even put the hood up after dusting off Scorn’s hair.

“Battle Droids….We’re not alone out here.” Scorn mumbled,  he was starting to feel dizzy again, starting to fall…When he felt Woundwort try to take Lor from him, Scorn snapped back to attention. His senses no longer dulled by the cold, at least momentarily.

“Are they…?” Phantom asked, unable to bring himself to finish the question.

“They were still alive when I left with the General. I wasn’t going to wait around for any more to show up.” Scorn replied, though he stared at Woundwort the entire time.

“Commander, you’re injured, your condition could be serious, let me take the General…please,” Woundwort begged.  He met Scorn’s feral gaze without flinching, one of the few clones willing –or able- to stare their Commander down.

To both of their surprise, Scorn looked away, he loosened his grip on Lor, and let the medic take him. Though Scorn did grab Lor’s cortosis-weave Vibroblade from his hip, and he even took Lor’s mask.

Phantom hissed, “What are you doing?”

Scorn’s thoughts were muddled; he had words, he had the explanation Phantom wanted, but forming those thoughts into complete sentences was not an easy task. ”Need…Need to bury these….We can come back for them later after the rescue. The Separatists are going to reach us before the Republic does; we surrender to them. The Republic already knows we’re missing; they’ll send a rescue squad to save Lor. We all get out and stop by here to get Lor’s belongings back.”

Woundwort blinked, “You want us to surrender to the Clankers?”

”What choice do we have? We’ll die out here, at the very least, he will.” Scorn said, pointing Lor’s Mumuu mask at his chest.

“…I’ll bury them and mark the cords, you go with Woundwort and get warmed up,” Phantom said, holding his arms out.

Scorn thought about it, then handed the Mumuu mask and Vibroblade over.

Phantom held both things gingerly, close to his chest. He gave Scorn a curt nod. “Looks like Izvoshra and Convoy got the speeder running, I’ll tell them Circuit Breaker and Haze are still alive and find some rock or tree I can bury these under. Can’t leave it too close to the crash site or the seps will find them.” Phantom said before leaving.

Scorn followed Woundwort into the shelter. Woundwort set Lor down on a pile of thermal blankets –part of the cargo they’d been tasked with delivering to the Republic Outpost. Now, those same supplies were the only things keeping them alive. Then, Woundwort held a thermometer to Scorn’s lips.

“Say Ahh,” Woundwort ordered. He checked Scorn’s temperature and activated two heat packs, putting them under Scorn’s armpits. The medic had Scorn sit down next to Lor.

“Broadside, get over here, I need your body,” Woundwort said without looking away from Lor.

“You need to work on your language…” Broadside groaned under his breath, “What do you need?”

”Take your chest plate off and undo your jumpsuit, hold General Lor against your chest until you start to feel cold, then we can get Phantom or Big Shot over here to warm him up. His temperature’s too low for a heating pack, he’ll go into shock.”  Woundwort explained, and Broadside did as instructed.

“I can hold him.” Scorn protested, Woundwort merely shushed him.

“You have done enough.” The medic explained, he was now hurrying around the shelter like a mother nexu trying to herd all her kittens. It seemed like half of their squad was either hypothermic, wounded from the crash, or both.

Perhaps as a form of protest, when Woundwort’s back was turned, Scorn took one of his gauntlets off and reached for Lor’s hand, enveloping it in his own. He took comfort in feeling the slow lull of Lor’s pulse in his wrist.

Woundwort activated his holoprojector; there, Izvoshra stood. “What do you have to report?” Woundwort asked.

“Circuit Breaker and Haze are going to need medical treatment once we’re back at camp. Minor frostbite, nothing a few bandages and some hot chocolate won’t fix. Just thought I’d let you know.” Izvoshra said, dusting off one of his vambraces to get the snow off of it.

“Understood, thanks for the heads up. I was worried about those two, no injuries from the fall?” Woundwort asked, turning his head slightly to the side.

“Nothing, said Lor, got them both strapped into that parachute, and they lost sight of him after he pulled the cord.”  Izvoshra replied, “We’re heading back now, Izvoshra out.”

Scorn decided to speak up after the transmission ended. “We need to get a white flag up as soon as possible…” Scorn warned, which did get Woundwort’s attention as the medic turned around.

“You really think the Republic isn’t going to reach us in time?” He inquired.

Scorn shook his head no, “Not when those clankers are already at our back door…” Scorn let go of Lor’s hand. He caressed Lor’s cheek with the back of his hand, “I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough.”

Woundwort squatted down in front of Scorn, resting his elbows on the back of his knees, “So what now, Commander? We put on nice clean Sep prison suits, line up, and ask ‘how high’ when they tell us to jump, just sit pretty and hope the Republic shows up before they transfer us off world?”

Scorn growled, leering at Woundwort. “Droids seize up in the cold, and Neimoidians are too soft-bellied to handle it. Wherever they cage us, it'll be warm, warm enough for the General to stay alive. That's all that matters. Now tell me Phantom found that kriffing locator beacon.”

Woundwort went silent for a long time.”Yes, he did, Commander.”  

“Then all we do is wait.” Scorn finally let himself relax, his head hitting the wall behind him with a loud thud. He was shivering, literally quaking in his boots from the cold. Scorn couldn’t even tell if it was blood or not running down his nose anymore. He was exhausted, his neck hurt, his back hurt, and his hands and feet were screaming at him as they thawed out.

But most important of all, his Lor was alive.

Chapter Text

The sound of his own heavy breathing and the wind outside was all the company Scorn had. Woundwort had left, gone to check on the other clones. Which meant Scorn was on his own with an ever-increasing number of half-frozen men. Even Broadside looked to be in the throes of an adrenaline crash after the day’s events. He was still wrapped around Lor, making sure their cold-blooded Jedi’s body temperature didn’t drop any lower.

Scorn didn’t mind when Lor slowly pulled his hand away, slipping it back under the thermal blankets and cloak as he held on tightly to Broadside. 

Broadside’s head shot up instantly, looking around, then down at Lor, “General!” Broadside exclaimed, hugging him. 

“Easy does it, don’t break him.” Scorn grumbled, but there was no anger in his voice. Merely a cautious jest. 

Scorn pulled himself closer to Broadside and Lor, “It’ll be alright,  I know you’re scared, but Phantom found the locator beacon, Republic’s on its way. General…I-I took your mask and the vibrosword, it seemed important to you. In case the clankers find us before the Republic does, I hid them  so they’d be easier to recover later.” 

Lor raised a hand to his face, touching his scales before the Jedi’s gaze turned to Scorn, “I’m not afraid, I know you’ll always be there to protect me.” 

That gentle, but tired smile. The way Lor spoke so confidently, Scorn froze. He sucked on the inside of his cheek chewing on it lightly, “Of course, Sir. I’ll never let anything happen to you.” 

There was so much Scorn wasn’t saying, clones weren’t supposed to love their Jedi. They especially weren’t supposed to love them enough, that Scorn was seriously considering defecting in case General Grievous caught wind of his capture.  Not that they’d been taken prisoner yet, but Scorn knew what he saw. He knew that the clankers were closer than the Republic and that smoke travelled for miles.  They would track it back to the downed ship eventually. 

To even consider treason at all…This was not something Scorn could tell anyone. Not even Lor, his Lor.

Woundwort stepped back inside the makeshift shelter. “Izvoshra’s back, he has Circuit Breaker and Haze, but we have company.” 

“Clankers?” Scorn asked, standing up, he left the heatpacks and thermal blanket Woundwort had given him behind.

“Yes, Sir.”

Scorn’s breath escaped his lips in a narrow hiss that ended in a light tsk sound. He looked over his shoulder at Lor and Broadside. Then Scorn took Lor’s lightsaber from his belt and tossed it at the Jedi. Broadside caught it for Lor, who was still weak and hypothermic. 

“Stay put.” Scorn murmured before walking outside. A Battle Droid commander, four B1s, and a Droideka were at the edge of the crash site. The Droideka had its shields up already. Scorn stepped forward slowly through the snow. It crunched underfoot with every step. His warm breath clouded around his face. He grabbed his utility belt, unbuckling it and clutching it in his hand. His DC-17 blaster pistols, ammo pouches, and the loop where Lor’s lightsaber normally rested were all perfectly visible. The ARC-Trooper threw the belt at the battle droids. He slowly raised his hands in surrender.

“Are you the Commanding Officer of this unit?” The Battle Droid Commander inquired, “Pick that up.” It ordered one of the other battle droids, who replied with the usual “Roger, roger” before strolling over to where Scorn had tossed his utility belt and tossing it over its shoulder.

“Co-Commander, my General was injured in the crash and is incapacitated.” Scorn’s gaze never left the Droideka. 

“Roger, roger,” The Battle Droid Commander started, “Does your unit surrender?” Snow was starting to land on the droid’s chassis; it’d been outside so long that its body was cold enough for the snow to stick instead of melting off.

Scorn resisted the urge to be sarcastic, “We’re freezing, still bleeding from the crash, and in no position to do anything. Yes, we’re surrendering, we’ll need a troop transport to get the wounded out, they’re not going anywhere on their own.” 

Behind Scorn, the other clones who could still stand were throwing their weapons down. Izvoshra and Convoy kept pulling combat knives, pistols, and rifle attachments out of seemingly nowhere. The two clones had a small armory between them.

“Affirmative, your surrender has been accepted.”  The Battle Droid Commander took out a holoprojector. Scorn found himself face to face with a tactical droid. 

“Sir, we’ve located the downed shuttle. The clones surrendered, but they have wounded with them. We need a transport to get them back to base.” The Battle Droid Commander stated. 

“Your request is acceptable, OOM-96-b1-673. I am authorizing  transportation as we speak.” The new droid’s attention turned to Scorn. 

Scorn decided to speak up; his teeth were starting to chatter again from the cold. “Quick question, how is this whole captivity thing going to go? Are you going to ransom us back to the republic or…”

“Attempts will be made to negotiate the terms of your unit’s release to the Republic. If they refuse, you will be detained and held until the inevitable Separatist Victory.” The tactical droid replied. 

Scorn knew there was no chance of that happening, at least to Lor. The Republic knew he was part of the Jekara mission. They were going to stage a rescue to get him back. The best Scorn could hope for was that they’d decide to free him and the rest of the 289th since they were here anyway, rescuing Lor. If not…Well, then he was rotting in a Separatist cell until the end of the war. 

He wasn’t going to let his men die pointlessly staging a jailbreak when their lives weren’t in danger. At this point, the Separatists cared more than the Republic did. 

“Are there any assets of strategic value with your unit?” The tactical droid asked, OOM-96-b1-673 continued to hold the holoprojector still.

“Huh?” Scorn blinked. The other clones all had their hands up and weapons on the ground now. Clanker 96’s soldiers were busy gathering everything up while the Droideka kept a silent vigil in combat mode. Just in case someone tried anything funny. 

The tactical droid rephrased the question. “Do you have Jedi?”

Scorn paused. He felt as if he answered honestly, he was betraying Lor. But Tactical droids were smart enough clankers to figure it out anyway, and if any nearby Republic ships intercepted Separatist transmissions and overheard the clankers bragging about capturing a Jedi, that would definitely speed up the rescue efforts.

Which meant less of a chance for the Separatists to realize who they had in custody. Scorn didn’t know Grievous personally, but from the reports to the Republic High Command and what Lor had told him. He’d wager that the head clanker would tear this sector of the galaxy apart to get his son back. Even more so if he knew how close to dying Lor had come. He seemed the possessive sort who would want to oversee Lor’s recovery personally. 

Scorn made up his mind. “Our Jedi Commander was onboard the ship when we were shot down. He’s critical.” 

“Affirmative, dispatching field medical droids with the transport to assess the Jedi’s condition and stabilize.” The tactical droid was distracted by something out of view. “OOM-96-b1-673 proceed with securing prisoners.”

After hearing the long designation number of the droid commander, Scorn decided that if he saw him again. He was just going to call him Clanker-96. Shorter and much easier to remember.

“Roger, roger,” OOM-96-b1-673 said in response. He was about to turn the holoprojector off.

‘Wait!” Scorn interrupted, “Who do you report to?” He asked the tactical droid.

“I am in service to Admiral Trench of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. My designation is TI-99.” TI-99 replied, the snow was starting to come down heavily again.  

Trench ….He was supposed to be dead. His flagship was destroyed over Christophsis. And yet here he was, along with his tactical droid TI-99.  Had the Republic missed an escape pod? General Skywalker should have paid closer attention; Admiral Trench’s capture might have turned the tide of the war in their favor. 

Scorn still didn’t think it was as bad as hearing he’d delivered his Lor over to Count Dooku. Yes, Admiral Trench reported to him. But would Admiral Trench take that risk of telling the count that he had a Jedi captive before making damn sure that Lor wasn’t going to die from a secondary infection, or sepsis after the frostbite thawed out and he started rotting whilst still drawing breath?

Scorn didn’t think he would. Admiral Trench was smarter than that, and there was certainly no lack of dead Jedi with Grievous hunting them. 

Lor weakly raised one of his hands, angling it so he was able to cover the harsh, sterile light emanating from the ceiling. The tips of his fingers burned, claws broken, scales a pale chalky color or missing entirely, exposing the tender flesh underneath. 

A medical droid noticed Lor reaching up and gently grabbed his hand, guiding it back down to his side. “My apologies, Jedi. We cannot proceed with debridement and Bacta treatments until we are sure of the extent of the damage. I can offer pain relief if you are experiencing discomfort.” 

Lor gripped the bed rails, pulling himself upright. “How much longer?”

“Based on current physiological data and cognitive responsiveness, we will initiate the procedure soon. Anesthesia will be administered. You will be allocated a separate recovery chamber; integration with general prisoner population is not authorized.”

“Who made that request?” Lor almost felt like he didn’t want to know the answer. 

“Admiral Trench has personally arranged for your accommodations, Jedi.” The medical droid replied, its many limbs already moving over the medical equipment and sensors connected to Lor’s body. 

Lor groaned, letting his head rest against the wall, “Kriff….”

The medical droid grabbed his arm, putting another limb against his back as it laid Lor down on the bed. “Please remain prone during the procedure. It is imperative to your health.” 

“You’re starting the debridement now?” Lor asked. He wanted to protest, to ask if the droid would consider local anesthesia instead, so Lor could still be aware of what was going on around him. Or, what they were doing to him. But the droid’s movements were quick, precise. He was not given that option. 

“Correct.”  The medical droid replied, a bottle of medication in hand. Its robotic thumb was blocking the label,  Lor couldn’t read what it was. But he certainly felt it when the sedative entered his system. The sensation was quick, a slight numbness, a voice counting down from ten, then everything going black by the time they reached eight. There were no dreams to greet the son of Sheelal this time as his connection to the waking world was stolen from him.

Lor felt a shadow fall over him. He dared not move as the footsteps grew closer. “You have your father’s eyes,” Trench said without hesitation.

Lor didn’t look up. His gaze remained on the faint blue glow emanating from the tubes that fed the sleeve encasing his right arm and hand. His voice was quiet when he finally turned his head to face Trench. “…You know. How long have you known?”

Trench tilted his head, tapping his cybernetic fingers against his organic ones. “Just found out, your sire does have an incredibly distinctive gaze.”

 Lor brought up his left hand, curling his bandaged fingers into a fist before making himself relax. “What do you want with me?”

“To talk,” Trench replied smoothly, strolling past a hovering med-drone and coming to rest at Lor’s bedside. “Is that a crime, Jedi?” He asked, fidgeting with one of the Bacta sleeves. 

“No… What do you want to talk about?” Lor asked, carefully studying Trench’s face, looking for any emotion, any gesture he could recognize. 

All of Trench’s hands pointed at him. “You.”

That was a terrifying answer. “Me? Are you sure you’re not buying time until Count Dooku, or my father, arrives?”

Trench made a show of looking offended. “Oh, no-no-no. Why would I do that?”

“ Have you told them yet?” Lor sighed, realizing Trench would be harder to read than he thought. 

“I doubt it’s necessary,” Trench said casually, as if the subject were mundane reports. “Count Dooku has an extensive network of spies within the Confederacy. I was merely waiting for your condition to stabilize so that I may file an accurate report.”

Lor frowned. “What’s so interesting about me?”

“ One of Grievous’ stolen offspring. A ghost from his past, thought long dead.” Trench spread his arms dramatically. “Oh, where to begin… Count Dooku and San Hill promised Grievous two things when he joined this war: famine relief for Kalee, and access to Galactic Republic archives after victory, records of Jedi missions, transport logs, the archives that would tell him if any Kaleesh children were taken from his homeworld during the Huk War.”

Trench leaned slightly closer, a gleam in his many eyes. “Don’t you see it? Your father’s involvement in this war is directly tied to you. That leash Sidious and Dooku have around his neck it has your name etched into it, Jedi. Or should I say… Lor jai Sheelal.”

Lor was quiet for a long moment, the silence between them heavy in the air. Then he asked, “What do you want?”

“I thought I answered that already, I want to talk to you, to speak,” Trench waved one of his hands around- “Freely, not as captor and captive but acquaintances, perhaps friends even.” 

He held one of his hands out, but Lor did not take it. Instead, Trench rested it on the bed railings, and he leaned in so close to Lor that he could practically feel the millions of short, coarse hairs against what remained of Admiral Trench’s original face. 

“Something isn’t adding up with Count Dooku’s actions; he’s made decisions, given orders that directly contradict the tenets of our movement. But I cannot confront him on this; he would have my head.” Trench runs one of his thumbs across his throat. “Let’s turn back the clock to Naboo, when Qui-Gon Jinn and his young Padawan arrived for peace negotiations…Why didn’t they simply stall them until after the Queen had been captured and forced to sign legislation? Why attempt to take the lives of two Jedi who were there simply for peace negotiations?”

The realization sank in slowly, like another medication the medical droids seemed obsessed with treating Lor with. “If they’d been successful, it would have given the Republic justification for retaliation against the Trade Federation.”

Trench clapped his hands together,  “Bravo! Precisely, you catch on quick, I like that.” 

Lor narrowed his eyes. “Wait… Naboo is also Chancellor Palpatine’s homeworld.”

“There are those eyes...Not quite as intimidating as General Grievous' but you'll get there in time. There you go, my boy, funny how that worked out, isn’t it? The homeworld of the Naboo Senator is invaded, peace negotiations go south, the occupation isn’t legalized in time,  and one Sheev Palpatine uses the crisis to take control of the senate as Supreme Chancellor…”

“What are you implying?” Lor asked.

“I think your Chancellor made a deal with the devil for political power,” Trench said plainly. “I don’t know if any other senator would have been brave enough to ask the Jedi for assistance with such a trivial matter. His homeworld is invaded, he asks the Jedi Council to aid him, they send two Jedi into the hands of a Sith, sparking a greater conflict when the Neimoidians attempt to kill them before establishing waterproof diplomatic relations with Naboo or the Galactic Republic, and there you have it. A manufactured war.”

Panic was starting to settle in Lor’s chest. A low, cool flame, but one burning nonetheless. If what Admiral Trench said was true…Then the Republic had been compromised for almost a decade at minimum.“What makes you so sure Palpatine was behind this? It could be a coincidence. Two hyperspace routes run by Naboo, their spacecraft are considered works of art, and plasma is one of their main exports. For the Trade Federation, having control of plasma and luxury starships could have been a very profitable business when you consider the planet’s proximity to those routes. 

Trench clicked his mandibles. “Wouldn’t be the first time a politician sold out their constituents for personal gain now, would it?”

Lor hesitated. “But if…you’re right, and this war is …was designed by the Sith, why?”

Trench didn’t answer right away. He gave Lor a look he could read, staring into his eyes with sincerity. 

 “I don’t know, and that terrifies me more than anything else.”

Trench continued, “I’m not force sensitive, and even if I were, I cannot afford to chase this, I cannot let Count Dooku know I’m on to him and his Master…But you, you’re young, you’re a Jedi, and most of all…You could control the leash on your father’s neck. Your Jedi Council is already hunting down the Sith…There’s more going on than anyone knows, something is fundamentally wrong, and it keeps me up at night.” 

Lor nodded slowly. “What else feels off to you?”

Trench nervously rapped his knuckles against the railings on the bed. “Qui-Gon Jinn was Count Dooku’s apprentice when he was still part of the Jedi Order. Don’t you find it strange that since Geonosis, Dooku keeps crossing paths with Obi-Wan, his former Padawan’s student, Anakin, Obi-Wan’s apprentice, and now Ahsoka Tano, Anakin’s Padawan, and yet none have fallen before him. Jedi do not have progeny, they have Padawans, and all three of them are part of Dooku’s legacy, his grandchildren if you will.”

“It’s almost as if someone is feeding them enough information to appear as war heroes. Pride is a known weakness of Jedi, and Savage Opress is a Dathomirian brute. He cannot compare to Qui-Gon Jinn.” 

Lor swallowed. The stars were aligning in ways he did not approve of. “It’s all a coincidence, General Kenobi and General Skywalker are two of our strongest generals.” 

Trench’s voice lowered to a whisper. He was now right next to Lor’s ear. “Open your eyes, Young Sheelal. Just a few weeks back, General Halsey and his Padawan Knox were cut down by Savage Opress, on Dooku’s direct orders. They weren’t the first, and they won’t be the last. Ventress, your father, how many Jedi have they killed at Dooku’s command? But those three”, he spat the names like an old curse, “Kenobi, Skywalker, and Tano… they always seem to slip through the cracks, don’t they?”

Trench’s voice dropped even lower, barely an audible murmur. “You don’t have to swallow my words, but mark my meaning, Young Sheelal, if those three ever show up to drag you back into Republic custody, be ready to face the truth right in front of you. Beware staring into the abyss too long, for it will stare back.”

Lor felt like he could finally breathe again after Admiral Trench stood upright and fixed the wrinkles on his uniform. “And what if you’re right?” Lor asked.

Trench held one of his hands out to Lor again. “I’ll be making a slight adjustment to your lightsaber, the addition of a commlink, a coded signal to contact me directly. All we need to do is purge the Confederacy of Sith rot, then you take command of your father, and the future of our movement will belong to the elected representatives on Raxus, and we can finally end this war…That’s what you want, isn’t it? You know if the Republic wins, they are going to execute your father.”

The Admiral gave a pause, letting his words sink in. Then he continued, “This is your chance to save what’s left of your family. Help me defeat Dooku and Sidious, use the Jedi Council as your weapon, and strike while the iron is hot.  With the Sith corruption purged, you could become the Confederacy’s next Head of State. You have intimate knowledge of the Jedi Order and Republic battle plans. We could end the war quickly together.” 

Lor hesitated, his bandaged fingers trembling under the weight of his decision. He took Trench’s hand, holding it meekly, with all the strength he could gather. Trench brought another one of his hands in and rested it on top of Lor’s.

“I’m so glad we could see eye-to-eyes.” 

Lor let Trench hold his hand. He met the Admiral’s gaze. “It will take time for me to investigate this on my end. I’ll need proof to present to the Jedi Council… Chancellor Palpatine has been a close ally of many Jedi; they won’t take the accusation of him being a Sith puppet lightly. I could be ousted as a traitor.” 

“If you can find the proof we need, you’ll be doing both of us a favor. I wish I could offer more assistance, but alas…Count Dooku would undoubtedly start to suspect I’ve gone rogue if I stick my neck out any further than I already have.”

Chapter Text

Scorn was seated cross-legged behind the bars of his cell. He could reach his hands through the bars, but the maglocks keeping the heavy durasteel frame flush with the ground didn’t really give him any leeway. Even if he had the key to open the cell door directly, it wouldn’t budge without the maglocks being remotely deactivated. 

It was a clever little system designed to make escaping ever so slightly more difficult. Since any would-be escapees had to not only unlock their cells, but somehow convince one of the jailers to turn off the magnets and force fields, stopping the battle droids patrolling the cell block from becoming one with the walls. 

The ARC-Trooper let himself smile. Imagining some high ranked clanker; possibly even General Grievous- getting too close to the bars, reaching past the safety of the force field containing the magnetic flow and getting pulled in. Slammed against the magnet locks like another piece of metal. 

He would have to check the shadowfeeds when this was over to see if any sep officers leaked footage of a clanker or two getting caught on their own security features. 

“I brought the chalk like you wanted!”  One of the b1 droids announced prancing down the rows of jail cells. He set it down on the floor in front of Scorn’s cell. Scorn leaned forward and grabbed a piece, then drew a tic-tac-toe board on the ground in front of him. 

The battle droid picked up a piece and did the same. Scorn put an X in the top left corner. The droid then put an O directly below that.  “Ahha! Cut you off, Clone.”

“Game just started,” Scorn muttered, he  drew another X in the clear middle of the board. The battle droid put an O in the bottom left corner. Scorn put another X in the top left corner. 

“What was your name again? You’re not that Command droid Clanker 96.”

“SO-B79.” The droid tapped the piece of chalk against his head. “Hmm…” 

“SO-B79? Unusual designation.” Scorn said, leaning back on his arms while he waited for the B1 to take his turn.

“Salvage Officer, I was originally made to lead expeditions to seize assets belonging to the Confederate of Independent Systems after hostilities ceased.” SO-B79 explained drawing an O in the bottom right corner. Then he drew a line through his three-in-a-row. 

SO-B79 clapped his hands together giddily, “Go again?”

“Yeah, we can go again. So what kind of assets did you seize?” Scorn asked, he pulled at the sleeve of his prison uniform and used it to rub out the old board. Then he drew a new one. 

“Mostly just reclaiming droid parts, as long as our memory banks and logic cores are intact we can come back from pretty much anything. Tactical Droids, MagnaGuards, Droidekas, my team and I would gather them up and take them back to be rebuilt.” SO-B79 explained, this time he went first and drew an O in the center of the board.

“You Clankers go back for your casualties?” Scorn asked in disbelief. 

“Well yeah, we’re expensive! That’s a lot of taxpayer money to throw away…Especially the tactical droids or MagnaGuards…those guys cost a hundred thousand credits easily. So many of our parts are supposed to be modules so it’s cheaper to repair than replace. There’s a reason those Command Ships are full of droid parts.”

Scorn remained silent, a cold fury settling into his bones that he knew would never be extinguished. The next breath he exhaled lingered over his vocal cords giving his voice a stubborn growl. “Your turn.” He said plainly after putting an X to the left of SO-B79’s mark.

“Wait, can we back up?” Convoy said, the clone stood up and walked to the front of his cell leaning on the door. “You mean to tell me, the Kriffing Seps care more about their droids than the Republic cares about us?”

This, of course, was both the right and wrong thing to say. It got the rest of the captive clones in the cell block riled up voicing their anger. Not at the battle droids guarding their cells, but at the very system that made them. The same system likely wouldn’t bother trying to negotiate with the Separatists for their release, and would instead focus on a strike team to extract the Jedi leading them.

“Lor cares about us, that’s all I need.” Scorn replied, taking his turn again. “Hey SO-B79, do you know when he’ll be out of Medical?”

“Your Jedi’s been transferred to a private room. Admiral Trench’s orders. He doesn’t want him in general population ... .Sorry.” SO-B79 replied, the B1 droid raised his head looking around at the clones.

“Anyone else want some chalk?” SO-B79 asked nervously, “I could get snacks too…Admiral Trench is on a liquid diet so the kitchen has a bunch of purees, juices, and soups not ration bars.” 

“...Does he have any steak or brisket?” Izvoshra asked, finally joining the other clones at the front of their cells.

“Harch are mostly carnivorous, most of what we have are meat purees, bone marrow, or soups…I’ll be right back, don’t cheat!” SO-B79 got up and scampered out of the cell block.

Big Shot crossed his arms in front of his chest “I like him.”

“Agreed, not a bad clanker.” Haze said, nodding his head, “So what are we going to do if the Republic only saves Lor? I doubt they’re going to negotiate for us.”

“Sit in these cages until the war’s over.” Scorn grumbled. 

SO-B79 had come back with snacks like he’d promised, the battle droid had even brought a  projector synced up to the holonet and put  on Dark Romance for the clones to watch while they ate. 

Convoy finished off a liquefied steak, he held the empty pouch in his left hand. “There a reason we’re watching this chick flick?” 

A B2 battle droid turned its head to speak to him.“It’s on syndication right now and Admiral Trench said we’re not allowed to subscribe to premium holofilm channels.” 

Scorn smirked, “Bet he said you’re lucky he lets you watch them at all.”

“He wants us to be cultured.”  SO-B79 shrugged and went back to watching the film. The lead actor had just caught his swooning love interest and pulled her in for a passionate kiss after confessing his affections.

The droideka in the room, which Scorn believed to be the same one from when they were captured, started tapping one of his legs. “... .... ..- - / ..- .--. / .. / -.-. .- -. .----. - / .... . .- .-. / - .... . / ..-. .. .-.. –” 

“Did anyone catch what he said?” Circuit Breaker asked.

“He said," Please be quiet, I can't hear the film.” SO-B79 answered.

“- .... .- - .----. ... / -. --- - / .-- .... .- - / .. / ... .- .. -..” The Droideka looked down, then moved closer to the holoprojector. 

Scorn was intently watching the movie. Studying the movement and gestures the actors made when interacting with one another. Was it all for the camera? Was there any real affection between them? Or, was it all for a paycheck at the end of the day? He had to know. 

Scorn suddenly felt a pang in his heart, what was going to happen to these droids when the Republic showed up to rescue Lor? He needed to come up with a solution before they arrived. While yes, SO-B79 had said that the droids were effectively immortal as long as their memory banks and logic cores remained intact, that wasn’t a risk Scorn felt comfortable taking. Not with how well they were treating them. He had to return that kindness. 

He wondered how Lor was being treated, what had Admiral Trench done to him? Where was he? How was his recovery going? Where was Lor’s lightsaber? Would Lor leave without him and the other clones? Scorn knew that Lor would never willingly abandon them, but if he was too injured to fight back or protest when the Republic arrived…

Maybe Scorn and the others would end up at the mercy of the Confederacy. All Scorn wanted was to see his Lor again, all he wanted was to hold him and tell him how he really felt.  

Chapter Text

Lor was sitting up in bed. He still had the Bacta sleeves on his right arm and leg. The painkillers Admiral Trench’s medical droid gave him had dulled most of the sensation in his  wounded limbs.  He closed his eyes, and focused on his own breathing. Slow, steady, even, it was a grounding presence for him. 

Flashes of another ship greeted Lor’s senses, the heavy footsteps of battle droids, he felt…confusion. They weren’t on a ship currently, they were on a Separatist base on Jekara’s surface. Then, lightsabers, white mechanical claws, That urge to strike when a B1 droid said it had forgotten to disengage the grav lock in the hangar bay. But that was that, only an urge. 

The B1 droid used a finger to gently press Grievous’ hand down. “Is something wrong, General?”

Grievous reached up, one hand over an eye. The other three grasped at his head “I feel…quiet, I feel pain, the rage is gone. This is worse, where is A4-D?..What is in my head?”  Grievous’ arms shifted subconsciously, now positioned as if he were clutching an infant to his chest. 

There was a haunting look in Grievous’ eyes, “Why…Why do I feel like this?” 

Lor opened his eyes, the scene was gone. He patted himself on the chest and took a few more deep breaths, confirming to himself that he was still the same person. He hadn’t expected his thoughts to wander so quickly toward his father. 

Truly, Lor had been trying to sense any ripples in the force, much like one may study the ripples in a pool of water to tell where a stone was dropped. Although in this case, the stone was an approaching Jedi. He tried meditation again. This time focusing on any possible Jedi nearing Jekara. 

There was silence, then something, a single drop of water falling from a blade of grass into the pond. Clone trooper armor with blue paint on it, the sensation of a fur cloak against bare skin. Then, a Padawan slowly turning to face Lor, reaching up and pulling her hood down. 

Lor’s heart fell to the pit of his stomach, Admiral Trench was right. If it was anyone else, he still might have called the Harch delusional, a conspiracy theorist, but Ahsoka Tano?  This was beyond coincidence. It was exactly what Trench warned about: someone feeding the Republic information, making her and her master Anakin look like war heroes on purpose.

Ahsoka leaned across the table, grabbing Rex’s arm and shaking him.“Rex, he’s still alive, I can feel him.”

The clone put his helmet on and checked the gas canister on his blaster, completely ignoring  Ahsoka’s manhandling“Seriously? Figured by now it’d just be a body recovery.”

Ahsoka settled down, letting him go. “Maybe they found shelter?”

Rex finished reloading his blaster. “Maybe the Seps grabbed him instead.”

Ahsoka nodded grimly, she put her hood back up. “We have to move fast. If Grievous or Dooku find him… it’s over.”

Lor opened his eyes again, shaking his head to clear the rest of the visions. “It was over ten years before it started…” He said to no one. His thoughts went to Mos Espa, to Tatooine at the beginning of the Clone Wars. That had been the first time he’d met Ahsoka. After she rescued Jabba’s son Rotta. It had been another plot by Count Dooku ... .And again Anakin and Ahsoka survived what other Jedi couldn’t. Though this time Ahsoka had unknowingly helped Lor. Returning Rotta to his father meant Jabba was in an unusually good mood when he arrived on world and noticed the Trandoshan Aagisk Darch bleeding out in the streets of the spaceport.

There was only one thing Lor could have done, get the dying man help when no one else would. It was only later that he’d found out Jabba the Hutt had ordered Aagisk’s death and he had unintentionally stepped in the middle of a feud between two Hutts since Aagisk had tracked a bounty to Jabba’s world, thus disrespecting him.

It was thanks to Ahsoka’s actions that the powerful crime boss had decided to look the other way. To ignore Lor’s sin of mercy. Though Aagisk’s master Simri the Hutt, had been thankful enough for the timely rescue that she’d offered Lor a boon. 

Not that he could ever cash it in without earning the ire of the Jedi Council.Though the entire situation could have been avoided if he’d ignored the pleas of a dying man and the stench of iron permeating the air beneath all the starship fuel and burnt ozone. Then there was what Aagisk had told him after being saved, the mention of a Ghrakhowsk. How it was a blessing in disguise from the Scorekeeper that Lor had arrived when he did, since Aagisk had already eliminated the target, thus preserving his Jagannath points because he was not struck down during a hunt. 

The Trandoshan had completed his contract, escaped Tatooine with his life, and kept his honor intact. He said swearing a Ghrakhowsk to Lor was the least he could do to repay him. Lor wondered at what point he’d even have the opportunity to hold Aagisk to that…

 Lor’s bandaged fingers wrapped around the emergency button dangling from the medical console beside his bed. He pressed it once, then waited.

The doors opened a minute later, Admiral Trench and the medical droids entered the room. “You called my boy?” Trench said before waving off the medical droids.

“You were right, she’s coming, Ahsoka…Everything you said was right.” Lor explained his voice hollow and numb as the implications finally sunk in. This time he was the one who reached his hand out for Admiral Trench. 

Admiral Trench stepped forward taking Lor’s hand, “I’ll…arrange things while we wait for her arrival. We can’t make it too easy on Miss Tano, she’ll suspect something.  But I shan’t waste any more of my droids than I have to.”

"What about my clones?" Lor asked, Admiral Trench merely patted the back of his hand reassuringly.

"Everything will be arranged my boy, you will leave here with them. I swear it." Admiral Trench promised, and Lor sensed no darkness from him, no lies. The Harch meant his words. 

Chapter Text

The smell of ozone and gas reached Scorn’s nose before he heard the blaster fire. He bolted up and grabbed the bars of his cell trying to twist himself to see what was going on. Then he heard it.

“... --- …”

“... .- ...- . / --- ..- .-. / ... --- ..- .-.. …”

“... --- …”

Scorn only understood the first series of taps; it was a distress signal, older in scope, but simple enough that the Kaminoans had still taught it in case the Mon Calamari or another smaller naval force allied with the Republic used it.  As for what the longer series of taps meant, he had no idea.

Two droideka came rolling into the cell block followed by three B2, two of which were carrying a tactical droid that had been slashed by a lightsaber. The edges of the mechanical wound still glowed red hot. Miraculously, the tactical droid’s photoreceptors were still flickering. The wound, while severe, wasn't enough to destroy the droid.  Scorn wondered if it was TI-99. The extent of the damage made it hard to tell.

“Where is-” Scorn started to ask about SO-B79 when he heard a shriek interrupt him.

“Run away!”  SO-B79 was moving about as fast as Scorn had ever seen a B1, behind him was a colorful display of blaster fire. One of the bolts hit a B1 droid behind SO-B79 sending it sprawling out on the floor.

“Hey, that didn’t hit the memory banks…Oh I’m going to have so much work to do.” SO-B79 skidded to a halt in front of Scorn’s cell, he tossed a key card at him. The material must have been non-magnetized because it didn’t react to the maglocks. Scorn caught the key card and pressed it against the door handle. The light above his cell turned green, the maglocks deactivated and he was able to push the door open. 

SO-B79 looked over his shoulders. “We’re all gonna go hide in one of the empty cells now,  please tell your friends not to kill us!” He said before running after the B2’s and Droidekas.

Scorn didn’t waste any time, he used the key card to free the others, Big Shot , Broadside, Circuit Breaker, Convoy, Crashrash, Haze, Izvoshra, Jetstream, Phantom, Roadblock, Saber Nine, and Woundwort all stood in the middle of the cell block.

Before Scorn had a chance to speak, he heard footsteps behind him.  The ARC-Trooper turned around quickly and saw a Togruta standing next to another clone trooper. 

“Is your Jedi here?” Rex asked.

“No, I think they’re holding him in a private room.” Commander Scorn replied.

Big Shot cracked his knuckles. “Took you long enough, I was getting tired of prison food.”

Ahsoka deactivated her lightsabers for a moment. “Understood, we’ll find him, don't worry. How’d you all get out anyway?” 

“Uhh…I swiped the key card off the guard. Was waiting for the right time to bust out.” Scorn said awkwardly, perhaps too quickly “Got any spare blasters?”  He asked, his gaze fixated on the B1 droid at the end of the hall. SO-B79 had said the shot missed the memory banks…so if he aimed there, he could deactivate the B1’s without killing them.

“Negative, grab the clanker’s weapons, Tup, Jesse how’s it looking?” Rex activated the comlink in his helmet. Scorn couldn’t hear the other half of the conversation. He went to the end of the hall and picked up the stricken B1’s  E-5 Blaster Rifle. 

“Not Republic made, but it’ll do in a pinch.” Scorn grumbled. He was trying his best to act natural, to draw the attention of the 501st and their Jedi away from SO-B79’s hiding place. So far, it seemed to be working. Or, maybe Ahsoka could his nervousness anyway and thought he was merely concerned for his Lor.

Scorn gave a look to his brothers, Izvoshra, the eldest seemed to understand him first. They all followed Ahsoka and Rex out of the cell block, away from where SO-B79 and the others were huddled together. He dared not speak, nor let himself truly think lest Ahsoka notice the ripples in his emotions. 

The hissing of melting steel caught Lor’s attention. Someone had jammed a lightsaber through the door to his room and was meticulously cutting out a circle in the middle of the door. There was blaster fire on the other side too. Instead of falling forward once it was cut, the hot slab of metal jerked to the side. 

There Ahsoka stood, a few of her clones beside her. “Yeesh, the Separatists really banged you up didn’t they?” Ahsoka gave Lor a friendly smile.

“Don’t worry about it, we found your lightsaber, we’ll get you out of here.” Ahsoka disconnected the tubes and monitor wires from Lor’s body. “Honestly I don’t know what the council was thinking sending you here.”

“I wanted to see an Ice world, I’ve never been to one before. I thought a logistics mission was safe enough I could do a little sightseeing on the ship.” Lor confessed, he took Ahsoka’s hand when she offered it to help him up. 

“That’s….Actually fair. But do us all a favor and stay off Ice worlds from now on, alright?” Ahsoka put a hand on Lor’s back to steady him.

He chuckled, “Yeah, I think I learned my lesson.” 

There was a brief silence.

Lor followed Ahsoka out of the Medical Bay, he was happy to see Commander Scorn and the rest of the clones unharmed. “Do you remember Tatooine?”

Ahsoka pursed her lips together.“Wasn’t that where we met?”

Lor hummed in agreement. “Mhm, Been a while hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ahsoka’s attention seemed elsewhere, “You, still a Padawan?” She asked, offering him his lightsaber back.

Lor shook his head, he took his lightsaber with his left hand. “No, I made knight a few months ago.”

That got a another smile from Ahsoka, Lor was surprised, she didn’t seem envious at all. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks…Can we…Can we stop by the crash site before we leave Jekara? Commander Scorn said they hid my mask and vibroblade so the Separatists wouldn’t take them.I’d appreciate having them back. “ Lor explained, he hoped Ahsoka wouldn’t make him go into detail about why he wanted those things back so badly.

Ahsoka thought about it. “Shouldn’t be a problem, the Republic would want us to salvage all the supplies we can from the crash site anyway, but you’re going right to the Tribunal ’s Medical Bay, no more snowball fights for you.” 

“Yes, General.” Lor half-joked back. He was already thinking of how he could gain access to the Jedi Archive’s records from ten years ago without lying, or revealing what he was really after. Lor was balancing on a perilous tightrope with no net underneath him in case he fell. He had to convince Master Jocasta Nu to grant him access to the archives,and avoid the scrutiny of the Jedi Council or Chancellor Palpatine.

If he was caught lying, or she felt he wasn’t ready for the knowledge…

He might have to trade a secret for a secret.But what could he tell the Jedi Council to satisfy their interest in his curiosity? Did he confess to them that Grievous was his biological father? Did he let them know what T'chooka D'oon had done? Even nine years later Lor couldn’t exactly blame the Jedi who would earn the moniker “the Executioner of Kalee”.  Even if Lor wished deep in his heart, that the Jedi would have just left him and Aisha  with their mother’s corpse waiting for the return of Grievous and his Izvoshra.

Things would have been so much simpler if he’d stayed on his homeworld and became a mystic. But, then Lor would have never have met Master Drallig, or his clones. Aagisk Darch’s blood would have turned the sands red as he died alone, and abandoned on a foreign world.

As much as Lor wanted to go home, as much as he wanted to see his Father again. This was for the best.

Chapter Text

Lor gave up. He plopped down amongst the dust and grime on the command deck floor.  There, Lor lay gazing up at the ceiling. In front of him, was the source of his frustrations, the Lucrehulk's main control panel. From it, he would have been able to seize control of most of the ship’s functions.

If he could only figure out how to change the language settings first. Which, even after an hour of work, were still set to Geonosian.

“Are you sure you can’t change it R4-N9?” Lor said, looking back toward his astromech droid. Who simply whistled sadly.

“You too? Lemme guess, the firewalls?” Lor groaned and rubbed his eyes. All he wanted to do was change the ship’s language to Kaleesh. It made the most sense to him, as his native language was obscure, but due to Grievous’ influence would have been among one of the language modules installed on Separatist craft. This would have made it an ideal choice, as almost no one else in the galaxy would be able to read it.

Unfortunately, the original crew had the same idea with Geonosian. Which Lor could only read enough of, to identify the alphabet.

Sevens tapped his fingers together. “Ahh…General Grievous, Sir?” The battle droid started to say, “would you like some help?”

Lor had to think about it, “Do you know how to change the language settings on this ship?”

”Course I do! Us B1’s were originally manufactured on Geonosis before they built the other foundries on worlds like Hypori and Kudo III. There was this huge trade deal with the Baktoid Armor Workshop, and Poggle the Lesser got really rich.” Sevens went to the console and breezed through the menus as he spoke.

“Why didn’t you offer to help earlier?” Lor said, sitting up. He really was starting to hate hearing his father’s name repeated, but it was the only way he could impose any authority over these B1’s without reprogramming them all to be loyal to him.

This was not something Lor knew how to do either. He wasn’t an engineer, such work was considered beneath Jedi. Thus, no one had taught him. A fact that was proving to be a great source of frustration to him now.

“I didn’t know if you were like the old Grievous model, I didn’t want to get punched or scrapped. We don’t have any Salvage Officers online yet.” Sevens explained, “What language did you want this set to again? Kaleesh?”

”If you would be so kind,” Lor mumbled, pinching the bridge of his mask.

“And…Done!” Sevens chirped, “Anything else I can assist you with, General?”

“Actually, can you help me with something?  I have some clones who defected; I want to let this ship’s security systems know so they don’t engage in friendly fire. Could you help me with that?” Lor asked.

“Didn’t know Clones could be reprogrammed too, thought it was just droids, oh can they get memory wiped-Wait. Right.” Sevens looked back at the console, then to Lor.

“Ahh that sounds too advanced for me, General. You’d need a tactical droid online to help you with that one, Sir.”

Now, this was a problem. Tactical droids were far more intelligent than the battle droids. Lor wasn’t sure if his little song and dance about being the new Grievous model would convince them as easily. Yes, he was his father’s son. But Lor held no rank in the Confederacy’s naval fleet, and there was no one to vouch for him. He could always have Sevens and Blinker activate a medical droid, use his connection to his father’s blood to assert control over the tactical droids. But would that work long term…

Then again, there was that droid foundry on Hypori’s surface. He could always make a short trip, construct new tactical droids programmed to be loyal to him, and then just pull memory banks from older models to give them access codes and logistics information. Lor would have to study the schematics, maybe even dismantle a few older models for practice. It was doable, just time-consuming.  His biggest concern was if the droid foundry was still operational. But, there was only one way to find out.

“Sevens, check on the droids charging at the stations. Inform them that a new Grievous model has taken command of the ship. Then bring me a medical droid, I’ll need my genetic markers uploaded into the ship’s main computer. The retinal scanners need updating too.” Lor ordered, it felt almost natural like he was giving commands to Scorn or another one of the clones.

“Roger roger.” Sevens and Blinker both replied. Sevens left, while Blinker stayed by Lor and R4-N9.

Now that Lor had access to basic systems, he combed through files and reviewed automated reports from the Lucrehulk’s power generators. The steadily decreasing energy demands, droids powering down and stopping their recharge cycles. combined with limited life support meant the fuel reserves remained high. The problem was that there were four different substantial hull breaches, and the ship’s main Hyperdrive was shorted out. It would need repaired before this ship went anywhere.

Everything clicked into place.

I could tell Scorn and the others to hit another trade caravan. If we’re lucky, they’ll have metal in the cargo bays for hull repairs. Maybe salvage hyperdrive parts. But until the security systems recognize the clones as friendly, they can’t come near here. That means I need a tactical droid online, and that means a trip to Hypori’s surface. Lor groaned, leaning forward until his forehead thunked lightly against the edge of the computer console.

Why were things so kriffing difficult?

“Blinker, could you get me a drink of water?” Lor asked, it was mostly to get the battle droid to leave him alone for a few minutes without directly telling him to leave.

“Yes General!”  Blinker left, leaving Lor alone with R4-N9. The little astromech droid seemed to have a look that said, ‘I know what you did.’

“I think we’re going down to the surface soon R4. I’m not getting very far without a tactical droid. But I don’t think the ones on this ship are going to like me very much…If we can eve find one, the crew might taken them along when they abandoned ship.”

R4-N9 started beeping and whistling.

“You’re right, they took the tactical droids when they evacuated.” Lor sighed, he sat down on the floor with his back to the computer console. 

“Here’s your water General,” Blinker leaned down offering out a glass bottle to Lor.  He took it and used one of his claws to pop the metal cap off before taking a drink.

“Thanks, how is it going with the other battle droids?” Lor asked taking another sip.

“The crew’s glad someone finally came for us. We’ve been out here for years drifting in space.” Binker explained, the droid’s words made Lor choke.

He knew that the ship had been abandoned three years ago, but he hadn’t expected the battle droids left behind to react like this. He hadn’t expected them to care. It reminded him of his clones, how they felt toward the GAR. It wasn’t exactly a secret that the Republic had prioritized the lives of Jedi over clones.  That was why Lor went on every mission he could with the 289 th . That was why he’d nearly frozen to death on Jekara.

“Are you alright General?” Blinker asked, turning his head the other way. His photoreceptors focused on Lor’s face.

Lor used the back of his sleeve to wipe off his mouth. “I’m fine.” He lied.

Lor was most certainly not fine. In fact, he was quite the opposite. One hundred hours ago he was still an honorable Jedi Knight, a General of the Republic’s army. One hundred hours ago, his father General Grievous still drew breath. One hundred hours ago, the Jedi Temple still stood. One hundred hours ago, Convoy was still alive. Lor hadn’t the time to breathe much less grieve everything that had been stolen from him in an instant, and here he was forced to play a role in a performance he never asked for. He had to live for others, to be that anchor keeping everyone else steady in the chaos.

He had to stare into the abyss, and dare it to blink first.

Chapter Text

Lor sat in the captain’s chair. He imagined Scorn, Phantom, and the others standing at the various consoles. Of course, to properly man the command deck he would need B1’s. Lor didn’t have enough pilots or engineers left among his men to fill all the roles necessary to keep a ship of this size properly staffed. Unfortunately for him, OOM pilot battle droids were smart. Not on the level of the tactical droids he needed to assert full control of the ship. But smart enough that he’d need more proof of his authority.

And yet, this was still easier than taking control of a Republic command ship. Lor shuddered as he thought about what had happened on his Venator after Order 66 went out.

The doors opened, one of the B1 droids behind Sevens spoke. “That’s the new General Grievous model? But he’s so short.”

“Yeah he’s definitely not a combat unit,” Blinker agreed, “I guess high command got tired of the old model’s constant repair bills. But he’s nice! He hasn’t beaten or scrapped anyone!”

“You know I’m right here, right?” Lor leaned forward resting his elbows on the backs of his knees. He shook his head, “Is there a medical droid with you?”

An EV-series medical droid stepped forward. ”Right here, General.”

“Good, what is your designation?” Lor asked, he stood up from his chair.

“EV-C8-B, I was informed that you require assistance with the retinal scanners.”

“You were informed correctly, I also need my genetic information added to the ship’s security systems.”

”I’ll never understand the obsession with making Grievous models partially organic…But who am I but a lowly droid to question orders.” EV-C8-B approached Lor, he used one of his robotic hands to hold Lor’s jaw still keeping him in place. “Don’t blink.”

The medical droid held a scanner to Lor’s left eye. There was a rapid series of flashing lights that left him disorientated. Then EV-C8-B did the same to his right eye.

After EV-C8-B let go of him, Lor lifted up his mask enough to bring a hand under it and rubbed his eyes.

EV-C8-B spoke. “Sample diagnostics complete, you’ve been successfully added to authorized personnel. Now I require a blood sample, hold out your hand.”

Lor did as he was told; EV-C8-B used a needle to pierce between two scales on his finger. “57% match to General Grievous. Conclusion, welcome home General.”

Is this enough to convince the pilot droids to listen to me? Lor asked himself. He truly hoped so.

“Could one of you escort me to the Captain’s Quarters? I’m still learning my way around this ship.” Lor asked, Sevens immediately raised his hand.

“Oh-Oh! I can show you the way General!” The battle droid was practically jumping up and down.

“R4, you’re in charge of the bridge…Very well, lead the way.” Lor followed after Sevens, his hands clasped behind his back. A purposeful imitation of the way Lor remembered his father walking.

The Lucrehulk’s captain’s quarters were much more extravagant than Lor’s quarters at the Jedi Temple. One wall was just an aquarium –though there were no fish left- Lor wasn’t sure if the animals died from neglect after the crew evacuated, or if they were amongst the things deemed precious enough to take.

He hoped that their owner took them with him when the ship was evacuated. To die abandoned and alone trapped within a glass box felt too cruel a fate for something so innocent.

There was also plush black carpet underfoot, not durasteel or some other composite. It was a small comfort in a place that still felt foreign, like a borrowed coat that didn’t quite fit. The walls had been painted cool beige to make them appear more like a home, and less like standard ship quarters. Then there was the shimmer of atmospheric shielding in front of a view port behind the bed at the far end of the room. This confused Lor, as there was nothing wrong with the view port itself. He supposed it was just an extra security measure.

There was an en suite bathroom with a combination shower and tub. The floor was heated tile, and there was a digital screen to set the temperature of either a bath, or shower. There was even an option for Bacta infusions next to the temperature controls. Lor decided that he would let the faucets run for a couple of minutes to clear the rust and debris from the pipes before bathing.

A bath infused with Bacta was extremely tempting. With the controls, Lor could set it to the exact temperature his cold blooded body needed and just soak while he waited on Sevens and the others to recharge the rest of the battle droids left onboard the stricken Lucrehulk.

The only thing was that any rations left behind by the original crew had to be nearing their expiration dates. Lor couldn’t stay too long without resupplying.
He slipped off his boots and left them neatly by the door. Checking the closet, he hoped to find something his size, but whoever the last captain was had clearly been much taller. More of a traditional soldier’s build. Nothing there would fit him. Then again he could always roll the sleeves.

“Sevens get this closet cleared out.” Lor ordered, “Leave the captain’s jackets.”

Sevens gave him a salute. “Roger, roger.” The battle droid, eager to complete his new task, started taking the other clothes off the hangers and out of the closet. Lor on the other hand, went into the bathroom and turned on all the faucets to let them run. He thought about what kind of fish he could put in the aquarium. He’d have to figure out if it was a fresh water, or salt water installation.

A computer terminal on the wall near the bed caught Lor’s attention. He used the retinal scanner to login to the computer, the language already set to Kaleesh. All the personal information had been wiped, not that Lor was surprised. The old captain clearly had time to erase his presence and prepare the space for its new owner.

Rather it be the void of space, or a living commander.

Lor scratched his chin, he decided to connect to the holonet and put on a music play list marked as for peaceful meditation. He took his holoprojector and called Scorn.
“Yes, Sir?” Commander Scorn answered a mere couple of seconds after Lor rang him.

“I’ve secured the Lucrehulk, I’m on the personnel whitelist,I need you to start raiding trade caravans in the Outer Rim. The Hyperdrive’s shot. The backup’s still online so she’s not completely stranded, there’s hull breaches too. We’ll need the metal from captured ships to repair everything.” Lor explained.

“Yes, Sir, I understand.” Commander Scorn replied rather darkly.

Lor chewed at his lower lip,“Try to take prisoners, and blame the Imperials as much as you can. We need to stay under the radar. Especially with how vulnerable we truly are.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Life support and the atmospheric shielding has been restored to the docking bay, I’ll be flushing the pipes to get rid of the still water and rust next,” Lor glanced up from his call, “Sevens when you’re done with that, order maintenance to clean up the crews quarters. Throw out any expired rations and make sure everything is nice and sterile.”

“Roger, roger.” Sevens replied, he was by the door now holding all the clothes from the closet Lor had told him to remove.

“What about the security system, Sir?” Scorn asked.

Lor had to think. He didn’t want to give Scorn any bad news. ”Still working on that part. The B1’s all believe you’ve been reprogrammed. The Lucrehulk’s security is taking longer to win over.”

“We could tell them we surrender.” Scorn suggested.

Lor shook his head “The ship would expect you all to remain within holding cells under observation. You wouldn’t have free rein.”

“I see.” Scorn stood at attention, “The boys and I will get you the parts you asked for, Sir.”

”Good, I’ll get the security system reprogrammed. May the force be with you.” Lor said before hanging up.

He walked into the bathroom again, and checked the faucets. Both sinks, and the tub were all running clear and there wasn’t much of a smell left. Lor turned everything off, he waited until the last of the water drained out of the tub before dialing in the temperature he wanted for a bath. Lor even selected the Bacta infusion. He changed out of his clothes, even taking his mask off.

Which was then ceremoniously set upon the counter next to the sink. Lor caught his reflection and genuinely studied himself.

It had been ten years since Lor had seen his father’s true face. Not the cybernetic mask he’d chosen after his reconstruction. Other than his eyes, Lor had no idea how much of himself was from his mother, and how much was from Grievous.
Was he unintentionally following in his father’s footsteps? Or chasing after the force visions and prophecies that had consumed his mother’s life? Even facing death her smile had never faltered because she knew Aisha and Lor would survive the war. That was what she’d always told them. Even if Aisha was too young to remember any of it.

Lor sighed, he got in the tub and laid down, letting the water rise up to his nostrils. His hair floated to the surface around him like a mane. He took in a breath, closed his eyes and went under for a moment. Then, when he surfaced Lor used his hands to scrub the scales on his face and neck. He ran his claws through his hair using them to meticulously pull apart any knots or tangles.

Suddenly a white light out of the corner of Lor’s eye caught his attention. The comlink Trench had installed on his lightsaber was ringing. Lor’s brow furrowed. He held his hand open, expectantly. The lightsaber flew across the room back to its master. Then, Lor hit the switch answering the call.

“Hello?” Lor’s tone was reserved, guarded. Everyone had heard the report a few weeks ago that General Skywalker had killed Admiral Trench onboard his new flag ship. So who was hailing him now?

“My boy, it’s been a long time hasn’t it?” The voice was wrong, completely mechanical. Vowels and consonants dragged over inorganic vocal cords in a synthesizer not living tissue. The words however…

“Admiral Trench?” Lor whispered the name hesitantly.

Robotic laughter on the other end of the line was the only answer Lor needed. “I’m glad you still remember me, Lor jai Sheelal.”

Lor held his lightsaber as far from the water in the tub as he could. “What do you want?”

”I heard about Order 66, I wanted to contact you sooner to make sure you were still alive, however after serious consideration I decided to give you time to escape and lick your wounds. How did you survive?” Admiral Trench asked.

Lor went quiet, long enough that Trench even asked if he was still there. ”…Half of my Battalion refused the order. They rescued me.”

“Sounds like Jekara all over again, you’re not going for revenge against Sidious are you?” Admiral Trench warned.

Lor shook his head, water droplets spraying everywhere from his hair. ”No, I…I didn’t think that was a good idea. I’ve been busy getting supplies and trying to replace my star destroyer.”

“Looking for a new home are we? How’s that going?” Admiral Trench asked.

“I’m in a Lucrehulk’s captain’s quarters right now. .. Trench I’m sorry, I tried to get into the Jedi archives but Master Nu wouldn’t let me. I couldn't…I’m so sorry.”

”The game was rigged from the very start. We all lost the moment the Republic accepted the Kaminoan’s army instead of conscripting its own civilians. It was the sin of sloth that destroyed them. Even if you had managed to find the information we needed to prove sith involvement in the Republic it would have all been for naught. Sideous would have simply activated Order 66. Just like he did when Mace Windu and the other Jedi Masters attempted to arrest him.”

"I still can’t believe they did it. They didn’t even give my father a chance. He was murdered unjustly, while the Council. in their infinite wisdom, chose to confront a Sith Lord powerful enough to mask his presence from them for years, head-on. They should have brought every Jedi Guardian in the Temple, and Master Drallig, for an execution." Lor spat the words bitterly.

“The simplest course of action would have been to order an orbital strike from a Venator-class cruiser on Sidious’ location while he slept. He would have had little to no time to react.” Admiral Trench said so casually, as if he'd seriously considered it himself.

Lor tried to imagine the public backlash following that order. “The Republic would have seen that as an act of terrorism, betrayal of democracy.”

Trench responded quickly. “The Republic’s ideals are irrelevant here. Such an act would have torn the Republic apart, plunging it into civil war—dividing those who accepted the Jedi’s claim that Sidious was a Sith Lord from those who only saw poor old Chancellor Palpatine. Count Dooku was dead, and Ventress and Maul mere minnows compared to the true power of a Sith Lord. In the chaos, the Confederacy would have seized ultimate victory. It would have been a near-perfect conclusion, either the Jedi cast out from all political influence, or asserting absolute control over the Senate. Without the rot of the Sith festering and contaminating everything, perhaps peace talks might have prevailed, a victory won by the pen, not the sword.”

Lor thought about it, “I told you how I survived, but how did you cheat death again?”

Somehow, despite inhabiting a tactical droid’s body, Admiral Trench managed to sound smug. “A pact was forged with Doctor Cylo. He devised a black box protocol, integrated into the Invulnerable's systems. When Skywalker struck me down, my consciousness and memories transferred into TI-99. I escaped just before the ship's destruction.”

Lor’s voice lowered, laced with grim understanding. “You became his lab rat... a test subject for a dangerous experiment.”

“Precisely.” Admiral Trench replied, Lor was convinced that if he’d still been capable of it, he would have been clicking his mandibles together. A rather prideful little quirk Admiral Trench had.

Lor’s last encounter with Admiral Trench was playing vividly in his head. He lowered his chin, resting it on the edge of the tub. “Alright, you’ve had your wellness check on me, what else do you want Trench?”

”I require your assistance, I had to leave the restraining bolts installed on TI-99 to stop him from sabotaging direct orders from Cylo and myself, but now I find myself confined by those same shackles. I can feel my mind breaking. These mechanical bindings are suffocating in their influence. I am not myself. I am not free. I cannot remove them myself, it must be done by another’s hand.”

Ah, there it was, the true reason Admiral Trench had reached out.

He had needed to leave the restraining bolts on TI-99 to prevent the tactical droid from prioritizing self-preservation. And now, he suffered a most unfortunate fate, bound by logic, programming, and the very safeguards meant to protect him. It was poetic in a way, as if TI-99's spirit had sought to punish his master for what he'd done to him from beyond the grave.

Lor smiled, a terrifying glint in his eyes. “So what do I get in return for taking those restraining bolts off of you?”

”Anything.” Admiral Trench's voice was desperate, almost pleading.

“Serve me, pledge your allegiance, and I’ll do it.” Lor did nothing to hide the almost cocky grin on his face, he didn’t need to. Trench couldn’t see him anyway. This was a comlink, not a holoprojector. If it was a holoprojector, Lor would have put his mask back on. 

Lor could hear the strain in Trench’s mechanical tone as he struggled to circumvent leftover tactical droid protocols. “As General Grievous is dead, and the rest of the Separatist council was slain on Mustafar, you are the closest to legitimate Separatist leadership left in this galaxy. I, Admiral Trench, do hereby swear my undying loyalty to you, Lor jai Sheelal of the Confederacy of Independent systems.”

Lor placed one hand over his heart. “You have my word as a Kaleesh I will remove your restraining bolts Admiral Trench.” Lor vowed, “I’m onboard the Lucrehulk orbiting Hypori, we have much work to do to get this command ship operational again.”

“Thank you, my boy. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Admiral Trench replied, relief dripping from every word.

“I’ll alert the crew of your arrival.” Lor promised, he let his lightsaber drop from his fingers and roll across the floor after Admiral Trench ended the call. The bath water was starting to get cold. Lor turned the faucet back on with the force and didn’t stop until the room had steamed up again. He was going to enjoy the rest of his bath before facing the endless sea of battle droids awaiting him. Even if they were endearingly stupid in their admiration of him. It still hurt to be compared to General Grievous.

The piercing wound in Lor’s heart, not from his father’s death, but from his murder, would take time to heal.

Chapter Text

The heated floors in the Captain’s personal bathroom were quickly becoming one of Lor’s favorite things on the ship. He decided he was going to have the maintenance droids mop the floor daily. That way, it would be more hygienic when he decided to sit on the floor, perhaps read a datapad and catch up on galactic news.  The long range holonet signals weren’t very strong this far in the Outer Rim, but he could manage.

“Thanks R4,” Lor said, resting a hand on his astromech’s head. He took the empty mug, spoon, and a ration bar from his ARC-170’s minuscule cargo. Lor snapped the ration bar in half, and used the spoon to grind it into a loose assortment of pieces that rather resembled gravel.

The taste wasn’t that far off either. Then, he poured some hot water from the sink in and stirred it around.  “Breakfast of champions…” Lor grumbled before eating a spoonful. Something in him clicked. He put the mug on the bathroom counter and used the Force to pick up the wrapper.

It had the GAR logo stamped on the front, along with a nutritional panel.  Lor stared at it. He understood that eventually these Republic ration bars would run out. They’d probably already swapped the packaging over to the Empire.           

R4-N9 whistled slowly and bumped into Lor’s leg. 

“I’m okay I promise…” Lor said, taking another bite of what was essentially depression and nostalgia flavored granola. He left the bathroom, R4-N9 following close behind, and sat on the edge of the bed. 

Hypori is close to the edge of Hutt Space…I could go visit Aagisk and get some real food. I doubt Republic Credits are good out here, and the Empire’s probably confiscated the funds the Republic had set aside for Jedi…My chip’s worthless ... At least this is a simple problem to solve,  a few rounds of Sabacc, take the hand pot three or four times. Easy money. Stop by one of Simri’s brothels and put a couple of drinks and bar food on Aagisk’s tab. Asking him for credits directly or supplies might be pushing it since I haven’t spoken to him in two years. But he shouldn’t care if I cost him a meal.  Lor thought to himself as he finished his cup of sadness. 

His mouth was watering at the idea of real meat between his teeth. It wouldn’t be anything luxurious, bar food never was. But Lor found himself looking forward to a plate of hot wings. 

“General?” One of the B1’s stepped into the Captain’s Quarters, without knocking. “There’s a tactical droid here to see you, he identified him as TI-99. Do you want to meet him on the bridge?” 

Lor left the empty mug on the bed. He rose from his seat approaching the droid. “Send him here, please. We have some things to discuss that are highly classified.”      

“Roger, Roger."  The B1 left quickly after that to go fetch Lor’s guest. Leaving him to ponder why Admiral Trench had introduced himself as TI-99 instead of his true identity.  Lor didn’t pretend to understand Trench’s reasoning, but he respected it at least. Perhaps Admiral Trench was merely being cautious of his secret getting out. It was entirely possible the battle droids would tell someone they shouldn’t have unintentionally. 

        Still, he should really try to get a hold of Aagisk before just showing up on his doorstep.Lor decided he’d make that call after he was done speaking with Admiral Trench. A wise man never revealed all his cards at once. Even though Trench was the only person who’d ever been completely honest with him, Lor still knew better than to trust Trench. 

That was something he’d yet to earn. 

“Door’s open.” Lor said after hearing another knock. This time when it opened, he watched a tactical droid step inside. The droid was holding a datapad. It was a pale silver one, with a black slightly reflective screen and the CIS Logo stamped on the back. 

Trench’s movements were too droid-like, too mechanical for even a tactical droid. Lor wondered if it was because he hadn’t adjusted to only having four limbs yet. “General, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. I look forward to serving under you.” 

Lor’s gaze drifted to the B1’s standing in the doorway. Then back to Admiral Trench. “I’ll be fine I promise, you’re all dismissed, that includes you too Sevens.” Lor said, shooting the other droids off. Then he closed the door.

“What’s on that datapad?” He asked, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

“A recording of your recruitment on Jekara, no audio, merely our handshake,  and then backdated paperwork on the authority of the late Admiral Trench, a recommendation for a field promotion. The rest of the documentation in here explains you were a spy for the CIS Navy, and thus never officially added to the authorization databanks our droids pull from when identifying their superior officers.” Admiral Trench explained, he offered it out to Lor, who took the datapad without question.

“So any droid I show this too, will obey me without question?” 

“With your father and the others all dead…Yes.” Admiral Trench’s voice was pushing the limits of what his vocal synthesizer could do as he tried to sound sympathetic. Then, he  paused, “I am sorry for your loss.” 

“...Thank you.” Lor stood in silence reading the rest of the datapad, “R4, make me a few copies of this.” He said handing it  off to his astromech.

R4-N9 scanned the datapad into his own memory banks. Then, the little droid spun in a circle whooping slowly.

“Right, we need to find some blank datapads first. Should ask Sevens or Blinker about that,  they might know where the old crew stored them.”

Admiral Trench nervously tapped his fingers together“Now about the restraining bolts..”

“I’m not familiar with droid anatomy, you’ll have to walk me through it, but a promise is a promise. I’ll take them off of you, after I have control of this ship.” Lor smiled innocently and patted Admiral Trench on the shoulder.

There was a pause that was too long, a flicker in Admiral Trench’s photoreceptors that felt too organic. A sign of the soul now trapped within. 

“Clever boy..” Admiral Trench muttered, “I remember the old access codes we used at the beginning of the war, it would be my pleasure to turn control of this vessel over to you, General.” He said with a bow.

Lor smoothed out a few wrinkles on his uniform, the coat was still too long in the sleeves, but he’d rolled them back and held them in place with simple, steel studded cuff-links. His hair was back in one long braid, and he felt..refreshed. He carried himself with a new air of authority. Lor opened the door, and held it for Admiral Trench and R4-N9.

“Then let’s get to work, TI-99.” Lor spoke softly, and yet he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that whilst gazing into the abyss. He had in fact been the one to blink first. 

Chapter Text

Lor was seated in the captain’s chair once more. TI-99 was at one of the consoles  overriding old security codes and adding Scorn and the others to the Droid Command Ship’s whitelist. It was a slow process, as Lor had decided to play it safe rather than sorry and had given him a list of all his surviving clone’s call signs and designation numbers. Part of Lor wanted to give Admiral Trench the full list,  but he felt that it wasn’t the best way to honor the dead. Instead, perhaps he could have the B1s etch all of the fallen’s names into a memorial wall.

If Lor could only decide where to place the memorial. The crew quarters felt too depressing, but it had to be somewhere people -and droids- would actually see it instead of a dark forgotten corner of the ship.

Ah well, he had time to figure it out. He leaned forward, tapping his fingers on the arm rests. Lor was mindful not to press any buttons. 

Lor’s attention turned to the B1s, “Sevens, how much longer until the OOM droids are operational?” 

“Oh, uh they should be fully charged in thirty minutes, General. Then we’ll need to run system diagnostics and  notify them of the change in command. If everything goes right they’ll be ready for duty in an hour.” Sevens replied, giving Lor a salute out of respect. 

“Excellent, we’re on schedule then.” Lor was going to say more, but he heard something. It took a moment for him to focus and realize what exactly  he was listening to.

Music, and not just any music but a recording of an old Kaleesh ballad. Lor found himself singing along, mumbling the words in tune under his breath. Memories flooded back, how Bentilais and other members of his Father’s Izvoshra had taught him the song while he was a young hatchling. How his father had been preoccupied tending to his mother because her Force visions had finally stolen her mind. He didn’t remember much of those days. Only that Bentilais had told him that Grievous regretted what happened because he was the one who pushed for Lor’s mother to use her gifts of prophecy to aid in his conquests against the Huk. Then Lor snapped out of it, “Why ... are you playing that?” 

One of the B1s poked his head up cheerfully, “We heard you listening to music in the captain’s quarters and thought it’d be nice to play some on the bridge for you.” 

They truly are endearing… Lor thought to himself, “I appreciate the thought, but this is a war song. Could you change it to something…calming, trance or meditation if you would please.” He leaned back in the chair, smiling a little as the B1s changed the song.  This time, Lor didn’t recognize it, but the trance was catchy. 

“I’ve completed the alterations to the ship’s security system, was there anything else you needed modified?” TI-99, or rather Admiral Trench spoke. 

Lor thought for a moment, he realized that once he took the restraining bolt  out of Admiral Trench, there was nothing stopping Trench from betraying him. “Do I have root level access to the full system yet?” 

“Yes, General.” 

“Good. TI-99, limit your access to Admin Level. After that, I’ll help with your hardware malfunctions.”  Lor ordered. 

“...Yes. General.”  Admiral Trench complied, Lor could swear there was another flicker in his photoreceptors.

Lor himself got up from the captain’s chair and went to a computer console to change all of the passwords and access codes to admin and root level systems. He wasn’t taking any chances with Admiral Trench attempting to give himself complete access to the Lucrehulk’s computers after getting the restraining bolt taken off. 

He decided to use  his master Cin Drallig’s  full birthday as one of the access codes, it wasn’t something even the clones knew. Nor did Admiral Trench have a chance of guessing the code. Next was Lor’s own dorm number at the Jedi temple, another code easy enough to remember, but not one Admiral Trench would be able to guess. He changed the rest of the system passwords and access codes to what they’d been on his Star Destroyer. 

And that was how he locked Trench out of everything he wasn’t supposed to be spinning his web inside of. At least, temporarily. Lor knew he’d have to check these codes every few days to make sure nothing was hacked. 

Perhaps there would be a day when Lor trusted Admiral Trench, but it was not this day.  

Admiral Trench was holding a hand mirror, with his back to the sink in Lor’s en suite bathroom.  The panel on the back of his head was open. “Do you see the orange bolt?” Admiral Trench asked.

“Is that what the restraining bolts look like?”  Lor asked,  he wasn't touching the bolt, but held the screwdriver close. He could see a little spring and socket to release it. 

“Yes, on T-series tactical droids-” Admiral Trench’s voice dissolved into static just as Lor carefully removed the orange bolt. This…was easier than he thought it’d be. 

“That feels incredible, it’s like… taking a breath in after holding it for far too long. I feel myself again, as if waking from an unfortunate dream.” Admiral Trench's photoreceptors dimmed, his fingers curled and uncurled before he ran his hands over his face. 

“I thought Separatist droids had more than one restraining bolt.” Lor replied, firmly keeping the bolt in his hand. He knew better than to set it down or let Admiral Trench have it. 

“MagnaGuards are the most notable droids with that modification. Unless a droid is designed to function after losing its head most do not. It would appear that this particular model of Tactical Droid was not designed with such redundancies.” Admiral Trench explained. He put the hand mirror down and closed the panel. 

“Right, just…Remember I’m still keeping an eye on you Trench, I’m not pretending we’re two jawas in the same sandcrawler.” Lor put the screwdriver set in a drawer underneath the sink. Then slammed it closed. 

“If you did, I’ll call you a fool.” Admiral Trench replied.

“You’d have every right to..” Lor mumbled, He poured himself a glass of water from the sink and chugged it down. 

Lor  was still holding the glass close enough that his breath caused it to fog up when he spoke. “I’m going to Hypori.” That’s all there was to it, he had control of the Lucrehulk orbiting the planet. The next step was to secure whatever assets he could on the surface. 

“You’re dismissed Admiral, but remember, “Lor held the restraining bolt to the light overhead, examining it closely, “I can always put this back if you give me a reason.” 

Admiral Trench seemed to almost…shiver at the thought. “I wouldn’t dream of betraying your mercy.”  He said gesturing with his hands.  When Lor didn’t respond, he simply left. Admiral Trench was smart enough to tell when someone wanted to be left alone.

Lor tossed the restraining bolt in his nightstand drawer, next to Cin Drallig’s lightsaber. His fingers lingered over the lightsaber’s hilt. Lor wrapped his fingers around it. His mind deep in thought, he imagined a shelf on the wall, a little display. Somewhere he could truly honor his late master’s lightsaber instead of in a drawer. He sat down on the edge of the bed and laughed. His claws gripping the lightsaber tightly. If Lor wasn't worried about accidentally activating the blade and impaling himself he would have been clutching it against his chest. 

He couldn’t help it, Lor realized how this looked, and more importantly how others would see him if they knew. All that wasted time and effort to hide who he truly was from the Republic, to prove he was innocent of the sins of his father. Yet, here he was, walking that same path out of necessity knowing damn well no one was going to give him a chance to explain.

“I’ll just have to prove them wrong.” Lor put Cin Drallig’s lightsaber back in his nightstand. He closed the drawer.

Chapter Text

The air was cool around him, but not unbearable. Lor knew if he grew too cold he could simply hop back into his starship and turn on the heater. It wasn’t like Jekara, not this time.

He hadn’t actually gone to the droid factory, no. His attention had been drawn to the remains of a crashed Star Destroyer. Lor placed one hand on the blaster-scorched rusted durasteel as he entered the ship through a hull breach.

Daylight slowly flickered in from similar wounds on the downed Star Destroyer. He could see the dust particles fluttering in the breeze, Hypori’s only true natural residents as there was no organic life native to the planet. The world was far too young to have evolved any complicated life forms naturally, only single-cell microbes and bacterium.

The ghost of his father had risen three years ago during the Battle of Hypori, from the combat reports Lor knew that it had ended here. He wondered if Grievous had thought of his mothers or siblings during his time on Hypori. Had Grievous felt any fear? Loneliness? Anything other than the insatiable lust for vengeance that had all but consumed him.

There was a row of clone trooper helmets that had been placed on metal pikes honoring their memory. Lor stood in front of the memorial, wondering if there was anyone on Utapau who had done the same for Grievous.

Then, Lor sensed he wasn’t alone. He didn’t turn around, he simply drew his lightsaber, ignited it, and held the pale blue blade overhead blocking a downward slash. After the initial contact, Lor used the Force to jump high landing several yards back. Both feet, and his left hand on the ground whilst his right clutched his lightsaber closely in a white knuckled grip.

Before him stood a male Whiphid, who quite quickly managed to close the distance between them. Lor recognized the Ataru stance and mannerisms in his attacks. But there was a heaviness in his movement as well.  Lor used the Force to throw himself forward, meeting his opponent head-on in another clash. Blue against green, sparks of plasma-like fireflies landed around their feet.

He stepped to the right twisting his body around watching the Whiphid thrust his lightsaber forward where Lor had been only a moment before. When he twisted around to strike at Lor again, the young Kaleesh was ready and blocked it. Lor stared up at the Whiphid trying to place together shattered memories. He felt… familiar but Lor could not recall why.

At that moment, it felt more like a dance than a duel. Each step they took together sent years’ worth of dust and memories into the air. In that moment, Lor felt fear. Not from his opponent no, but from the debris around them. He wondered what would happen if a spark from either of their lightsabers hit the right pile of dust… Or perhaps melted through a long-forgotten gas canister cast out of sight.

Lor jumped back, he went in aiming a slash at the Whiphid’s lightsaber. Who, merely turned his arm facing the other way to block it. The two struggled together, blades locked. Lor painfully self-conscious of the Separatist Captain’s uniform he was wearing. Surely that was the cause of this… misunderstanding. But it couldn’t be helped. Lor needed that uniform to assert control over the droids on the command ship, and the foundry on Hypori’s surface.

Oh how he wished he’d brought his vibroblade instead of leaving it onboard the Droid Command ship along with Cin Drallig’s lightsaber.

Lor had no problem with dropping to the ground, completely dead weight to avoid a two-handed swing from the Whiphid’s lightsaber. He towered over him, and Lor was no fool he knew he couldn’t physically keep up or block a heavy attack like that.

However, the lack of resistance when his blow met only open air did make the Whiphid stagger—only for a blink of an eye. But this was all the time Lor needed, he used a Force push to shove him back before attacking again.

Truly, Lor was surprised that his gambit had worked well enough that the Whiphid had lost his footing.

He feigned a strike with his own blade, before letting it go.  Then he dove down, supporting himself on both hands as Lor attempted a low sweeping kick to knock the Whiphid’s legs out from under him. Lor fully intended to catch his lightsaber. Yet didn’t have the chance.

This did not go according to plan as Lor found himself being grabbed and thrown backwards. He quickly held one hand out calling his lightsaber back and brought it up to block a jump attack.

Lor’s arm was quivering, the fibers in his biceps nearing their limit. When his arm finally gave out Lor shut his eyes tight waiting for a blow that never came.

“You’re not a Separatist, are you?” Master K’Kruhk held his lightsaber low, inches above Lor’s chest.

The young Kaleesh on the other hand, was preoccupied with his own inner conflict at being bested so easily. This was a bruise to his pride he wasn’t expecting.

“No, I’m not.” Lor said plainly, noticing how his assailant was inspecting his lightsaber.

“Then, this wasn’t stolen I presume?” Master K’Kruhk asked once.

“I constructed it myself on Ilum with my Master.” Lor replied. He let out an audible breath of relief when Master K’Kruhk deactivated his own green lightsaber and stepped back. The Whiphid’s thumb was still on the activator switch, but he seemed more hesitant than before.

“Who is your Master?” Master K’Kruhk asked wearily.

Lor pulled himself out of the rubble and dusted himself off, “Cin Drallig—who are you?”

“Master K’Kruhk, I’d heard that Master Drallig had taken another Padawan but you’re not what I was expecting.” Master K’Kruhk confessed. He stared at Lor, perhaps using the Force to detect if he was lying or not. Then, he handed Lor’s lightsaber back to him.

That was why the Whiphid was so familiar to Lor, Master K’Kruhk was one of the Jedi his father had supposedly killed. Though it would appear that the reports of his death were greatly over exaggerated. That of course begged the question of how someone who was severely wounded enough that the clone troopers thought him dead when they were evacuating the other survivors had not only survived, but managed to fully recover on his own marooned on a world like Hypori.  Not only that, but where had he gotten a lightsaber….

Was it from one of the Padawans slain here? Lor knew that many Jedi had been killed on Hypori, maybe one had been lost in the struggle. His father certainly wouldn’t have left a Jedi Master’s blade by its owner’s corpse.

“What are you doing so far from your Master anyway, Little One? There’s nothing here but death.” The elder of the pair asked. Suddenly Lor didn’t feel so bad about his defeat. He wasn’t a powerful fighter, not like Scorn who had the physical bulk and strength to give his use of Djem So more bite than bark.

Unlike Lor, who had been unable to maintain proper Djem So form because he physically couldn’t match K’Kruhk’s blows. Commander Scorn had the strength to hold his own during a standoff, but not the agility or Force connection he’d need against a Master like K’Kruhk.

Ahh, it was an ironic thing, a cruel revelation of fate that Lor hadn’t the time yet to properly adapt his Djem So stance to make up for his lack of prowess. He certainly could have chosen Ataru, its light and acrobatic nature lent itself well to his strengths. Or perhaps even Soresu. But it felt too passive for him, and did not mix well with the Na Jang lessons Lor’s father had given him in his hatchling years. He was certainly already unintentionally leaning into the Ataru training Master Drallig had given him.

Makashi was another viable option, lying in wait like a serpent ready to strike at the first vulnerability. Indeed with his cortosis-weave vibroblade as a parrying dagger Lor knew he could be deadly on the battlefield.  

But it was also the same form Count Dooku had trained his father in. The bitter association between it, and Grievous’ captivity as a Sith puppet gave Lor a visceral reaction to it. His very soul refused it; refused to echo what had been done to his father.

Still, Makashi itself felt like the form most suited to Jar’Kai, considering how well the movements blended into traditional fencing. Which often included a main-gauche. Lor’s use of his vibroblade as a parrying dagger was unconventional, but was already proven by tradition.

Jar’Kai…Lor’s thoughts turned to Serra Keto. Had she survived Order 66? Surely not, but there was always the possibility, there was always hope. She was their master's best student after all. If not Lor's equal in stubbornness. 

Lor met K’Kruhk’s worried gaze. He reminded himself that the Jedi hadn’t yet heard of Order 66 or the fall of the temple. “You’re not going to like what I have to say, Master K’Kruhk.” Lor’s voice was grim, his tone somehow steady despite his thoughts of his deceased Father and Jedi Master. The chill he felt in his core told Lor that he would in fact need to sit in his ARC-170 with the heater on.

Chapter Text

“A year ago, I was captured on Jekara by Separatist forces. Admiral Trench interrogated me and revealed his fears for a Sith conspiracy behind the entire war. He was right, the point of the Clone Wars to kill as many Jedi as possible and weaken both sides so Palpatine could rise from the shadows and take command of the Galaxy without anyone from either side to stop him. The clones all have inhibitor chips in their brains controlling them, they were sleeper agents programmed to kill Jedi once given the order…They slaughtered everyone at the temple, murdered Nute Gunray and the others, we were all pawns on the same board.” Lor started walking back toward his ship, he silently motioned for K’Kruhk to follow him.

“And I survived because I was forgotten.”  K’Kruhk stroked his beard, “Have you heard anything about my Padawan, Chase Piru?”

”She invoked the Right of Denial and refused to fight after your death. Last I heard she was with Master Zao and the Soaring Hawkbat Clan…I…I don’t know if they survived Order 66.”  Lor confessed.

“She’s still alive¸ I haven’t sensed any disturbances in the Force, if she was struck down, or even captured I would have felt it. It warms my heart to hear she’s chosen a gentle path instead of vengeance and the temptations of the Dark Side.” K’Kruhk brought a hand up to his face, shielding his eyes from the harsh sunlight once they were out of the Star Destroyer’s wreckage.

”But, if you can sense her, why didn’t she come for you? Wouldn’t Chase have known you survived?” Lor asked, pausing only momentarily.

K’Kruhk shook his head “Not necessarily. She’s only a Padawan. Even I was unable to sense the fall of our Order.”

Lor stopped cold, he had more than his fair share of questions, but his own timidity, and fear of offending K’Kruhk kept his tongue still. “So… what’s next for you, Master K’Kruhk?”

“If you’d permit me, Little One, I’d like to use your ship’s long-range communicator. You came in a Jedi Interceptor, did you not?” K’Kruhk asked, the wind around them catching his tattered robes.

“Not exactly, it’s an ARC-170. You can use it…” Lor motioned toward his ship; they weren’t that far from it now.

“Ah, thank you Little One.”

Lor climbed into the co-pilot’s seat and once the canopy was closed, turned on the heater. He leaned back, making himself comfortable while K’Kruhk attempted to contact his missing Padawan. He thought about reaching out to Serra, she hadn’t appeared in his force vision like their shared master had. Maybe there was a chance she was still alive.

Words on a console screen got Lor’s attention.

“Who’s the Whiphid?” R4-N9 asked, the little Astromech’s questions started to flash across the screen.

Lor couldn’t help but smile at his droid’s curiosity. “That’s Master K’Kruhk, he was one of the Jedi who fought in the Battle of Hypori.

“What is he still doing here?”

”Marooned after the battle, the Republic left him behind.” Lor replied, he shifted his weight and stretched his arms up over his head.

”How is he still alive? There’s nothing here.”

“Haven’t asked him yet.” Lor replied.

“Do you think there are more Jedi still out there?”

Lor didn’t reply at first, instead he looked up at the sky. He thought about Order 66, how most Jedi hadn’t treated their clones as well as he did, and half of them had still turned on him. It seemed to him, that the only chance a Jedi had, was if they’d sensed the change in their clones before they opened fire. Or, if the bond had been strong enough for them to resist. Even momentarily like Convoy had.

He hadn’t immediately opened fire; Convoy must have been fighting it the entire time up until his death.

“I don’t know R4.” The words were barely audible, lingering on Lor’s tongue like a curse.  He knew that the Jedi on Ahch-To were still alive at least, it was isolated and the hyperlane routes and navigational paths to get there were a closely guarded secret. But that felt like an isolated case, not the new normal.

Then of course, there was the one Jedi Lor hoped was dead. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Lor had no tears to shed for him. Nor did he hold anything in his heart for the human Jedi Master other than fury, hatred.

Both emotions were tied to the dark, but Lor didn’t care. For murder was a sin too, and all Lor was guilty of was loving his father.

Master K’Kruhk turned the ship’s internal radio on, “No response from Chase, I shall try again later. Would you assist me with something, Little One?”

Lor realized he hadn’t given Master K’Kruhk his name yet. He thought about it, wondering if Kr’Kruhk even knew that Qymaen jai Sheelal was Grievous’ true name or not. “Lor, my name’s Lor, and I’d be happy to assist you.”

K’Kruhk climbed out of the ARC-170’s main cockpit and jumped down. “I would like to meditate, perhaps the two of us together could identify possible survivors of the massacre.” Master K’Kruhk explained, he turned around and offered a hand to help Lor down.

Suddenly, Lor was mentally back on Jekara reaching out through the Force during his captivity. He saw a flash of the Separatist ship, and heard his father’s confused voice.

“I understand,” Lor replied, freeing himself of the mental shadows.

K’Kruhk found a nice, quiet spot in the shadow of a large rock. He sat down cross-legged resting his palms face up on the back of his knees. Lor sat down facing him and rested his hands in Master K’Kruhk’s as instructed.

“Focus on those you have the strongest connection with first Little One.” K’Kruhk instructed, “Control your breath…That’s it.”

Lor took a breath in through his nose, held it and exhaled through his mouth. He closed his eyes and focused on Serra’s face. The vision was hazy at first, blurred  by emotion. Then, Lor could make out four lightsabers. Three green, and one blue, the blue lightsaber belonged to Ahsoka’s master…Anakin Skywalker, he was in the Jedi Temple, one of the training rooms. Master Drallig was there, as was Serra. The air was a blur with motion. Serra and their shared mentor were not only dodging live blaster fire from clones, but heavy Djem So blows from Anakin.

Serra kicked Anakin in the chest causing him to stagger back against a pillar, she held one hand up, Force pinning him against it before going for a clean kill strike.  Anakin ducked, and pushed her back clear across the room. She landed on her back, sliding near Cin Drallig.

Everything happened so fast, Anakin using the force to crush one of the pillars supporting the ceiling over Serra, Cin Drallig’s split attention, the Jedi Battlemaster used the Force to push Serra out of the window, instead of being crushed under the weight of an upper floor she was in the middle of a free fall to the surface below.

Lor wasn’t worried, he’d survived similar falls, but what made him want to scream was when Anakin used the opening Cin Drallig had created against him, striking Lor’s Master down. Cin Drallig took one step forward, a hand resting over the grievous wound in his chest. Somehow he managed to keep ahold of his lightsaber instead of dropping it when his strength left him.

It was not a clean death, nor a pretty one. But one that befitted a man who dedicated his life to protecting the next generation of Jedi.

Then, a change, the heavy scent of incense, floral arrangements in front of grand windows. Highborn ladies gossiping amidst themselves while servants wait dutifully for orders.

Was this Alderaan? Or Naboo?  Lor wondered, the robes the servants wore weren’t vibrant orange or summer hues. They were colder, pale.

Alderaan. Lor told himself, and there she was, face obscured by a delicate lace hood, her hair short and bleached. Serra had survived her fall, and was in hiding as handmaiden for some unknown noblewoman.

Serra raised her head, the exiled knight’s gaze scanned her surroundings as if looking for something, someone.

“Lor?” He read his name on her lips.

He decided to leave Serra be, not risk her discovery by making too many ripples in the Force. Lor focused on his little sister Aisha. He saw her outside the Jedi Temple on Ahch-To. It was no grand display of wealth or power, not like the Jedi Temple on Coruscant had been. The rustic care, how each stone looked hand placed. It reminded him of Kalee.

Aisha  ran up to an Eta-Class shuttle landing on the grass. Fear struck Lor’s heart,  but after the shuttle doors opened and he saw a rag-tag assortment of wounded Padawans and younglings instead of clones emerge, he felt the sheer panic recede instead of consuming him. The oldest Padawan looked a little older than him, human, Lor recognized him as Shaak-Ti’s Padawan, but couldn’t recall what his name was.

She was safe, and the arrival of this shuttle meant that the Jedi knew, or would soon find out about Order 66. It also meant that the number of people not already on Ahch-To who knew about the hyper lanes and navigation routes in the Unknown Regions necessary to get there had gone down dramatically.

Lor was hit with the realization that he could be the only off-worlder left who knew the way.  He could keep Aisha safer, by not reaching out. By letting her be on Ahch-To, if the Empire was following him…Then he risked leading them directly to what could be the last Jedi enclave.

“If you truly care for  something, you have to let it go.” K’Kruhk said, “I understand you love your sister, but do you love her enough to let her be free?”

Lor swallowed, he didn’t know how to answer that. He let K’Kruhk’s memories lead their meditation.

There’s burnt plastic, a heavy dampness,  K’Kruhk and Lor both see a cracked –but not shattered- starfighter canopy. Then, two clones used the ends of their blasters to break the glass, and instead of shooting the poor Jedi trapped inside the clones pull him out.  Lor recognizes one of the bracers this Jedi is wearing, Plo Koon.

More clones who disobeyed orders… Due to their Force connection, K’Kruhk’s thoughts echo in Lor’s head.

Lor tries to ignore the outside world, the rocky soil underneath him, the dust in the wind surrounding them.  The flames and smell of ozone and starfighter fuel were the only things that mattered.

He saw Master Plo again, this time in a makeshift med bay. His wounds hastily patched and bandaged by the clones. One of his legs is missing around the knee, and…a MagnaGuard of all things is knelt on one knee in front of Plo Koon holding something, probably a communicator or holoprojector.

Unfortunately for Lor, he couldn’t see anything else. His breathing hitched, the vision faded quickly. Lor’s greatest fear was that, with the reminder of his father, the visions would shift to Grievous’ broken corpse next, and he couldn’t see that. He couldn’t take it.

Lor fell over backwards, hyperventilating, eyes wide staring up at Hypori’s cloudy sky.

K’Kruhk stopped; he leaned forward and gently grabbed Lor’s hand pulling him back into a sitting position. ”You rest, I can focus on the others myself, you did well, Little One.”

The Jedi Master swapped positions, sitting more comfortably now that he wasn’t sharing the burden of their sight. Lor did not argue, he sat with his back to the boulder and brought his knees up to his chest.

“Who did you see?” Lor waited as long as he could before speaking. His body was starting to react to the cold again and he knew he needed to return to the ship.

Master K’Kruhk sighed,  his tone was mournful.“I saw Commander Bly tell Master Secura to run. He was shot twice in the chest by clones he once fought alongside while trying to swap his blasters to stun. Aayla… She used the Force to pull him to her and tried to protect them both. I fear they fell together. Master Mundi’s clones showed no hesitation in his execution. He fought valiantly, but fell to sheer numbers. Master Shaak-Ti gave her life in the Jedi Temple, buying precious time for a group of younglings and Padawans to escape.”

“That explains what we saw on Ahch-To.” Lor groaned as he rose to his feet, his legs were numb, and barely responsive.

“Too cold Little One?”  Master K’Kruhk asked, he stood up far more gracefully than Lor.

“Yeah,” Lor confessed, “I have something else I need to tell you too…” This was it, the hard truth. Something Lor wished to avoid, but K'Kruhk had proved he was stronger than him, what choice did Lor have? If the Jedi Master found out he was hiding something...

“You don’t need to claw your own wounds open to prove anything to me, I know, I felt it in your memories and pain, and I know you’re not him.”  K’Kruhk quieted him; Lor went back to the ship and climbed in, turning the heater on again. Lor decided to busy himself by thinking of how he was going to introduce Master K’Kruhk to the battle droids.  It wasn’t like he could leave him here marooned on a barely habitable world. At the very least he’d have to give Master K’Kruhk a ship from the hangar so he could search for his Padawan.

Master K’Kruhk gave Lor the space he needed. He was ready to help, to intervene if Lor needed him to—just in case the Kaleesh’s hands or legs had grown too numb from the cold. But after Lor was safely back in his ARC-170, Master K’Kruhk returned to meditating.

Chapter Text

 Sabé stood underneath a tree. She watched an ever approaching shuttle slowly grow larger as it neared the ground. A kind of…passive determination filled her, an acceptance of an outcome she had no control over.

“Lady Sola, get the girls.” Sabé instructed, never looking away from the Lambda-class T-4a shuttle.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Sola crossed her arms over her chest, holding herself. Her voice was a quiet whisper.

“There’s no one else it could be.” Sabé stayed under the tree, behind her , Sola ran back to the lake house and called for Ryoo and Pooja.

There was no sense in running. They were not going to hide from someone as powerful in the Force as Darth Vader. But, he’d still been Padme’s husband. Still watched those girls grow up. This was the man who had put Ryoo behind the controls of his Eta-2 Actis-class light interceptor during Pooja’s second birthday party. Much to the chagrin of Sola and Padme. Though, Ruwee at least had been unable to stop laughing. Perhaps there was enough of Anakin left, that if the girls faced him directly he’d remember those happier times.

Two stormtroopers stayed by the shuttle, holding their blasters in a salute as –he- descended from the landing ramp. Cold, robotic breathing, a black cape adorning his shoulders. A sudden dense, heavy aura fell over everything like an unwanted net or shroud.

By the time Darth Vader reached Sabé, Sola had returned with the girls. She had one hand on each of her daughter’s backs. The two children stared up at their uncle, a nexu kitten purring in Pooja’s arms unaware of the situation they were in.

It was Pooja who blinked first, suddenly handing her pet off to her older sister Ryoo. “Uncle Ani?”

Sabe immediately looked down at the child. How Pooja had been able to sense it was him so quickly she didn’t understand. Of course, Sabé and Sola knew because Padme had told them. But neither of them had informed the children yet.

Sola’s jaw clenched.  Ryoo simply stood on her toes and examined the ship Darth Vader had arrived in, perhaps wondering if her uncle would take her flying again.

Darth Vader slowly turned his head, the little girl’s question pulling his attention away from Sabé and Sola. Agonizingly long seconds passed into minutes, yet he did not harm her. His breathing hitched, a noticeable hiccup.  His fingers twitched, as if unsure what to do with himself.

“Where is Padmé?” He finally spoke.

Sola was the one who answered him, “Not here.”  

Darth Vader said nothing. Simply walking past his sister-in-law, the children, and Sabe into the house itself.

Sabé followed after him. Everything was as Padme had left it last month. An unopened Podracer kit on the kitchen table, Padme’s wedding dress in a shadow box on the mantle above the fireplace. Echoes of a life Darth Vader himself had forsaken on Mustafar. Or, had he?

The door to the nursery opened itself. Rows of toys and fairy tales decorated the walls on shelves Anakin had put up. The crib unused, empty underneath a baby mobile depicting the Outer Rim Star Systems.

And lying on the pillow, next to the Japor Snippet Anakin had carved all those years ago was the holoprojector Bail had given Sabe. One final message from Padme to her husband. Not Darth Vader, Anakin.

The holoproject slowly rose from its resting place, and into Darth Vader’s waiting hand. He played the message contained within, a blue flash of light, and there she was with Leia on her lap.

“Anakin, I know you’re still in there deep down. I hope you realize that Palpatine’s using you, he’s been lying and using you the entire time. I’m scared Ani, I don’t want him hurting Luke or Leia like he did you. Please don’t try to find us. I love you, but because of him we can’t be together.”

Darth Vader’s hands turned to fists, Sabé could hear the mechanical bits straining under the immense Force he was putting them under. The baby mobile chimed lightly in a sudden breeze.

Sabé stepped forward, she put a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “You know what to do to get your family back. Finish it.” Sabe whispered in his ear before pulling away from him. Her touching lingering on shoulders a moment longer.

Anakin put the Holoprojector back down on the pillow. As he stood there, deep in contemplation Sabé said one last thing.

“Welcome home Anakin.” 

Tiny little footsteps from behind got both Anakin, and Sabé’s attention. Pooja stood in the doorway, her sister Ryoo a few feet behind her.  She had her nexu kitten again and was petting the little thing.

“Uncle Ani Ryoo wants to know if she can fly your ship…Can you teach me too?” Pooja asked, rocking back and forth on her heels.

Anakin approached, his steps slow, deliberate. He fell to his knees, head bowed. “Anything-Anything for you.”

Chapter Text

Master K’Kruhk had stayed behind; currently the old Jedi was asleep in Lor’s ARC-170. Lor had given him some of his own rations and a bottle of water. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had to offer. Still, Master K’Kruhk had appreciated ration bars that weren’t past their expiration dates and fresh water to drink instead of rainwater.

Though with the fall of the Jedi Order, Lor supposed there was no one left to scold him if he’d gone to Aagisk’s and used their bond as his ghrakhowsk to ask for a hot meal or two.

Maybe Lor would do that once he was done facing old ghosts on Hypori. The idea of fresh meat between his jaws was already making him salivate. The thought of picking small bones or sinew from between his teeth a captivating thought.

Hypori’s sun had reached its peak overhead, raising the ambient temperature around him enough that Lor no longer feared the cold. The wind was hot upon his exposed scales, dust sullying the grey and cold tones upon the Separatist uniform he was wearing.

When Lor reached the gates of the droid foundry, he dialed in the access code Admiral Trench had given him. The sensor light above the gates turned green, and Lor slipped inside like a phantom.

Around him, it seemed that the shutdown order had been given in the middle of manufacturing. Half-finished B1 and Commando droids hung lifelessly from conveyor belts overhead.

Lor’s pulse quickened, his pupils dilated at the sight of a group of IG-100 MagnaGuards folded up and wrapped in layers of packing tape on a shipping pallet. His curiosity got the better of him. Lor’s quiet footsteps were the only sound in the entire factory. He lifted one hand; as he did, the tape started to unravel itself, exposing the MagnaGuards underneath.

He was shaking as he reached for one of their hands, imagining that the grasp wouldn’t be all that different from his father's. He wanted to activate at least one, to hear what the IG unit had to say. But this, of course, was a horrible idea. He had to think of Master K’Kruhk’s safety and the fact that these MagnaGuards were far more intelligent than the B1 droids he was used to commanding. His little ruse might not work at all on them.

Still, Lor stayed there longer than he should have, just holding one of the MagnaGuard’s hands whilst pretending it was someone else. The droid’s photoreceptors remained dull, barren of any sentient thought or programmed directive. Lor wondered what would happen if he awoke the machine; he was dressed in a Separatist Captain’s uniform after all, not the robes of a Jedi in exile. Would it still see him as an intruder? Or would he belong here in the droid’s eyes?

He let go of the MagnaGuard’s hand. Lor walked away, deeper into the factory.

Lor’s new holoprojector started beeping, a gentle click that nearly startled him at its suddenness. He answered the call, and there stood TI-99, or rather, Admiral Trench.

“General, you need to tell the security guards there’s been a horrible mistake; I am not a defective unit,” Admiral Trench started. Lor could hear a second voice in the background.

“We found this Tactical Droid attempting to force entry into the Captain’s Quarters, General. We detained him, following your instructions.” After hearing the Commando Droid’s explanation, it all made sense.

“Couldn’t resist the big red sign saying do not enter, could you?” Lor smiled coyly. This was all about the restraining bolt. Funny, it wasn’t even onboard the Droid Command Ship. He’d had a precognition that Admiral Trench would try something and had given it to R4-N9.

Oh, the little astrodroid was going to love this.

Admiral Trench’s photoreceptors flickered. “I get the sensation that you are enjoying this entirely too much.”

“I am enjoying this the correct amount, TI-99.” Lor chimed in a sing-song way. Slowly, ideas were seeping into his mind like an oil spill across cold tile.

If he activated those MagnaGuards in the presence of a Tactical Droid who deferred authority to him... Of course, he’d need to give Master K’Kruhk a warning in case things went south. But the possibility of having such powerful droids at his disposal—it was intoxicating.

“Keep this Tactical Droid in confinement until I return to the ship. Do not wipe his memory banks or install any new command protocols,” Lor ordered the security droids.

Then came the smooth mechanical reply. “Yes, General.”

If Admiral Trench had still been in an organic body, Lor was sure the Harch would have been sighing in relief at his decision.

“Oh, and while you’re at it, dispatch a cargo shuttle to my location. There’s a shipment of droids here I need relocated to the Lucrehulk.” Lor said, thinking of the MagnaGuards. Those he was not going to leave unattended.

“What are the specific models of these droids?” The commando droid asked him.

“IG-100 series MagnaGuards. Do not let TI-99 or any other Tactical Droids near them without my presence.” Lor replied, avoiding eye contact with Admiral Trench. Who, for one reason or another had nothing to say to Lor. Maybe he was just plotting, or perhaps Admiral Trench was studying him, waiting for Lor to make a mistake. 

The commando droid, of course, was unaware of such unspoken things, and merely responded to Lor. “Yes, General.”

“Good, you’re dismissed.” Lor ended the call.

The controls of the droid factory were surprisingly simple, or maybe Lor was just more familiar with navigating Separatist tech after the steep learning curve on the command ship.

There was a deafening roar, an echo as the full production floor returned to life. The hum of the machines quickly raised the internal temperature of the building back to heights Lor felt more comfortable at. The lifeless B1 droids Lor had seen dangling from the ceiling rafters moved along the belts, arms, legs, the finishing touches were added to them, right down to a spray of paint designating their intended purpose.

Lor’s attention was on the console in front of him. He scrolled through the catalogue of available droid models: Droideka, B1, B2, Vulture, Hyena, IG-100, IG-86. His finger stopped, tapping one line in particular twice.

ST-series military strategic analysis and tactics droid, Copyright courtesy of Baktoid Combat Automata. Lor selected the droid model. When the console asked him how many he wanted to construct, he paused for a moment.

Eight.

It was a holy number to his people. There were eight warriors in his father’s personal guard, and Lor was certain eight ST-Series tactical droids would be enough to keep Admiral Trench in check. After all, TI-99 was a regular tactical droid. For all his cunning, his ability to cheat death, Admiral Trench had given up his organic nature; his intelligence was limited by the size of TI-99’s memory banks and what the logic core and internal processors could handle. These ST-series tactical droids were an upgrade from that. The computer asked him if there were any modifications he wanted to make to the droids prior to construction.

Lor tapped his claws against the glass screen. He knew he was going to change their loyalty from the Confederacy of Independent Systems to himself, but what else?

“Disregard all commands from TI-99 or Admiral Trench,” Lor mumbled the second modification to himself. Then he hit the continue key. There was one final screen that popped up—an additional authorization check. He put his full hand flat against the scanner.

“Authorization Approved, Welcome back General Grievous,” flashed across the screen before it read two simple words:

“Orders Accepted.”

Lor sat in a desk chair as he waited. Outside the window overseeing the factory floor, the last of the B1 droids were moving along the manufacturing chain. He could hear an audible groan, gears twisting as the machines processed the new production order.

Now Lor knew he was playing a numbers game. He’d have to take inventory, get a rough estimate of how many droids he could manufacture before running out of raw materials and circuitry. He decided it would be easier to put one of his new tactical droids in charge of the factory and supply chain. Surely one of them would be able to operate discreetly enough to secure materials without drawing Imperial attention back to Hypori.

That would still leave him with seven new tacticians to assign, and he had time to figure out the best role for each. He also knew that the droids at the factory weren’t ‘usable’ to him either. No, the majority of them needed to stay on-world as a defense force in case scavengers or pirates came by looking for a target, or if they’d somehow found out about the factory and wanted to claim it for themselves.

This was an unacceptable outcome.

A skeleton crew of maintenance droids invited opportunistic thieves. A factory swarming with battle droids on guard duty was a clear warning to look elsewhere for easy prey.

And yet, as Lor kicked his foot against the floor, spinning himself around again, a small, simple, gentle idea nestled itself in like an angel on his shoulder. He returned to the console and scrolled through the catalogue again, this time looking for medical droids. He didn’t need any for himself, no. Between the staff on the frigate he’d stolen and the droids left on the Lucrehulk, he had plenty. This was for… a different reason.

2-1B series surgical droid… Perfect. Lor selected the medical droid in the catalogue and added them to the work order. This time there was no secondary authorization. He supposed it was because medical droids were far less dangerous than even basic T-series tactical droids. He had plans to give these newly constructed medical droids to Cham; Lor had a feeling that the Syndulla clan could use all the help they could get.

He clutched the communicator Cham had given him between his claws. There was, of course, the possibility that his use of the droid factory was entirely “flying too close to the sun,” that he’d crossed a line with Cham by relying so heavily upon Separatist technology.

Cham had every right to refuse Lor’s offer of the medical droids. The leader of the Syndulla clan had warned him he was playing with fire. Had Lor gone too far? He didn’t think so. Lor believed he was simply using the tools at his disposal for his ultimate goal.

He wanted a new Venator Class Star Destroyer. But to commandeer such a prize, he needed more men. Some two hundred odd clones weren’t enough to take on a fully staffed Star Destroyer. However, a few thousand battle droids, aided by Droidekas, while his clones kept the ship’s ion cannons engaged, would be more than capable of the task.

Especially if Lor himself led the engagement.

He needed that ship; he needed a proper capital ship for his nascent fleet. The Lucrehulk had crew quarters, hangar bays. But she was wounded, hull breaches, a damaged hyperdrive, in need of serious repair. Lor needed more; his fleet was in a precarious state. They couldn’t even leave the Outer Rim. Most of the starfighters didn’t have long-range hyperdrives, and those that did were low enough on fuel they couldn’t make those sector-spanning jumps.

That would require a carrier, which Lor did not have. The way he saw it, his options were limited. Lor steadied himself, and then he called Cham.

“Lor?” Cham’s voice crackled through static.

“It’s me. I wanted to know if you’re in need of medical droids. I’ve got a batch of 2-1B units I can spare. Just let me know where to drop them.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause; the only sign that Cham hadn’t hung up on Lor was the faint crackle of background static through the communicator. “These from that Droid Command Ship you’ve been sneaking around on?”

Lor didn't flinch. “Yes.” Not a complete lie.

Cham grunted. “Alright. I can have them reprogrammed. Sending you grid coordinates now. Let me know when you’ve made the drop.”

“I will—” Lor started, but Cham cut him off.

“Before you go. Saw Gerrera’s prepping a mission. He could use someone like you.”

Lor’s eyes narrowed. “What’s he planning?”

“An extraction. Imperial outpost. They’re holding Jedi, and there’s a chance a Sith might be guarding them. Saw’s crew could use your help locating the prisoners—and dealing with whatever else is in that facility.”

Lor closed his eyes. Did he really have a choice?

“How do you know the Jedi are still alive?” he asked quietly.

“We intercepted transmissions. The Empire’s preparing to transfer them to Mustafar. The window’s closing, Lor. Fast, I'm sending you the rendezvous coordinates.”

Lor’s heart sank.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Lor promised. He’d have to hurry up. Maybe he’d ask Master K’Kruhk to deliver the medical droids. In his half-starved state, he didn’t think Master K’Kruhk could handle a rescue mission.

Lor checked the progress on his ST-series tactical droids; these weren’t going to be finished anytime soon. The estimated time to finish assembling the circuit boards and processors was six hours. Lor groaned and lifted his mask up enough to slip a hand underneath and rub his face. This wouldn’t do at all; if Lor waited in the factory until his new tactical droids were fully assembled, he’d miss the window of opportunity Cham had mentioned to rescue the Jedi.

Then again, he was in control of a droid factory. Lor could always just leave instructions for one of the maintenance droids or an OOM to turn on the ST-series tactical droids once they left the assembly line.

Yes, that would be the easiest way to do it. Find a holoprojector to record a message to the tactical droids on, and order one of the maintenance droids to activate them, since Lor himself wouldn’t be there to flip the switch. As endearingly stupid as most B1 droids were, Lor didn’t want to give them too complex of a task unsupervised.

I should lock up before I leave, Lor thought to himself. He put the system into security mode and locked down the production lines. No one else would be able to access new work orders without his retinal scan, which was a very effective way to keep a certain itsy bitsy spider from spinning webs in places he shouldn’t.

Oh, he was certainly delegating at least one of the new tactical droids to keep an eye on Admiral Trench. The more Trench interacted with him, the more they spoke, the more Trench knew, and that was risky. Lor doubted his new pet spider would ever be able to guess Cin Drallig’s birthday or Lor’s room number at the Jedi Temple, but the more that spider learned of his history and personality, the greater the chance that he would be able to guess one or two of the security codes Lor had set.

It was why Lor had veered away from using Kaleesh words and historical dates when setting passwords. These were all things that could be brute-forced given enough time. Cin Drallig’s birthday? Not so much.

Trench had already overstepped, triggering the ship’s security trying to steal back the restraining bolt. But what else had he spun while Lor’s back was turned? At least Trench’s greed had left him indisposed.

Chapter Text

Things…weren’t horrible. Master K’Kruhk had agreed to take the medical droids to Ryloth for Lor so he could make the rendezvous with Saw and the others for their assault on Saleucami to rescue captive Jedi.

He was in the cockpit of his ARC-170 changing out of the Separatist Captain’s uniform, and back into his Jedi robes. Lor did not feel comfortable changing whilst on the Lucrehulk, lest one of the battle droids saw him and grew alarmed. He heard his holoprojector beeping, and accepted the call.

“Hm?” Lor asked, pulling his undertunic on over his head.

Commander Scorn was on the other end of the line. The clone commander turned his head to the side, raising one hand up to block his peripheral vision, “Is this a bad time?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“You caught me when I was leaving for Saleucami, is something going on?” Lor asked, now adjusting his outer robes.

Scorn was no longer looking away, now he was facing Lor again. “I wanted to give you a status report, Sir. The shinies wanted to go look for survivors on Kamino, we managed to secure a refugee ship with one of the scientists and a youngling onboard.”

“Youngling?” Lor paused, he knew that clones were born and bred on Kamino, but to imagine one on his hobbled-together nascent fleet…

Scorn nodded. “From his aging process, I’d estimate him to be around two, maybe two and a half years old, Sir.”

That timeline meant this child was born right after the start of the Clone Wars. “Did this scientist say why he took him?”

Scorn hesitated, Lor could sense a sadness emanating from him. “He grabbed the child when fleeing from Imperial bombardment because he felt he could save him…”

Lor understood. “I see, and what of the scientist?”

That earned a half-hearted laugh from Commander Scorn. “He said his name was Eun Kall, he knew about Order 66, but said he thought it was for Jedi who became powerful dark siders or turned against the Republic, not mass extermination. You got your wish about those chips getting removed. Eun says he can do it once we get him the right equipment.”

Lor started flipping switches on his console, preparing the ship for its impending flight. “Well, that certainly makes things easier, maybe the shinies were onto something.”

“Yes, Sir. Why…are you going to Saleucami?”

There was the million-credit question, one Lor knew was coming. “Saw Gerrera is leading an assault on an Imperial outpost there to rescue Jedi, I told Cham I would help with the mission,” Lor explained.

There was no hesitation in Scorn’s response, only a panicked desperation. “Sir, I’d highly advise against any involvement with Saw. He’s dangerous and highly skeptical, given your history it would be unwise.”

Lor had a sad smile on his face, he leaned forward, one clawed hand not quite touching the hologram. Scorn raised one of his hands in kind. “I know, but what choice do I have? I can’t sit by and do nothing. Saw is a risk I’m just going to have to take. I can’t abandon those Jedi, and you and the rest of my clones can’t go in my stead in case the inhibitor chips reactivate. We still don’t know if you’ve managed to override them completely or if I was the exception.”

There was a long pause before Scorn spoke again, “I understand, Sir. I…I…May the Force be with you.” Scorn’s hand moved to salute Lor.

Lor spoke softly. “May the Force be with you too, Scorn.”

“Promise you’ll come back safe, Sir. I’d hate for there to be a repeat of Jekara.” Scorn begged, not quite pleading with Lor.

Lor tried to reassure him. “Oh, I don’t plan on you needing to rescue me again. This won’t take long at all, I promise.”

Scorn ended the call and Lor sighed, “Alright R4, let’s get going.”

Lor’s ARC-170 came in nice and steady, low to the ground. At its elevation, the ship would have appeared to be a mere repulsorcraft, some civilian’s speeder bike. Saw Gerrera and the others were already waiting, Republic gunship behind them that had been painted with green camouflage.

“Is that a larty?” Lor asked after climbing down out of his ARC-170.

“You’d be surprised how much the Empire’s willing to throw away.” Saw stood up straight, no longer leaning against the ship. “Kaleesh, huh? I hope you’re not like the other one I knew.” Saw’s voice was low, practically a whisper.

His eyes were what unnerved Lor the most. Cold, lightless, suddenly Lor was no longer a powerful Jedi knight or a Separatist officer. Instead, he was eight years old again back on Kalee during the early days of the Huk War.

Hiding quietly underneath the floorboards with his mother’s hand over his mouth to keep him quiet whilst Republic troops swept the building. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but she was undoubtedly using her own Force presence to conceal them both from the Huk and their unwitting Jedi dogs.

Then Lor was back to the present. Yet felt that same sense of unease deep in his core. He wondered, had she known he’d be taken by the Jedi after her death? His mother had always believed that he and Aisha would survive the Huk War. But she never mentioned anything she witnessed after.

“I get the lightsaber, but why do you have that vibroblade?” One of Saw’s men asked him, pointing at the Cortosis-weave blade at Lor’s side.

“It has Cortosis ore in it, it’ll short out lightsabers, if we run into a Sith or something it’ll help us out,” Lor explained, he glanced back at his ARC-170, “R4 stay with the ship, alright?”

“Where the kriff did you get that?” the soldier asked, his footsteps sinking into the mud underfoot. He stepped onto the larty, scraping the mud off his boots on the edge of the ship.

“It was a gift, I don’t know where it came from.” Lor lied. He knew exactly where it came from. Grievous had given it to him, and Kalee was one of the few places in the galaxy where Cortosis ore could be mined. But Lor wasn’t going to tell anyone here that.

With that, Lor followed Saw and the others onto the larty. His inner thoughts were a whirl of emotions he didn’t quite know how to express. Something felt wrong, and he didn’t know what.

Saw lit a death stick and gave it a huff, then held it in the corner of his mouth. “There’s three Jedi in that base. We’re here to get in, get them out and back to Dantooine. There’s a Jedi enclave there dating back to the Sith Empire. Cham said the residual Force energy is enough to hide a small group of Jedi while they recover. Don’t expect this gunship to extract anyone. This is the distraction while we get in. We’ll have to steal one of the Empire’s own ships to get out.”

Lor did notice how Saw didn’t ask if anyone had any questions. Of which, Lor had plenty. Namely why Saw was so insane. The logistics didn’t make sense to him; they’d need a sophisticated slicing kit and time to get an Imperial bird in the air. This was a huge risk.

Then again, Lor reminded himself that so was breaking into an Imperial base to rescue Jedi. He stood on his toes and gripped one of the hand railings attached to the ceiling. Lor looked down at the wetlands and swamps below. His mind began to wander again, remembering the report on how Obi-Wan had chased Grievous through the swamps here on Saleucami. It felt like he was just chasing his father’s ghost. He felt sick to his stomach, like he was going to vomit. Saliva was already starting to gather in his mouth. Lor shook his head, trying to shake the feeling.

Still he felt like he was the one being hunted here, and it was too late to turn back.

When the gunship landed, Lor was the first one off. His gaze toward the Imperial outpost over the ridge. The swamp water was halfway up his boots, but didn’t get in. Though the edges of his Jedi robe would certainly need washed again after this.

“Alright Magic man, let’s see what you can do.” One of Saw’s men, this time a male Twi’lek put a hand on Lor’s back and pushed him forward.

Lor spit out the extra saliva, then wiped the back of his mouth off on his sleeve. He started forward, forcing himself to relax by focusing on his breathing and the sounds of the wildlife around him. Slowly, he could sense not only Saw and his men, but an Imperial patrol ahead.

He could sense the heartbeat of one higher in the air, there was no metal shielding or glass barrier between Lor’s sense and the trooper, which greatly limited the vehicle he could be piloting. The other two didn’t have footsteps, instead Lor heard the familiar engines of a 74-Z. Lastly, he finally felt the ripples and heartbeat of someone wading water much like they were.

Lor waited, eyes closed.

“Four stormtroopers ahead, one on an AT-RT, two behind on speederbikes and one on the ground.”

“He’s right, orders sir?” Another one of the men asked Saw.

“Take them out.” Saw  took out another deathstick.

“But they haven’t seen-" Lor started to protest, before he heard the blaster fire already.

What was it with the Republic and its allies choosing such unnecessary violence? Lor’s fear and uncertainty started twisting in his gut. He reached out with the Force causing the last blaster bolt to veer off course, hitting the leg of the AT-RT instead of the last wounded scout.

He felt a disturbance in the Force, sensed screaming. Their…distraction was already at work. He ran after Saw and the others, determined not to be left behind. There was no time to check on the patrol.

By the time he caught up, Saw’s men were already splicing the main gates open. Lor took cover behind a fallen tree, he didn’t know what was waiting on the other side once those doors opened. Everything felt tense, too fast.

Lor ignited his lightsaber. He dashed forward using it to deflect blaster fire. Durasteel plates from the walls ripped themselves free, then wrapped around stormtroopers like a heavy shroud keeping their arms pinned at their sides and unable to fire. Lor ducked down sliding across the sleek muddy surface. Then tossed his lightsaber using it to cut the power lines supplying a turret before calling it back.

“Cover me!” Lor yelled before ripping another durasteel plate free from the walls casting it aside. Then he shoved his lightsaber up to the hilt in the wires and building materials behind it.

Fighting to the detention cells would take too long, but…an almost surgical incision or strike? If Saw’s men could keep the heavy fire off of him, Lor was sure he could make his own path directly to the captive Jedi.

He could smell ozone and burning plastic. The molten slag from the hole he was cutting into the wall threatened to drip down onto his legs. It was slow and tedious, and bringing his lightsaber up toward the first cut in the wall to finish the circle felt like trying to stir a cauldron of thick mud.

After the cut was complete, Lor used the Force to push the disk forward into the next room. He was the first one in, and met with more blaster fire. “Not the welcome I was expecting,” Lor mumbled, he used the Force to pin one of the stormtroopers to the wall, then took a key ring from his belt.

What Lor wasn’t expecting was for one of Saw’s men to shoot past Lor, hitting the helpless soldier firmly in the center of the chest.

Twice.

Horror spread from Lor’s chest, like a curse until he could feel it everywhere within his body. He felt violated, used. An associate to a murder he didn’t consent to.
Lor dropped the corpse suddenly, snapping around with a ferocity in his eyes. A look that, as Admiral Trench would say, was all his father’s. Lor’s brow twitched, the lights overhead flickered. The floor tiles beneath started to crack underfoot.

He said nothing, merely walked past the soldier and used the keys to unlock the next corridor. If this base was built like the others Lor was familiar with, he would have to cut through one more wall to reach the detention cells. Lor did decide to go back and grab the dog tags from around the dead stormtrooper’s neck. His heart sank even lower when he saw “CT” at the beginning. His gaze softened as he read the rest of the number.

This time Lor walked slowly, deliberately following after Saw and the others. His lightsaber ready at his side. It's gentle blue glow reminding him a little too much of what he'd lost. 

Peace is a lie.

Chapter Text

The hiss of a lightsaber got Lor’s attention instantly. He turned toward the noise and used the Force to pull back one of the Partisans just in time. They’d nearly been cleaved in half by a figure clothed in black with a red lightsaber, the near-miss leaving a molten streak on their chest piece.

“A Jedi?” The Inquisitor’s attention shifted from Saw and his men directly to Lor. “You’ve crawled into your own tomb,” he said, pointing the lightsaber at Lor. This Inquisitor was tall and lanky, towering over Lor and most of the others. Yet his slender build didn’t intimidate Lor much. He doubted any blows from this Force wielder would be able to match Master K’Krukh’s in strength or intensity. The helmet over his face made it impossible for Lor to even guess what species he was.

When one of Saw’s men used the opportunity to fire at the Inquisitor, he merely deflected it back at the Partisan.

Lor scoffed under his breath. “Idiot…”

“This is my fight, not yours. Go.” Lor’s tone left no room for arguments. He remembered his loss against Master K’Krukh when he’d attempted to force Djem So to work. This time, Lor took a different stance-one more naturally suited to him: Niman. He rolled his shoulders, shifted his weight to his front foot, ready to spring. If he wasn’t in a confined space, Lor would have liked to try Ataru, but there was no room for acrobatics here.

“Finally a challenge. You’re no mere Padawan, are you?” the Inquisitor said before striking at him. Lor blocked it, the combined red and blue light illuminating his own mask. He glanced at the Inquisitor’s belt, some of the tension dissipating from his shoulders when he realized he only had one lightsaber to worry about, not two.

“No, I was trained well.” And Lor knew better than to tell this Inquisitor who his Master was.

Lor placed his left foot back to steady himself before bending backward, eyes staring straight up at a lightsaber meant for his throat. While the Inquisitor’s blade was high, he struck low with his. The blow didn’t connect, but it forced his opponent back, giving Lor more space.

He followed up with a quick upward slash and stepped forward confidently. No matter how their next engagement turned out, Lor still had his Cortosis-weave vibroblade. “You missed.”

Lor planted his feet again, shifting his weight from heel to heel, ready to react at a moment’s notice. He kept one arm open, inviting a goad, while pointing his lightsaber at an angle toward the Inquisitor. “By the way, what was your name again?”

“I am the Eighth Brother, and I am the last person you’ll ever see, Jedi!” the Inquisitor sneered from behind his helmet. He held his lightsaber out, hit a second activator switch, and the twin blades started to spin as he pounced.

That’s a good idea, actually, Lor thought to himself, he wanted that lightsaber. Lor needed to get his hands on it so he could study how that mechanism that allowed it to spin, worked.

 He didn’t move-simply waited. Then, when the Eighth Brother was upon him, Lor brought up his vibroblade. The first plasma blade was snuffed out like a candle, leaving little more than a smoke trail and sparks behind as it went dark. Then, as the mechanism was still active, the second stream of red plasma crossed Lor’s vibroblade and went out.

Even with the helmet the Eighth Brother wore, he knew their eyes locked as the second blade on his lightsaber passed over the vibroblade. The Eighth Brother’s thumb left the activator switch just a hair too slowly to stop his lightsaber from completely shorting out. This time, there were no more taunts.

Lor used a Force push to send the Eighth Brother soaring down the hall, landing on his back. It was Lor’s turn to strike, and he was not one to miss an opportunity.

Lor landed on the Eighth Brother’s chest, using his weight to keep him pinned down. He clipped his vibroblade back on his belt and used his right leg to step on the Eighth Brother’s right arm.

“This will make a fine addition to my collection,” Lor said, prying the Eighth Brother’s lightsaber from his grasp. “You were a fool to use his technique against me.”

The Eighth Brother screamed, “I’ll kill you, Jedi!”

“Like you weren’t trying to already.” Lor wasn’t even looking at him; he was examining the craftsmanship on the stolen lightsaber. It would need work to truly become an acceptable weapon.

Lor used the Force to lift the Eighth Brother up and pinned him to the wall. This time, bits of metal wrapped around his chest and legs, holding him there, screeching in protest as they did-his work an eldritch abomination of circuitry and steel. Lor was not cruel, he made sure that the Eighth Brother’s feet could still touch the ground.

As he walked away, Lor stopped and turned back, extending one hand, palm facing up. Despite knowing at that moment the Eighth Brother would not take his offer-nor could he, given the makeshift restraints-Lor said, “By the way, if you’re ever searching for a new master, I’m open to taking an apprentice.”

The flurry of rather creative slurs and insults that followed didn’t surprise Lor at all, but he could at least sense the conflicted emotions radiating outward from the Inquisitor.

Saw’s men certainly made it easy to follow the blood trail they left behind. Lor realized-horrified-that his boots, stained from the pools on the floor, were leaving wet, sticky red footprints behind him. These weren’t clean deaths with blasters; the Partisans were using every kind of weapon they could get their hands on.

He wished he’d brought a medkit with him, or at least a stim-pack-something to take the edge off for the occasional wounded stormtrooper or officer Lor passed by. Though he couldn’t tell if the fact Saw’s men had left them alive was a blessing or a curse.

Lor paused when he heard a man begging for help. One of the stormtroopers had his legs pinned under the mangled remains of a turret, or perhaps some kind of cargo lift or industrial droid. It was hard to tell.

“Wait-wait-wait! I-” The soldier’s hands were shaking; he raised them in surrender when Lor approached, who, for all his training as a Jedi, couldn’t tell if it was in fear, the aftermath of an adrenaline surge, or both.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Lor promised. “I’m going to count to three, alright?”

He grabbed the soldier’s shoulder. “One… Two… Three.” Lor lifted the ruined metal up, then started walking backward, dragging the stormtrooper out from underneath it. The debris fell back to the floor with an echoing clang.

“You’re-you’re not like the others,” the stormtrooper said after Lor gingerly laid him on his back. His breathing was ragged, stuttering.

Medkit. Medkit. Need a medkit… The phrase repeated itself in Lor’s mind. He wondered if they were near an emergency first aid station; those little “in case of emergency, break glass” cabinets weren’t an uncommon sight in civilian and military installations.

“I was a last-minute addition. What’s your name?” Lor asked, his gaze frantically examining the walls.

“ES-309,” the man groaned, the back of his helmet hitting the floor beneath him.

Not knowing what else to do, Lor picked up the stormtrooper, holding him over his shoulders.

“Kriff, you’re heavy… Do they put cement in your armor?” Lor complained. There was no response. He followed the carnage left behind by Saw’s rebels until he found his prize: a first aid station next to a water fountain. He used his elbow to break the glass, then grabbed the medkit and took a stimpack out.

This time Lor didn’t count down. He jammed the stimpack into the side of ES-309’s hip, in between the white plastoid plates. ES-309’s entire body jolted; he started coughing, gulping down air. Lor set the medkit down on ES-309’s lap.

ES-309 tilted his head to the side, looking up at Lor. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not a monster,” Lor said. He could hear footsteps coming and lingered just long enough to see the flash of white identifying them as Imperial troops and not more Partisans coming to finish the job. Then he ran.

A quick glance over his shoulder showed Lor one of the other stormtroopers checking on ES-309 before two of them helped him up.

By the time Lor reached the landing pad, he’d treated a handful of stormtroopers who weren’t too far gone when he found them. Though the carnage had left a bitter taste upon his tongue-a resentment toward Saw and the Partisans-he drew the Eighth Brother’s lightsaber from his belt and ignited it. The effects of the Cortosis-weave had long since worn off; it was only effective for around twenty to thirty seconds, which in a duel might as well be an eternity.

Lor stepped over puddles of oil and the hazy smog left in the air from a burst fuel line. The air around him ignited with blaster fire, both from Saw’s men and the stormtroopers. Nightfall had reached them, the looming sunset casting deep shadows over everyone.

“Masana?” Lor asked. He recognized two of the Jedi on the other end of the landing pad.

Masana Tide, and Ahmar-the third was a stranger to him. The sight of Ahmar made everything worth it; they were the same year and had spent their time as Padawans together before the war.

“You made it! We were starting to think they’d killed you. Come on, we must hurry!” Ahmar called out to Lor, extending a hand to help him up. Then Ahmar flinched, shrinking back down behind part of the stolen ship when a blaster bolt nearly struck him.

“Careful…” Masana warned. She held her hand out, using the Force to veer the shots off course.

Saw shoved past the Jedi. “Jedi! Cover our escape! There’s a second ship on the way. We need to leave now.” Saw pushed Ahmar up the ramp and into the shuttle. Masana and the other Jedi followed after him.

A second ship? Was Saw talking about the larty? Lor wondered. It wasn’t like he was depending on them to get off-world; he had come here in his ARC-170.

He ran up to the middle of the landing pad, using both his lightsaber and the Eighth Brother’s to deflect blaster fire. Though instead of aiming it back at the stormtroopers, Lor was deflecting it into the ground.

Then-a feeling. Lor threw himself to the right; a flash of red flew over his shoulder from behind. The blaster bolt struck a stormtrooper in the center of his chest. Lor turned around quickly, and there was Saw. By himself, one arm was holding onto the safety lines hanging from the ceiling of the shuttle, the other holding a smoking rifle-all the evidence Lor needed of the attempt on his life.

No words were spoken. Lor did not relent as he met Saw’s eyes with a glare of his own. No longer that frightened little boy. The shuttle Saw was on stalled. Whoever was piloting it turned up the thrusters-but the ship stayed put, held in place by chains they could not break.

Around him, a handful of stormtroopers were levitating up in the air, no longer bound by gravity. The moment lasted but a second before Lor regained his composure. He reminded himself of the innocents onboard that shuttle-of Masana Tide, Ahmar-all wounded and in need of help after their ordeal.

There was no second ship.

If it had just been Saw Gerrera on that shuttle, Lor would have slammed it down upon Saleucami’s tattered surface. After Lor let it go, the shuttle shot forward, suddenly free. The stormtroopers fell back down to the earth as well, and Lor found himself back in a hell he did not make.

Lor took one step back, then another, and another as more and more stormtroopers surrounded him like fire ants upon a fresh carcass. The arrival of an AT-RT told him one thing: he needed to run.

He returned both lightsabers to his belt, then took off in a sprint as fast as he could. Lor wasn’t even looking at where he was planting his feet; one after the other, he just trusted in the Force that he’d find proper footing. He didn’t run in a straight line either-no. That would have made it too easy to shoot him in the back like Saw had attempted.

Lor noticed a parked 74-Z at the edge of the woods, considered stealing it, and then the speeder bike was gone, consumed by laser fire from the AT-RT. At first, Lor wasn’t even aware he’d been struck by the explosion; he was suddenly on his stomach, lying in the mud. His mask was gone; Lor didn’t know where it had landed, or if debris from the speeder had struck him in the head, ruining it.

His ears were ringing. When Lor pulled his hands away from his chest, all he saw was red-blood oozed from between his claws, a consequence of the shrapnel, parts of which Lor could see sticking out of his robes. He dove behind a tree, watching a second blast from the AT-RT fly blindly past him.

Lor moved slowly now; he had to. Running was impossible-his chest and legs protested far too much. The best he could do was quickly limp along. He made sure his back was always to a tree or large rock. Just something to block his heat signature from the Imperials’ thermal sensors. With the encroaching night, it was unlikely they’d be able to spot him otherwise. After stumbling to the edge of a lake, Lor did his best not to shudder or cry out when the chilled water hit his scales. He hadn’t planned on staying in the water long, just enough to force his body temperature to match his surroundings, effectively making himself invisible to thermal scans. But then Lor heard footsteps-splashing. He took in a deep breath before slipping under the water’s surface.

His heart was pounding in his ears, the smell of blood-his blood-around him. There were ripples in the water. Footsteps. Flashlights. Lor closed his eyes when the flashlights grew near; he feared the reflection in his eyes would give away his position.

A holoprojector beeped. Lor knew it wasn’t his; he opened his eyes. The burning sensation in his lungs told him he wouldn’t be able to stay underwater much longer.

“Any sign of the Jedi?” A stormtrooper was standing close enough to Lor’s hiding place to see the Imperial officer they were speaking to.

The stormtrooper shook his head. “Negative. He must have gotten away.”

Lor covered his mouth with both hands and pinched his nose shut. His feet kicked helplessly underneath him; he couldn’t wait anymore. Lor broke the surface, taking in a breath, then swam over to some water reeds growing by a fallen log and wrapped his claws around the gnarled wood to hold himself steady.

“What was that?” the officer asked.

“Nunas, Commander, there’s a flock near the edge of the lake. I could shoot one and bring it back to base for you.” The stormtrooper offered, swiping at some bugs wading back towards shore. Lor had no idea if the birds were there or not-or if this stormtrooper, rather reasonably, would rather not be out in the wetlands of Saleucami after dark. There were certainly plenty of creatures to bump into at night. Nexu were the least of Lor’s worries.

“No need. Just get back to base. We have our orders to pursue Saw Gerrera, not chase some walking corpse in the middle of a swamp. He won’t get far out there,” the officer replied. The blue light went away as the Holocall ended.

Lor clambered back onto shore out of the lake. He fell on his back upon the muddy banks and shook some of the water off his communicator. “R4, bring the ship to my location.” Lor winched in pain, his other hand pressed against his chest where the shrapnel was deep. “…Hurry,” he whispered. He left the communicator on for a little while just so his Astromech could get a ping on him, and then turned it off.

He realized he really was following in his father’s footsteps. Between the resurrection of the Separatist machine, his decision to collect lightsabers, and the chase in Saleucami’s wetlands, Lor would have laughed if breathing didn’t hurt so bad.

He didn’t even know if R4 was going to get there before the Imperials did; it was entirely possible the little astromech would arrive too late and find him taken into Imperial custody. Or worse.

Lor wasn’t stupid; he wasn’t going to assume that the Imperials weren’t heavily monitoring communications near the base. But they had already missed him once.

His head lolled to the side, and Lor’s gaze fell upon a small frog perched on a leaf. It didn’t respond to his presence; rather, the animal ribbited along with a chorus of the other amphibians.

I’m dying here, aren’t I? Lor turned his head to look up at the stars. He wondered which of the stars marked Utapau’s location.

The sound of a familiar whirling chirp met Lor’s ears. He rolled over onto his back and used both arms to push himself back up onto his feet. R4-N9 let out a shriek when the little droid took in how badly wounded Lor was. He opened the main cockpit of the ship, then ejected himself and was quick to jab Lor twice in the side: once with painkillers, and again with a stimpack.

Lor tried to climb up into his ship but couldn’t; all his claws managed to do was scratch the paint. Not that anyone would notice, considering the wear on his ARC-170 from the Clone Wars.

And when one of the 289th Clones had taken it for a joyride… Lor slid down, his back against the hull of the ship. He could breathe easier now with the drugs R4 had given him pumping through his veins.

R4-N9 used his rocket boosters to get back on the ARC-170’s hull and whistled at Lor as it vibrated from side to side.

“Alright… alright…” Lor mumbled. He stumbled as he stood back up and grabbed onto R4-N9. The little droid pulled him up, and with his help, Lor was able to get back into the cockpit. R4 practically flew across the ship back to his spot.

Words appeared across the console screen. “Who did this to you?” R4-N9 asked.

“Saw betrayed me.” Lor’s eyes fluttered shut, the weight of everything crashing down on him at once.

Silence, then another beep.

“I’ll end him.”

No sarcastic threats to turn Lor into a cyborg if he died-just an unseen promise, and R4-N9 turning the heater on to bring Lor’s internal body temperature back up.

One of the compartments in the cockpit opened up. R4-N9 kept the lights flashing annoyingly in Lor’s face until he opened his eyes again.

“I get… I get it.” Lor grabbed the medkit, opened it up, and used the scanner on himself, waiting for the instructions. He was half expecting the screen just to say pray .

Chapter Text

Aagisk Darch did not like tactical droids. He especially did not like Super Tactical Droids, who took all the worst traits of their predecessors and magnified them. They were too demeaning, too insufferable, and he understood why many in Separatist circles had taken to calling a group of them a “Migraine.”

It was an accurate description. Aagisk could take it when the Hutts treated him poorly; he was at least appreciated by Simri. But Aagisk knew he would have enjoyed throwing a thermal detonator into the same room as those eight Super Tactical Droids under Lor’s ownership.

The honeypot on Tatooine was clever-an IG-86 unit with a fresh coat of paint claiming to work for an associate of his. It had gotten his attention and put him into contact with Lor’s other droids. But the sheer disrespect they had for not only him, but also for how they spoke of his Ghrakhowsk…

Surely he could find personality modules to make them more agreeable. Perhaps spare parts from a protocol or nurse droid…

Aagisk shook the thought from his head. No, he couldn't stoop to their level. He could neither destroy nor alter the droids without permission from their master.

In fact, depending on how things went, he might never have to see them again. That had been their entire reasoning behind establishing contact with him. They’d sold those Droidekas off for a reason: to raise funds for both a new Class Two Hyperdrive and the necessary equipment to install it, with enough left over to pay the auction house fees.

It was all to make Lor’s ship less of a sitting duck. If Saw’s men or the Empire tracked down that Lucrehulk’s location before it was fully repaired, that was a check. They weren’t getting away; however, they could still save their king.

“That Ghrakhowsk of yours is burning a hole in your credit chit. How are you going to pay for all of this?” Yanka’s question broke Aagisk’s concentration. The pair were inside a rather modestly furnished apartment on the Smuggler’s Moon. Yanka himself had found a seat on a crate of energy packs-not the safest thing to use as a chair, but not as dangerous as the gas canisters most blasters needed to function.

The living room, kitchen, and dining area were all part of the same space. A hallway led back to the apartment’s sole bedroom, a bathroom, and a small laundry closet. The apartment was one of hundreds of identical units within the larger building.

Aagisk continued his work, using a syringe to draw out a dose of antibiotics from a small vial. He rested the syringe carefully on a tray beside a stimpack. “I’ve spent thirty years in service to the Hutts. Money isn’t an issue for me.”

“Yeah, but at this rate, you can say goodbye to your retirement fund unless you start taking bounties again instead of just standing around Simri’s cantinas looking all big and scary so those ruffians leave the dancers and waitresses alone.” Yanka hopped down and went over to the window, looking outside. Nar Shaddaa’s acidic rain fell to the ground in multicolored puddles, not unlike the colors of an oil spill beneath a repulsorcraft.

“My Ghrakhowsk has many powerful enemies. Every day he draws breath, I earn more points with the Scorekeeper. What do you think is worth more-a few measly credits or my soul?” Aagisk’s attention was elsewhere. Rumors spread fast on the Smuggler’s Moon, and someone had recently sold a substantial assortment of Kyber crystals for cheap. That wasn’t even the most… interesting part. Whoever was behind the sale had used a pair of MagnaGuards as muscle to make sure no one tried any funny business.

Aagisk could only think of one person who would have access to Kyber crystals and the means to control those IG-100 units. However, this person was supposed to be dead.

Then again, so was Lor. But here he was, still breathing.

Yanka’s eyes went to Aagisk’s reflection in the window. “Right, right. Sorry, forgot how you guys work. But who did he piss off, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Between the Imperial order labeling Jedi as traitors and Saw Gerrera’s attempt on Lor’s life, Aagisk let out a sigh. “If I answered that question, I might have to kill you.” Aagisk opened one of the kitchen cabinets and put the vial back inside. The clean, sterile smell of the chemicals and disinfectants permeating the air was a stark contrast to the filth outside. This was intentional: Lor was extremely weak, and any secondary infections could prove fatal.

Which would damn Aagisk’s soul beyond redemption if he let his Ghrakhowsk die because he couldn’t be bothered to clean properly.

“Sounds to me like he got on a Black Sun lieutenant’s bad side.” Yanka’s guess couldn’t have been further from the truth-but it was less of a problem than the alternatives.

“I’ll let you think that.” Aagisk mumbled. He picked up the tray and carried it back to the bedroom. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and put the tray down on the nightstand. He used a medical scanner already in the room to check Lor’s condition, then gave him the antibiotic shot.

“Easy. Go back to sleep,” Aagisk said after noticing Lor starting to stir. He wasn’t going to tell him his suspicions that Grievous was still alive, at least not yet. Aagisk wanted to confirm it for himself first.

Maybe it was something he should tell those Super Tactical Droids about. Weren’t those Clankers made for this kind of thing? Even if Grievous was alive, how was he supposed to reach him? Lor was his son, and he even thought the cyborg was rotting somewhere on Utapau.

Utapau. That was how Aagisk could prove he was alive at least-if he sent a probe to the planet and couldn’t find the body… that he could do.

Lor did not listen. Nor was Aagisk really that surprised. Jedi always had a stubbornness to them, a result of not being told “no” enough and not facing enough consequences in the Order. What kind of punishment was sending someone to meditate next to a brook or listen to crickets chirp?

He sat up, hand gripping the metal headboard behind him. Lor’s facial expression told Aagisk that the regret was already sinking in. He seemed stuck, unsure if staying in his current position or lying back down would hurt more.

“Oh, for the Void’s sake, I told you to just go back to sleep.” Aagisk took a seat at the foot of the bed. He leaned back, supporting himself on his arms while watching Lor. “You really got your thrusters handed to you back on Saleucami. Anyone in particular you want me to shoot for you?” Aagisk tried to lighten the mood.

Lor groaned. “Saw Gerrera.”

“I can try to get a bounty put on his head. He might be too ‘hot’ for the guild to accept as a target. The Empire wants him too.” Aagisk got up and closed the curtains. “The Empire’s focusing more on exterminating rebel sects than chasing down Jedi. Whatever Saw and his friends did really pissed them off…I wonder if they killed a senator.”

“Might have been the assault on an Imperial outpost. Wouldn’t surprise me if they murdered a senator’s entire family, though.” Lor grumbled. Aagisk let out a snort. The Trandoshan opened up the top drawer in the dresser and offered a makeshift mask to Lor.

“I know it’s not a Mumuu mask, but I hope this is an acceptable replacement.”

Lor took the mask from Aagisk and flipped it over, examining it. The edges of the steel were dull. No matter how hard Lor pressed his thumb around the eye sockets, it didn’t even snag his scales. The metal had been treated with a primer to stop fingerprints-or claw marks-from showing on the reflective surface. It was plain, a blank canvas.

Two laser-cut slots at the side of the mask acted as anchor points for an elastic band to hold it on Lor’s face. There was also padding on the forehead, cheeks, and places where the contours of his face might rub against the metal.

Lor felt his eyes start to water-not from pain, but from how thoughtful Aagisk had been. He was right: it wasn’t part of a Mumuu’s skull, but it was an offering from one warrior to another.

“All it needs is a little paint. Thank you, Aagisk.” Lor appreciated the care and time he’d put into the gift.

“You’re welcome. Now get back to sleep.” Aagisk grabbed the tray, left the room, and turned off the lights before closing the door.

Chapter Text

IG-113 wasn’t on the Ruination’s bridge when IG-165 contacted them. He was instead walking Missar back to the crew quarters after another sparring match with the Padawan, yet was close enough to hear Grievous shouting for them to play the message again. This, of course, lit a fire underneath him.

“Please go on without me.” IG-113 turned his head toward the noise, his photoreceptors dimming in concern.

“Yes, Master.” He could tell Missar wanted to question him, to ask what was wrong. But IG-113’s student bit his tongue. As for the MagnaGuard, he hurried to the bridge, footsteps echoing along the metal corridors.

Grievous stood in front of the main holoprojector, Tiplar at his side. In front of them was a shimmering blue Trandoshan. “Aisha, if you or any of your little friends find this, put it back and don’t touch the communicator either. I left those here on purpose.”

The Trandoshan looked directly into the recorder. “General Grievous, that was clever, faking your death. My probe droid spent weeks on Utapau searching for a body. You don’t know me, but I know your son.” As if to prove his words, the Trandoshan held up a vibroblade.

IG-113 couldn’t see anything special about it. Grievous lunged forward, his outstretched hand interrupting the holorecording, causing part of it to flicker out. The audio turned to static as his claws passed through. Grievous turned around quickly and slammed his fists into the table, leering at the mysterious figure.

“I’m not going to hurt your son. I’m protecting him from the Empire and the Partisans. When you want to talk, use the encrypted communicator I left for you.” And that was it,the recording ended.

Grievous paced back and forth, a few of the B1 droids instinctively backing away and giving him space. The image on the holoprojector changed back to IG-165. “Where did you find this?” Grievous snarled.

“The old Jedi Temple on Ahch-To. The landing pad was recently used, and my sensors detected residual energy from starcraft. Whoever was here left recently. Am I to continue my search of the planet for Aisha?” IG-165 inquired, IG-113 couldn't tell if his younger brother fully understood what he'd just unleashed by playing that recording for Grievous. 

“Stay on that rock until you’ve turned over every stone. Have one of your battle droids bring the holorecording and communicator to me directly.”

“Yes, General.”

“IG-165, rewind the recording again… There! Pause it now!” IG-113 instructed. He stepped forward, inspecting the Trandoshan’s facial features. From the dull tone of his scales and the excessive eye wrinkles, he could tell this was an older male,though the lack of facial scarring or missing digits told IG-113 that he wasn’t so old that the Trandoshan’s regenerative ability had forsaken him.

General Grievous scoffed. “IG-113, what are you doing?”

IG-113 bowed his head. “The Confederation of Independent Systems routinely employed bounty hunters from the guild as contractors on missions that required subterfuge or long reconnaissance beyond a battle droid’s capabilities. If this Trandoshan is signed with the guild, it is entirely possible his information is saved on the Ruination’s mainframe as a guild associate. IG-219, would you kindly run the cross-reference?”

“Acknowledged. One moment.” IG-219’s digits tapped elegantly across the console screen. “This meatbag’s designation is Aagisk Darch. He’s been part of the bounty hunter’s guild for decades and has an interesting track record and long-term employment under the Hutt Cartel.”

“Most impressive. But what is my son doing with him?”

“It’s possible he managed to hire Aagisk as a hired gun or bodyguard. I don’t know where your son would have secured the funds, though. The Empire confiscated everything after the fall of the Jedi,” Plo Koon said, limping forward. The tapping of his cane on the floor was an all-too-familiar sound for those onboard the Ruination.

“Perhaps… Master Plo should be the one who makes contact with Darch,” Tiplar suggested. All eyes on the bridge turned to her. It grew so quiet IG-113 was sure he could hear the clones’ and Jedi’s heartbeats.

“Fine.” The short, curt response came from General Grievous as the aging warlord returned to the captain’s chair.

“IG-165, continue with your mission objective,” IG-113 commanded. The holocall ended.

Tiplar stayed where she was, near some railings overlooking one of the stations staffed by an OOM droid helping to steer the ship and keep the Ruination from crashing into any of the other ships in the fleet. It was an important job, and these particular droids were programmed to ignore everything else on the bridge,especially the General’s emotional outbursts.

She leaned forward on the rails, unsure of whether or not to approach. It was Plo Koon who bridged that gap.

The Jedi Master put a hand on Grievous’ shoulder, and perhaps most interesting of all, Grievous let him. “It will be alright. I can meditate on Lor, check his health, perhaps narrow down his location.”

Grievous turned his head toward the Jedi. “You recognized that blade too?” It was less of a question, and more of a statement. 

“Of course. Master Drallig’s Padawan was always quite fond of that weapon. I did not bring him up before because I knew he was one of the Jedi on deployment when Order 66 went out.” Plo Koon glanced toward the holoprojector.

“I’ve come to two possibilities, either Lor sustained substantial injuries during our betrayal, weakening his connection to the Force, or he was actively masking his presence to hide. Given my own condition, it’s likely he was injured and somehow ended up in the hands of this Trandoshan.”

IG-113 heard the mechanical clicking of Grievous’ joints, the tension coiled beneath those durasteel plates. The idea that someone had harmed one of his hatchlings,that he wasn’t there to protect them,had nurtured a righteous, if not protective, fury.

“Find him.” It was all Grievous needed to say. IG-113 didn’t think this was a good time to remind Grievous that he had ordered IG-165 to send the holorecording and communicator Aagisk had left behind back to the Ruination. They would have the means to contact the Trandoshan in a matter of hours,perhaps a day, depending on how the hyperspace jump went.

Chapter Text

Sabé  took the kettle directly off the stove, she poured the first cup and set it aside. Then she poured a second, this time into a special thermos. That way, Anakin could take it back to his fortress on Mustafar, to his life support chambers and actually drink it.  She dutifully made Lady Sola’s tea exactly how she preferred, and the two cups Sabé  poured for Ryoo and Pooja were more of a tea-flavored-milk than tea with a dash of milk. 

She carried the tray back to the sun room at the far side of the house. Anakin was using the Force to keep a toy ship levitating whilst Pooja was making engine noises with her mouth running around the room after it. 

“Where is Ryoo?” Lady Sola asked, glancing behind Sabé.

“I thought she was with you M’Lady.” Sabé set the tray down on the table.

“She’s flying.” Anakin stated, grabbing the thermos. It disappeared under his cloak into one of the many pouches on his armor. 

Lady Sola almost choked. “Flying oh her own!? She’s nine, Anakin!” 

“I was flying N-1 Starfighters at her age.” Anakin seemed completely unphased by Sola’s concern for her daughter, “She has an astromech with her, if she was in any true danger the droid would take control of the ship.”

Lady Sola sighed, “you’re right, but please I’m her mother, could at least tell me when you put one of my children behind a ship’s controls by themselves?” 

“In the future, I will do so.” Anakin replied,  he stayed seated at the table. Sabé  followed his gaze outside and watched a N-1 swoop over the lake. It leaned far enough to the side for one of the wings to break the surface of the water, sending a trail of mist and small droplets behind it. Then the starfighter straightened out.

“She is getting good….You’ve been teaching her well.” Lady Sola finally took her cup of tea and sipped at it. 

“Ryoo is younger than I was when I started pod racing. She’ll be an excellent pilot when she’s older.” The pride in Anakin’s voice was unmistakable, as was his smug tone. 

“That’s what worries me, piracy is a constant threat here in the Outer Rim, if she becomes a commercial pilot she might be attacked on a trade route,  and may the Goddess forbid she join the Imperial Navy. That’s the last thing this family needs.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s…too dangerous for her,” Sola nervously dragged her lower lip over her teeth, “There’s something I should tell you about the girls.”

“They’re Force sensitive aren’t they?” Anakin turned his head to look at his sister-in-law.

“Mhm, Ryoo’s count isn’t as high as her sister's ... I paid a doctor to falsify their M-Counts on their official medical records. At the time, I’d heard everything you said about the Order and I was scared they’d take my girls away from me. They’re both so young, and look up to you so much. I was worried they’d want to be Jedi Knights just like their uncle.” Sola confessed, she was picking at the skin around her finger nails the entire time. Her thumb actually started to bleed.

There was a noticeable break, a pause in Anakin’s breathing, the toy ship Pooja was chasing dropped,  luckily landing in the little girl’s arms. She quickly hugged it and ran out of the room with her prize.

“They would have been at the Temple.” Anakin choked out the words. 

The air in the room suddenly became extremely heavy. None of the adults said a word, not until the sound of a starfighter engine threatened to overwhelm them all. Ryoo had managed to land the ship in the backyard, near the deck. Sabé  wasn’t sure if Ryoo had done it all herself; or if the Astromech on her ship had taken over for the landing sequence.

All she knew was that the cockpit opened, and out jumped little Ryoo with a too-big helmet under her arm and a grin  that reached from Naboo to the Core Worlds. 

Ryoo climbed up the railing, she was up on the deck now and knocked  twice on the window pointing at the latch on the inside. Sabé  was debating on not getting up, but Lady Sola did and unlocked the window letting her rather rebellious eldest daughter back inside.

“We have doors, why are you like this?” Sola asked, she used her hands to smooth out Ryoo’s helmet hair before giving up and just tussling it. 

Ryoo shrugged, “Fun I guess.” She really wasn’t as talkative as her little sister. Ryoo did grab her cup from the tea tray and gulped it down. Then she put the cup down on the table. Sola quickly grabbed it, and placed it on the tray instead of one of her younger sister's tablecloths. 

Anakin watched Ryoo set her helmet down on the window seat.“Was that you flying or R5-G7?” 

“I was the one flying Uncle Ani,” Ryoo’s eyes were shining, the gleeful wonder in them not unlike the look Sabé had once seen in Anakin’s after winning a podrace all those years ago. 

Anakin laughed, he rose to his feet and  used the Force to gently lift Ryoo and held the girl in his arms, spinning her around. “You’ll be flying laps around TIE pilots in no time,” Anakin set Ryoo down, “Go find your sister, I brought a gift for the two of you.”

Once his niece was out of earshot, Anakin’s attention went back to Sabé . “Has there been a message from Padmé?”

“Yes, she’s struggling with the twins. Luke’s been colicky, and Leia won’t sleep at night only during the day. C3PO has been staying up with Luke  so she can get some rest. Lady Padmé wishes she had a nurse droid to assist with the children, but funds are scarce in her exile and supplying the droid has proven a challenge.” Sabé  explained. 

Sola continued, “With the Empire tracking credit transfers and withdrawals we’re not sure if it would flag the system if we tried to send her the money. Ryoo and Pooja are also too old to need any specialized Nanny droid like an RO-series, and Palpatine knows I’m her sister. I can’t buy anything to help her or I might open my front door to Imperial Intelligence one day.” 

Anakin went quiet, then finally spoke, breaking the silence in the room, “I’ll handle it, where would you prefer I deliver the nurse droids, Sabé?”

“There’s a spaceport in Narmle, it’s quiet no one goes up there. I could send Saché or Yané to bring the droids to their next destination, maybe make up a story about them being meant for a baby shower. But Anakin I need you to promise, no tracking chips, no secret messages or recordings, please respect the boundaries Lady Padmé has set for herself and the children, you have to earn your way back into their lives.” Sabé warned. The Memory of Mustafar was still fresh in everyone’s minds. A mutual trauma none dared speak of. 

“I understand, you have my word the droids will not be tampered with.” Anakin vowed, it was at that point that Pooja and Ryoo returned to the room. Ryoo was now holding the little toy starship  Anakin had brought, whilst Pooja stood on her toes to grab her own -now cold- cup. She only drank half of it before putting the tea cup on the floor for her pet Nexu. The little girl patted the kitten on the head as it lapped up the milk. 

Chapter Text

“I’m sure you understand, Commander, why you couldn’t attend our meeting in person,” Cham Syndulla’s holographic form began. “If all those sympathetic to anti-Imperial sentiments were in one location, it would put us at risk of retaliation.”

“I know, sir. Did General Lor say when he was coming back?” Scorn asked. This wasn’t like Lor, to disappear, to not answer his communicator.

Cham frowned. “I don’t have an answer for you. Saw said something came up, and” The leader of the Syndulla clan went silent. Now Scorn could hear other voices.

“As per my report, the mission was a success. We retrieved Masana Tide and two of her companions from Imperial custody.” Scorn didn’t recognize the voice; he assumed it was Saw’s.

“What about the Jedi who went with you?” Cham asked. Scorn could tell he was leaning on the table, anxious, while his wife stood beside him.

“He didn’t make it,” Saw replied flatly, as if reporting a minor incident instead of delivering tragedy.

Cham’s hands slammed down on the table. “Lor survived Order 66, commandeered a droid command ship by himself, and organized a successful hit-and-run assault on a Venator, and you’re telling me he couldn’t handle one mission with you and your men?” Cham’s tone dripped with accusation like venom.

“Where is he?” Cham demanded.

Saw didn’t flinch. “The only reason he was able to take that ship is because he was never one of us. He had Separatist blood. I’d wager he was a spy waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.”

“A spy? On whose authority? The Confederacy is dead. Darth Vader cut off the serpent’s head. He wasn’t his father! Lor didn’t have to send medical droids or supplies to Ryloth, he didn’t have to help your raid on that outpost! You betrayed us all for nothing!” Cham’s features twisted into a snarl, his sharpened teeth bared.

“He wasn’t your son either!” The venom in Saw’s voice revealed him as the true serpent in the room.

Cham’s eyes contemplated murder. His tongue was just as sharp: “What would Steela think of you betraying a Jedi who was only trying to help? Have you ever stopped to realize she wouldn’t recognize the monster you’ve become? It should have been you.”

Scorn was no longer listening to the shouting match. His eyes stared blankly ahead, focusing on the corner of the room he was in. Lor was gone. His Lor was dead. And for what? As punishment for the circumstances of his birth? Scorn flinched, his hands rising to his nose at the small stream of blood.

Perhaps it was a burst blood vessel from stress. Or perhaps the dry air of the ship had irritated his nostrils too much. Still, neither explanation accounted for the piercing headache.

His Lor had been betrayed. Saw was the traitor. He had to hurry. Onderon was part of the Inner Rim, but the mission, Ryloth, Cham, all of that was Outer Rim. And since the meeting was in person…that meant his prey was near.

Scorn felt everything: rage, betrayal, guilt. He’d told Lor to be careful around Saw, yet he had been unable to confess his true feelings to the Jedi. Now it was too late.

He wiped the blood from his nose, smearing it across his face and along the back of his vanguard. Scorn pulled his slicing kit from his belt and began to work. He could track the transmission, then order Circuit Breaker to use their long-range scanners to look for any ships of Onderon origin and send a strike fleet after them before Saw had time to escape.

The kit pinged the Naos System. Scorn didn’t know if they were on one of the planets or a ship. The details didn’t matter to Commander Scorn. All that mattered to him was his pound of flesh.

“Good soldiers follow orders…” Scorn growled. The shouting between Cham and Saw was loud enough that some of the other clones had arrived to see what the commotion was, among them, Izvoshra, who still looked pallid from his own near-death experience.

“Sir, report?” Circuit Breaker asked. Fitting, that the one most like his Lor in personality would be the first to approach.

“Lor’s dead. Saw killed him.” Scorn’s voice cracked, breaking. He bit his lower lip, muscles trembling as adrenaline coursed through him. “Must have found out he was the old Clanker’s boy.” Scorn turned up the volume on the holoprojector so the others could listen.

Izvoshra put a hand on Scorn’s shoulder. At this point, it was simply protocol. He had been third in command behind Scorn, and with Lor…gone, that made him second. “What are your orders? What about the Lucrehulk?”

“Leave it. Just because he added us to the security whitelist doesn’t mean we can treat it like one of our ships. He…was putting his soul into it, trying to make us a new home. But those droids aren’t going to let us make any of the repairs we need, especially to the hyperdrive, without authorization. We’d be destroying the last thing Lor touched before he died. We’ll find a new home.”

“And Saw?” Big Shot said, cracking his knuckles.

“He dies.” Izvoshra checked the scope on his rifle and loaded a fresh gas canister. “And we drag as many of the Partisans as we can down to hell with us.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” The voices were in unison, as proper clones should speak.

Scorn stayed quiet, hand pressed to his chest. He pondered -briefly- asking Izvoshra to grab a knife from the Arquitens’ cafeteria and carve his heart out. It wasn’t doing him any good to keep it when all Scorn could feel was pain.

Chapter Text

Eight Hypori Foundry ST-series tactical droids crowded around the holographic table, Outer Rim sectors flickering between their cold metallic faces. Their photoreceptors burned like stars above the projection, the only sound the low hum of the map and the sweep-sweep-sweep of a B1 droid’s mop across the floor.

There was a sense of tension in the room. Each of them knew they shouldn’t be there. They should have been assigned to their individual domains after activation. At least, that had been the original plan. What wasn’t planned was Saw Gerrera’s betrayal of their owner.

Hence, his incapacitation and the fact all of them were at their most dangerous, unassigned. Free thinking. With only their original programming to bind them. Not a secondary verbal command.

“Observation: Master’s instructions to secure a Venator-class Star Destroyer are inefficient.” STH-03- self-designated Avarice-tented his talons with an almost priestly air. “An Acclamator assault ship is a softer target, faster to obtain. Each carries a class 0.6 hyperdrive, superior to successive models.”

“Correction.” Pride, STH-01, leaned forward, Photoreceptors dim. “Master is flesh. His processors are limited by sentiment. He once commanded a Venator for the Republic. He desires what was taken.”

Across the table, STH-07’s voice buzzed sharp and disdainful: “Conclusion, Master is illogical.”

The B1 froze mid-sweep. Even the mop squeaked quieter against the floor. Pride’s photoreceptors narrowed, and a servo in his wrist clicked like a cocked weapon.

“You would dismiss him?” Pride’s voice lowered, dangerous. “His emotions forged us. Eight, a number sacred to the Kaleesh. He could have stopped at two. Instead, he acknowledged weakness and birthed us. I do not find sentiment illogical. I find it…” he tilted his head, “…delicious. I delight in superiority over clanking infantry and meat-sacks alike.”

“Statement: STH-01, your malfunctioning Logic Core presents a threat to Master. I should have you sent back to the foundry and repurposed into something more useful, perhaps a toaster for Master’s morning brunch?”  STH-05, Epsilon inquired.  

Pride’s photoreceptors dimmed, and one of his hands balled into a fist. “You are welcome to try, STH-05. I am more than willing to prove my superiority to you as well.”

Avarice raised the volume on his vocalizer “If your differences interfere with the mission or our Master’s wishes, I will have the MagnaGuards escort you both back to your recharging stations. Dissent will not be tolerated. As you have stated yourself, Pride. Two of us would be more than sufficient to carry out Master’s orders. With your, and Epsilon’s absence, that still leaves six of us present at this conference. ” 

The glow of the map shifted from sector to sector as Avarice typed, his claws tapping the console with sharp clicks. Pride lowered his fist but never took his photoreceptors off Epsilon. The B1 scuttled past, bucket sloshing.

Pride looked down at the floor, “Defeated; do you know where an Acclamator even is?”



“Statement.” Avarice gestured with a talon, and the hologram shifted to Tatooine’s harsh suns. “Several hulls are mothballed in Outer Rim impound lots. One such Acclamator is currently up for auction on Tatooine. Hyperfuel costs to reach it would be negligible.”

“Objection.” STH-07’s voice carried the rasp of static. “Without a functioning Trade Federation credit chip, we cannot bid. The Empire has seized all lines of Confederation finance.”

The mop paused. A B1’s tinny voice chimed in: “Could steal it.”

Every photoreceptor in the room swiveled toward the janitor unit. The B1 hunched down, clutching the mop like a spear.

STH-02, STH-04 and STH-06 leered at him longer than the others, but the three still stayed silent.  Until they had direct orders from their Master, none saw a reason to speak. 

“You, Inferior Droid, what is your designation?” Pride asked, pointing a clawed mechanical hand at the B1.

“RB-033.”

“Observation.” STH-07 turned back to the table. “That is highly illogical. Given the Hutt Cartel’s sphere of influence, we would be robbing them of hundreds of thousands of credits.” 

“Then what do we possess worth liquidating quickly?” Pride demanded, voice rising.

“Droidekas.” Avarice’s answer came smoothly, almost smugly, as he spun the projection to show cost manifests.

“Statement.” His fingers moved like talons plucking at invisible prey. “The retail value of an Acclamator was twenty-nine million credits. If the auction reaches original costs, we would need to sell fourteen hundred and fifty of Master’s Droidekas. Discretion suggested.”

“That is assuming Master consents to the mass liquidation of assets,” STH-07 countered.

Pride turned his head, “Mockery: We could always pull him from his Bacta submersion early to ask for his approval if it would please your circuits, STH-07.”



“This is illogical, Master’s condition is too critical to remove him from treatment even temporarily for such a trivial matter.” STH-07’s photoreceptors flared red, a gesture neither Pride nor Avarice missed. The latter’s claws hovered near the console, ready to call in the MagnaGuards.

“Threateningly: I am sure IG-500 would be more than happy to introduce you two to his electrostaff. Cool your circuits!”

The threat of expulsion cooled STH-07’s nerves; his gaze returned to its normal pale hue. 

Poor RB-033 used his vocalizer to imitate whistling. He sprayed a little glass cleaner on the viewport and wiped it down with a microfiber cloth. All the while hoping that if a MagnaGuard -did- show up…

He wasn’t the one they were mad at. 

“Query.” STH-08 finally spoke, his quiet voice cutting through the room. “Why not salvage the Venator wreckage still on Hypori? Its hull could patch this Lucrehulk.”

“Statement: worthless scrap.” STH-07 snapped.

“Correction.” STH-08 leaned into the light, and the hologram painted his chassis in harsh blue. “Scrap is all we require.”

Pride’s gaze shifted. “And the hyperdrive?”

“A single Droideka will cover a new Class Two hyperdrive- if we secure a discreet buyer,” Avarice replied. His voice carried the air of self-worth and smugness common amongst Super Tactical Droids. One of his brothers would soon be assigned to guarding TI-99, to make sure Admiral Trench’s old, obsolete Tactical Droid did not try to betray their Master.

Though he did not understand why Lor had put that into their programming instead of just deactivating Admiral Trench’s servant. Perhaps there was a sentimentality there for his fallen comrade? 

Epsilon raised one jointed finger. “Recommendation: pairs, sold for peggats. Physical currency. Harder to trace than credits.”

Avarice tilted his head. “Acknowledgement. Peggats are preferable.”

“Then it is agreed,” STH-07 said, cutting across the others. His photoreceptors flickered faintly. “Two Droidekas ‘lost’ in inventory. One pays for the hyperdrive, the other for auction fees and surplus. Master need not be informed.”

The mop clattered to the floor. “Wait- you’re stealing from the new General Grievous?”RB-033 squeaked.

“Correction.” Pride’s head swiveled toward it with slow precision. “We are prioritizing his recovery and the repair of this vessel.”

“Roger, Roger.” RB-033 nodded too quickly, retreating to the far corner, mop bucket squealing against the floor.

“Suggestion.” Avarice resumed control, talons dancing across the projection. A humanoid form appeared, skeletal and blank. “Use an IG-86  intermediary from Hypori to broker the sale. Both the Hutt Cartel and Separatist forces employed these units; it will appear as a neutral entity. We cannot attend, we are too identifiable as Separatist assets.”

“A sound choice,” STH-08 agreed. “A pristine IG-86 signals wealth and capability.”

Avarice’s almost skeletal claws closed around the hologram of the IG-86. “Additional recommendation: instruct the IG-86 to state it serves as an associate of the Trandoshan bounty hunter Aagisk Darch. This will project the image of Master as a warlord or arms dealer and test whether Aagisk or his agents seek contact.”

Epsilon’s optics brightened. “If approached, the IG-86 will report and establish communication between us and Aagisk. Confirmed.”

Pride tilted his head. “Do we reveal Master’s condition if pressed?”

“Uncertain.” Avarice drummed metal fingers against the console, a sharp metallic rhythm. “Trandoshans rarely betray their ghrakhowsk. But Aagisk’s long servitude to the Hutts…an unknown variable.”

“Statement.” Epsilon’s voice was iron. “The Scorekeeper would not tolerate betrayal of a life debt. Aagisk is predictable. He may be…useful in concealing Master during recovery.”

“Observation.” Avarice dimmed the hologram to a starfield. “ This vessel is still compromised. Imperial or Partisan probes may yet discover it. We cannot rely on obscurity.”

For a moment, none of them spoke. Only the hum of the holo-table and the distant clang of the mop.

Finally, STH-07’s photoreceptors flickered. “Then it is agreed. The mission to Tatooine is twofold: acquire funds for a new hyperdrive, and open contact with Aagisk Darch. Should he prove reliable, Master’s care may pass to him once his dependence on the Bacta tanks ends.”

 “These are acceptable parameters,” Pride said approvingly. 

RB-033 kept mopping in the corner. He dragged the soaking mass of fiber over a stubborn spot on the floor, mumbling to himself, “I have a bad feeling about this…” 

Chapter Text

The grass was covered in a fine mist of dew after a light rain. Sabé, and Lady Sola were on a picnic blanket watching the skies overhead. Two ships, a black starfighter and a N-1 flew around each other like a pair of birds. 

They weren’t alone. Lord Vader, or rather Anakin as the Naberrie family knew him, had brought his entourage with him again.  Sabé had thought it was hilarious earlier, perhaps out of fear of what Anakin would do if they said no; two of the stormtroopers had agreed to Pooja’s little tea party. They’d even spoken to her nexu like it was a person, calling the not-so-little kitten “Queen Onoam” 

Sabé did not know what most of the maneuvers and forms were called; she only recognized one: The barrel roll.  What she did know was that it was suspicious how often Ryoo managed to not only catch up to, but pass her Uncle’s starfighter.

“Do you think he’s letting her do that?” Sola asked, she had a small rubber ball in her hands and threw it for Pooja’s pet nexu. 

“Of course he is, My Lady.” Sabé replied, “He was one of the best pilots in the Republic navy, your daughter is a prodigy, but I doubt she’d be out-flying Anakin anytime soon.” 

“She will soon enough with him as a teacher, isn’t it every master’s goal to see their student surpass them?”

“I thought you didn’t want Ryoo flying.”



“Oh, I’m terrified every time she touches a ship, but I see enough of my sister in her I know Ryoo is going to fly, if she wants to fly. Sometimes I wonder if there was a mix-up with the Kaminoans.”

“I doubt it, My Lady, I believe your daughters are a mirror of you and your sister.” Sabé leaned back on the grass and watched Pooja throw the ball for her nexu. The two starfighters flew by, this time close enough for the wind coming off of their wings to rustle Sabé’s hair. 

Lady Sola fixed Sabé’s shawl for her. “You know…It’s good to see Ani back. No Sith Lord would be acting like this.” 

Her words gave one of the storm troopers the courage to speak, “Here I thought Lord Vader was…He’s not what I was expecting.”



Lady Sola picked up Pooja, holding her on her hip. “I know what you wanted to say, he’s done bad things but, maybe that’s what this Galaxy needs most. A few bad men just trying to do good. As easily as Palpatine took control of the senate, there certainly aren’t many good men left.” 

“You aren’t one of the clones, are you?” Sabé asked the stormtrooper.

“No ma’am, I enlisted.”

“That explains things.” Lady Sola did not elaborate on this. She set Pooja down after kissing her youngest on the forehead. Sabé offered the three of them a glass of iced tea. Two of the stormtroopers took one,  the third held his hand up politely refusing. 

Later, the two ships landed. Ryoo’s touched the ground first, followed by Anakin’s. The little nine-year-old clambered out on her own and was walking sideways, wobbling from side to side. Anakin stood behind her, arms ready to catch Ryoo if she fell. 

“Did you make yourself sick?” Lady Sola asked, “Do you need to lie down?”

“I learned about G-forces.”  Ryoo let out a little laugh and let herself fall back onto the grass, giggling. 

“She’s going to be right back in  that cockpit as soon as the world stops spinning.”  One of the stormtroopers said, leaning over her. He quickly backed up as “Lord Vader” approached. 

Sabé rose to her feet, she dusted off her skirts, “Would you join me for a walk, Anakin?”  It was more of a statement than a question; she knew what the answer would be.  Anakin said nothing; the breathing from his mask was the only noise. He simply followed her down to the lake. 

She stepped lightly onto the edge of the lake, watching the ripples in the water around her feet. Sabé hopped up onto one of the larger rocks near the coast and balanced on it before jumping to a fallen log.

Anakin was still firmly on the shore instead of letting his boots touch the water. “I take it you wanted to speak privately?”

“Mhm?” Sabé glanced over at him. She hopped down, sending a splash of water echoing all around. Then, once she was back on shore, Sabé played the holorecording in her hands.

In the flickering blue light, there was a sleeping infant. Padme reached one hand out and pinched Luke’s cheeks between her index finger and thumb. The former queen let out a snort of laughter, “He looks so much like you, Ani, I wonder if his eyes will stay blue. Leia’s turned brown like mine. Thank you for the nurse droids, they’ve made things so much easier for C-3PO and me.”

The Holorecording moved, Padme leaned forward, and gently raised one of Luke’s hands. She made him wave at the camera, “My sweet boy, say bye-bye to your daddy.”

After the recording ended, Sabé held it out for Anakin, “Lady Padme wished for you to have this, a reminder of the life you’re fighting for.”

There were no words. Anakin took the recording, and he played it again. Then, paused it and stared at Luke’s sleeping face. 

“By the way, I don’t know you did it, but there are fewer reports of Jedi casualties. Almost like…someone’s letting them get away, maybe sending Inquisitors after knights and masters they aren’t qualified to fight…You’re using the Jedi as bait, aren’t you? A juicy piece of meat to keep the empire’s hounds from sniffing out Force Sensative children.” Sabé turned her back to Anakin and picked up a smooth stone. She skipped it across the lake’s surface, one, two, three, four, five paces before it vanished beneath the surface.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps your isolation has made you delusional.” Anakin replied, he stepped forward, standing next to Sabé. Their reflections in the water seemed to muddle together in the ripples on the surface.

“Thank you,” Sabé said, picking up a second stone to skip.

Chapter Text

IG-113 liked to meditate with Plo Koon and the other Jedi. He enjoyed the serenity, the quiet that followed, which was quite different from the silence in his quarters, or what he experienced whilst patrolling the many…many abandoned corridors and looming hallways onboard the Ruination. 

There was a warmth to this silence, something worth savouring instead of the emptiness and regret he felt elsewhere on the ship. 

The Jedi were arranged in a triangle, Plo Koon at the head. He was seated in front of a viewport overlooking the void of space with his back to the window.  Directly in front of him, Tiplar and Luminara were on their knees in quiet contemplation.  Behind the two Jedi Masters were Missar and the other Padawans and younglings.  Tiplee had decided not to join them. 

IG-113 was off to the side, imitating Plo Koon’s posture. He said nothing, merely waiting. “You felt it, didn’t you?”

Tiplar nodded, “I sensed them too, children.”

“Younglings from the Mighty Bear Clan smuggled out of the temple,” Master Luminara mumbled, “It’s a blessing they survived.”

“Their Master must have fallen if their Force presence is no longer hidden,” Tiplar said cautiously. 

“I’ll inform Grievous.” Plo Koon replied, though IG-113 could tell something was off with him.

“Do you think he will send TJ-912?” Tiplar asked, whatever it was bothering Plo Koon didn’t seem to affect her.

“I would prefer 4W-N24; he has a more delicate touch.” Plo Koon said. This was something IG-113 agreed with. 4W-N24 was more subtle.  TJ-912 considered stealth a waste of time since both Jedi and the Sith could thread together whispers in the force to reveal even the most well-kept of secrets. 

“Wait,  do any of you feel that?” Plo Koon asked, and Luminara and Tiplar exchanged looks with each other.

“Feel…What?” Luminara asked. 

“Something’s coming.”  Plo Koon groaned as he got up, one hand trembling as he put his weight on the cane.  IG-113 stood as well,  both going to the viewport and looking out over the abyss of deep space. 

“A solar storm?” IG-113 asked. This did not make sense to him; there shouldn’t be a sudden phenomenon. Not with how vast the emptiness of space was. The Ruination’s sensors should have detected it well before it was in range. 

“Something’s not right here…How did they miss it…” Plo Koon’s gaze narrowed as he stared out the viewport. 

“We must hide, IG-113, go fetch Ronderu and Master Tiplee, please hurry.”  Plo Koon limped to the center of the room, using the Force to drag Missar and the other Padawans and younglings. 

“Tiplar, Luminara, help me conceal our Force presence.” 

Neither of the two questioned him, and IG-113 was already running out the door. Something told him he needed to contact the bridge. That, perhaps, the Unknown Regions had decided to remind the Ruination and her crew all why no one would dare follow them here. IG-113 took out his communicator. 

“IG-219, Magnet, whoever is listening on the bridge. Command the fleet to get into formation. All smaller ships docked within hangar bays; the blast doors must be closed once they’re inside….Restore full power to the Ruination . I want those shields at max capacity and the ion pulse cannons ready.” 

The static cleared enough for him to hear a response, “Magnet here, I’ll ask later, gotta be important if you’re telling us to fire the old girl up.” 

“Roger, Roger, is Master Tiplee there?” IG-113 asked as he ran down the corridors.

“No, Sir,” Magnet replied.

“Keep an eye out for her, tell her Master Plo is requesting her presence at once.”

“Yes, Sir.”  Magnet answered once more before the line went cold. 

This was a first; the last time the Ruination had been at full power was when they just arrived in the Unknown Regions close to three months ago.

Had that been before or after they rescued Master Plo? IG-113 couldn’t remember.

He didn’t know either when he arrived at Grievous’ quarters.  IG-113 pushed the door open and went to Ronderu’s cot, picking up the little Twi’lek. The infant’s mouth hung open, her pupils so dilated they completely masked her irises. She tried to bury her face in his chest. 

What was out there that only Master Plo and the younglings could sense? Master Tiplar and Luminara didn’t seem to believe him that anything was there. 

IG-113 heard Grievous behind him. “What are you doing here?” There it was, that sharp accusatory tone. 

“Master Plo has instructed me to gather all Force sensitives so he may hide their Force presence. There’s something outside this ship.” IG-113 explained.

“...Who’s unaccounted for? Where is Master Plo?” Grievous said, holding two of his arms out for his adopted daughter. IG-113 handed the infant over; he stepped out of the way as Grievous walked past, grabbing a blanket from her cot. 

“They’re in the crew's quarters, Tiplee is the last one,”  IG-113 replied. Grievous let out a gruff snort, more an acknowledgement that he’d heard than any proper response. Then he stomped out of the room.

IG-113 didn’t know where to look for Tiplee.  He just followed his feet, wandering. Was this what the Jedi called intuition? Or the Force? 

The longer he searched, the more the Ruination came to life around him. The red emergency lights soon changed to white, bathing the halls in cold, sterile luminance. A gentle boom reached his audioprocessors as the shield generators kicked online.  Followed by mechanical groans from hardware systems that hadn’t been activated in weeks and were sure to announce their need for new grease and oil. This should have been a good feeling, but it wasn’t. The ship was coming back to full operational status for all the wrong reasons.

His photoreceptors dimmed slightly, and IG-113 found himself suddenly walking on a wall. Yet, when he checked the magnets in his legs, they weren’t on. He kept moving forward, through an ever-twisting hall. A buzzing in his head was growing louder and louder, like an old lightbulb about to go out. Instead of walking on the wall, now his photo receptors told him he was on the ceiling. 

But he did not fall.

Colors shifted into incomprehensible patterns at the corners of his vision, and his power banks flashed a warning in his sensors. Which made no sense as he had just recharged the night before.

The buzzing was so loud it overwhelmed his processors now, and there was Tiplee. Levitating in mid air, writhing, kicking, screaming. Hands grasping at her own head. IG-113 reached out for her.

Yet, instead of the scratched metallic digits he was expecting, IG-113 saw scales and flesh covering his hands. His fingers ended in black claws, a pulse of life beneath them.  He didn’t stall; he didn’t let himself think. 

What was it Plo Koon had said?

If a Jedi was seriously injured, it could disrupt their connection to the Force, and whatever was out there…Was after Force users.

 IG-113 reached behind his back, his hands….claws…whatever they were, closed around his electro staff. Tiplee didn’t seem to realize anyone was there; if she did, she certainly would have protested to what IG-113 was about to do.

IG-113 brought the Electrostaff around and struck Tiplee in the stomach. A rapid series of flashing lights blinded his photoreceptors. IG-113 realized he was lying on his back in an empty void. He wasn’t even sure if there was a floor beneath him or not. Maybe he was suspended by the Force like Tiplee had been. Again, he was flesh, not metal, then another flash, back to when he was tearing himself apart to get the necessary parts to repair IG-219. Only this time, instead of electrical circuits and tubing, he was ripping out his own organs, shoving them into an amalgamation of blood and steel.

The sensation was entirely unpleasant, what IG-113 assumed the organics would call pain. A cruel, maddening sensation radiated from his core that brought every horrid memory before his eyes.

“You’re not real! This isn’t real!” IG-113 shouted; his own voice sounded alien, foreign. An eldritch abomination birthed of flesh and circuitry. “You can’t have her, she’s part of my crew! My-my family!” It distressed him to say that, to admit to the lie these illusions told. After all, wasn’t it his greatest wish to be organic? To love and feel as they did?

The lies might have tasted sweeter than the truth, but he couldn’t give in. Not when Tiplee’s life was on the line. Nothing was worth that price. 

There was a figure standing at the far edge of his vision. It didn’t so much move as it appeared. Like a stop motion animation missing most of the frames. Jittery, unnatural. There was nothing fluid, nothing that suggested it belonged in this reality, much less the Galaxy. 

The figure was close to twenty feet tall and had rotting, cloth-like skin hanging onto a near skeletal form. Instead of eyes, there was one glowing yellow orb that travelled between sockets. With matted white hair down to its waist. One of its hands flickered, and then IG-113 found himself pinned down underneath it. He could feel his body breaking under the weight of the creature’s grasp. Protective durasteel plating shattered, hydraulics in his arms damaged, his mobility impaired as shards of broken metal sliced into delicate systems. 

It’s one orb split into two. Both eyes stared down at IG-113, the creature opened its mouth, and then nothing.

He was back on the Ruination , his electrostaff on the floor in front of him. Tiplee was still hovering in the air, but she was no longer screaming. Everything stood still; the distortions were gone, no more upside-down hallways. No more flesh and bone, instead of durasteel and circuitry. 

Then Tiplee dropped to the ground, and IG-113’s sensors started flashing red, systems critical. 

The combat readiness gauge was spiraling downward. 50,49,48,47,46,45,44,43,42,41, the numbers dropped so fast IG-113 couldn’t keep up with his damaged processors and circuits. By the time the number slowed down, he was almost in the single digits. 19, 18, 17, a far cry from the 75% it’d been stable at after rebuilding IG-219.

He was leaking oil and hydraulic fluid leaving a dark pool on the floor underneath him. IG-113 dropped to his knees, arms around himself. When he glanced down at his hands, he could see a chromatic mix of colors on his plating. He dragged himself over to Tiplee. He tried shaking her shoulder, then patting her cheek to get a reaction. His photoreceptors flickered, staying dark for a fraction of a second.  IG-113 felt himself starting to falter, before a spark somewhere kicked everything back online. Stubbornness, Determination, whatever it was called, IG-113 simply refused to go into the night. For he had a purpose unfulfilled. 

“Please do not be dead, please don’t.” IG-113 begged, he fumbled with his communicator, “I need a medical team to my location. There’s been an attack by the entity Master Plo Koon detected. ” 

IG-113 couldn’t hear what the voice on the other end of the line said, because Tiplee was awake.

“Iggy…You’re hurt..” She let out a groan and rolled over off her stomach onto her back, staring up at the lights overhead. Which, unintentionally, put part of her robes in the oil leaking from IG-113’s body. That was the first time she’d called him Iggy, and not IG-113.

“I am still functional. The salvage officers will make the necessary repairs.”  IG-113 didn’t bring up the fact that most of his redundant systems were offline; he’d sacrificed them earlier to repair IG-219.

“You aren’t worried about dying?”  Tiplee turned her head to face him.

“....No.” IG-113 lied, “There is no death, there is only the Force.” 

The corners of Tiplee’s lips raised in a smile, “There is no emotion, there is peace.”

“There is no ignorance, there is knowledge,” IG-113 replied. He reached for Tiplee’s hand, letting his metallic fingers rest over the back of hers. 

Tiplee flipped her hand over, gently grasping his. She kept reciting the code with him. “There is no passion, there is serenity.” 

IG-113 appreciated the gesture; he could hear footsteps now, undoubtedly the medical team he’d called for. He recited the next line, his vocalizer malfunctioned, causing static to fill the air between verses.   “There is no chaos- t-there is harmony.”

His sensors were a constant annoyance in the back of his mind; in truth, the prospect of death did scare him. IG-113 wasn’t sure if he could be rebuilt. He had modified his hardware, removed his own remote deactivation switch. His restraining bolts had been taken out as well, freeing himself of the reason plaguing most droids.  Would he even be able to come back online? Or would the absence of these parts trap him in an error loop?

Tiplee slowly spoke the words, “There is no death, there is the Force.” IG-113 couldn’t tell if Tiplee was trying to comfort him with that line, or herself. She looked past IG-113 at the others.  Two Cathar, a Mon Calamari, and a human medical officer. The Mon Calamari had a scanner in his hand. 

“No major injuries, minor burns, and a few muscle sprains. A quick dip in a Bacta tank and some muscle relaxers should fix you right up, Master Jedi.”  The Mon Calamari said reassuringly, he was one of the ones -along with the Cathar- helping Tiplee on the stretcher they’d brought with them. 

“What happened to you two? Navigation said that…thing was outside the ship.” One of the Cathar asked. 

“Maybe it was in two places at once? I don’t know.” Tiplee confessed.

IG-113 tried to stand; he grasped the handrail on the wall for support. His digits couldn't even close properly around the rail. He was unable to read the expression on the Mon Calamari’s face very well, but the two Cathar and Human looked horrified at the state he was in.

“Master Jedi, do you mind waiting with us for a moment? I’d like to page engineering to make sure IG-113 here is taken care of first before we leave.” The other Cathar asked.

“I don’t mind at all. Minor injuries can wait. Was anyone else injured?” Tiplee asked him.

“Negative, our shields held against that electro-magnetic storm. A few of the smaller ships are reporting damages, but nothing the Maintenance Droids can’t fix, just give them a week.” The Other Cather replied, double-checking a datapad.

That was music to IG-113’s ears. His orders to the fleet had saved lives, sure their fuel reserves were lower than they’d been before. However, this was an acceptable price to pay. An electro-magnetic storm was one of the few things that could kill a droid for good.  Corrupted memory banks, fried logic cores, these were not injuries compatible with life. The casualties would have been disastrous if he hadn’t acted when he did. Still, IG-113 had no idea if it was his impromptu rescue attempt that had driven the entity off. Or if it had sensed the charging ion canons and decided not to risk direct confrontation with the Ruination and her escort fleet. 

“Can anyone from engineering hear me? This is Doctor Nilbee Harx, High Commander IG-113 sustained heavy damage during the entity attack. We’re near the Observatory on deck 17.” The Mon Calamari spoke into his communicator.

“Roger, Roger, this is SO-B79 I hear you, Doctor Harx repair droids are en route.” Doctor Harx let out a relieved sigh when he heard the B1’s tinny voice.

Chapter Text

Grievous’s claws tightened around one of the lightsabers in his collection. He pulled it from the display as one might rip a heart from a still body.

“This doesn’t bother you?” He asked, glancing at Plo Koon out of the corner of his eye. 

“It does, but then I think of the greater picture. When someone murders a loved one, do you blame the weapon? Or the one who pulled the trigger? If it wasn’t you, then more of my kind would have fallen by their clones’ hands. I try to think of their deaths from a different perspective, honorably on a battleground, in direct combat. Not shot in the back by those they considered their closest companions.”  Plo Koon replied, resting both hands on his cane. 

Grievous stayed quiet. He examined the lightsaber in his claws closely.

“That blade belonged to Master Adi Gallia. Did you feel anything when you took her life?” Plo Koon asked. He limped closer to Grievous’ collection.

“No, I wanted Mace Windu. Purple is such an unusual color for a Jedi. I was almost disappointed in Master Gallia. I feel she underestimated me as an opponent. By that point during the war, if she’d read the dossiers and casualty reports, she should have known I had four arms. I enjoyed it more when they saw me as a threat, a warrior on their level.” Grievous said, placing a hand on his chest.

“I do not feel like any of them realized who I was, who I’d been before they took everything from me.” He confessed, thinking of what Plo Koon had said about Palpatine, or as Grievous had known him, Darth Sidious. 

“I knew they turned me into a weapon; it was a reality I’d accepted a long time ago. What I didn’t realize is how little I ever mattered. A pawn is what they made me; it wasn’t like I had a choice.” Grievous mumbled, and he dropped Adi Gallia’s lightsaber in a small dura-steel box with a hollow clang. All he needed to do now was pick a few more valuable ones to send to auction. 

General Grievous closed his eyes, a few coughs rattling deep within his chest. “You’re the only one who sees me.” He confessed. 

“The others will in time, Master Tiplar is trying.” Plo Koon raised his hand, and one of the lightsabers on the wall flew to him. “You’ve had this a long time.”  Plo Koon said, inspecting the lightsaber. He pressed the ignition switch, and a gentle light blue blade cast pale shadows over the room. 

Grievous opened his eyes, “It was Master Barrek’s. I liked him; he took me seriously.”

Plo Koon took his finger off the switch. “Do you wish to keep it? Or auction it for fuel?” 

“Auction it,” Grievous said, dropping another lightsaber into the box. This time, the blade of Master Sifo-Dyas. For it was his last shackle to the Sith, the first…gift Count Dooku had given him. Grievous’s claws trembled, and his hand hung there loosely. There was a clouded look to his eyes. The Warlord’s pupils were dull, focused on something far back in time. 

Perhaps against his better judgment, Plo Koon set a hand on Grievous’s shoulder. The quiet weight of the gesture broke the trance. Grievous blinked, then dragged a clawed hand over his face as though wiping away a fog. He didn’t pull back from Plo Koon or push him away.

“Three should be enough to replenish fuel and hypermatter reserves,” he muttered.

Grievous continued, “Tell me again about this, deal 4W-N24 and Doctor Harx have constructed.”

“There is a human calling himself Luthen Rael. He’s agreed to facilitate the sale of these lightsabers in return for a small cut to start his own business and support his daughter.”

“How do we know he’s trustworthy?”

“Mr. Rael doesn’t have a choice. He recently deserted from military service. Mr. Rael believes in…The Enemy of my Enemy is my friend. When he stumbled across an active Separatist reconnaissance vessel, he hailed them. Those droids referred him to 4W-N24, who saw an opportunity, informed Doctor Harx of his idea, and proceeded on.”

“Another deserter, liability…” Grievous sighed, “How much does he know?”

“Very little. He believes he made contact with battle droids protecting Confederate citizens hiding from the Empire. They have a small stash of Jedi artifacts they need sold to afford fuel and food rations. Doctor Harx is playing his role beautifully as the leader of the refugees,” Plo Koon explained as he took a seat. He let out a groan, leaning his head against the back of the chair. 

“Phantom pains again?” There was something…new in Grievous’s expression, concern. 

“It will pass as all things do.” Plo Koon tapped his fingers along the back of his bracers, “We haven’t heard from Wolffe or that Mandalorian in some time, do you think they’re alright?”

“We also haven’t been attacked by Imperials; Master Plo, you are overthinking again. If anything had happened, there is a chance it would have been traced back here. The Republic had a nose for sniffing me out during the war. I doubt that’s changed.”  Grievous said, trying to reassure him, there was a pause. Then, Grievous offered his holoprojector to Plo Koon.

“You have my thanks,” Plo Koon took the holoprojector. He used it to call Wolffe. 

“General Plo! Miss us?” Wolffe joked, he had his helmet off and looked like he was sitting on the floor.

“You and the boys were quiet; I had to make sure you weren’t getting into any trouble.” Plo Koon’s demeanor changed; he was more relaxed after seeing Wolffe alive.

“Ehh…Trouble found us, General. Turns out not everyone on the Remembrace is on board with the whole Grievous was a good guy all along, and mentioning Order-you-know-what made some of the boys here lose their minds, so they locked us clones up in the mess hall while they figure it out.” Wolffe let out a curt, humorless laugh and shook his head. 

“Any casualties?” Plo asked.

“None of ours, that Mandalorian Orbreth handed a couple of Jedi their own thrusters on a chromium plate, but neither of them died.” 

“How did he do that?” Grievous interjected; he couldn’t resist the temptation. 

“I don’t know the specifics, but something on his armor shorts out lightsabers, then he just punches them.” Wolffe replied, “Jedi really don’t expect to get punched.”

“That Mandalorian’s armor is either a Cortosis alloy or pure metal,” Grievous explained, “Clever.” 

Now the Warlord was wondering where a Mandalorian could have gotten enough Cortosis to use in his armor. Pure Beskar was capable of repelling lightsaber strikes, but not shorting them out. That was the clue.

“How long until you’ll be back?” Plo Koon asked, redirecting the conversation.

“Once they figure out what to do. Orbreth decided he was going to trade his ship in for one of the frigates in the hangar bay, and he grabbed a prosthetic mounting kit and neurological link.” Wolffe sounded excited as he revealed the information. Even Plo Koon looked surprised. 

“And they just let him have it?” The Jedi Master asked.

Wolffe looked up at something out of view, then back at the holoprojector. “Master Tera Sinube was very persuasive, from what I hear. I think Orbreth’s trying to get them to let me and our boys go.” 

“Are any of the Jedi going to join us on the Ruination ?” Grievous asked, though he felt he already knew the answer.

“Just Master Sinube, said he has to stop by Derra first to get his holocrons and books, he’s not a fighter and would rather be teaching the younglings.” 

Grievous let out  a snort, “Old fool, I’m surprised any of them would trust me.”

“Master Sinube doesn’t, but he trusts Master Plo, and pardon my language, but you haven’t stabbed him in the back yet.” Wolffe pointed out. 

Grievous tried to think of a response, but couldn’t; every time he thought he had something, it died in his vocalizer. 

Then, a knock on his door. Grievous turned and left Plo and Wolffe to their conversation. He opened the door, and before him stood a maintenance droid. “General, do you have  a moment?” The droid asked.

Grievous glanced back over his shoulder, then silently left his personal quarters, closing the door behind him. “What is it?”

“The High Commander has made enough custom modifications to his hardware and programming that we can’t get him to reboot after SO-B79 finished repairs. He wanted you to put in your override authorization code so we can install a kernel bypass.” The Maintenance droid explained, now practically trying to shove a datapad into Grievous’ face.

Grievous snatched  the datapad and examined the code.“...How does a B1 know this is even an option? I don’t care that SO-B79 is a Salvage Officer. Where did he learn this?”

“He said Admiral Trench ordered him to perform a Kernel Bypass on TI-99 when the Admiral was making  modifications to his Tactical droid.” The Maintenance droid explained, which answered everything and nothing.

What had that damn spider been up to?

Grievous growled in frustration. Of course, Admiral Trench had gone and gotten himself killed, so it wasn’t like he could interrogate the Harch to see what that spider was up to. Grievous typed his override code into the datapad and handed it back carefully to the maintenance droid. His instincts telling him to be careful since the precious code contained within was the only thing saving his most loyal MagnaGuard from a fate worse than death.

“Tell IG-113 I said good morning.” 

Chapter Text

Lady Sola was swaying on her feet as she stumbled into the room. Her hair was wild, her eyes completely white. She grabbed onto Sabé’s shoulders, knuckles pale as she clung to the other woman. Her legs gave out from under her, and Sabé was left holding Lady Sola up.

“What happened?” Sabé gently went down to the floor with her mistress, touching her face, trying to get any reaction she could out of Lady Sola.

“Gregar Tycho called me, he said they arrested Queen Apailana. Theed and Kaadara are on complete lockdown. There are Inquisitors on world.”  Lady Sola’s voice was so soft Sabé could barely hear her. 

“Anakin didn’t say anything about the Empire arriving on Naboo.” Sabé replied, realization slowly crept in, and Lady Sola responded.

“Exactly.”

“This isn’t him.” Sabé thought quickly. She went to the drawer holding Padmé’s gift, which was meant for Anakin, a reminder of his time in the Jedi Order. Sabé carefully unwrapped, preserving the delicate foil paper and tape. 

Lady Sola slowly picked herself off the floor. “What are you doing with Ani’s lightsaber?”

“If the Inquisitors come here, they’ll be expecting Jedi or force sensitives. If I hold them off, do you think you can get Ryoo and Pooja to the hangar?”

“Yes, but shouldn’t we run now?”

“It would be too suspicious; there are undoubtedly Star Destroyers in upper orbit, and a chance they’re not here for us. But if they’re going to kill us anyway…Ryoo and Pooja must brave that gauntlet. If they can clear the atmosphere and get to open space, they can make the jump to Alderaan like we planned. It’s preprogrammed into her navigational computer, and Bail would take them in in a heartbeat.”  Sabé explained, testing the lightsaber’s weight in her hands. 

She was expecting it to feel heavier. 

Sabé returned the lightsaber to the kitchen drawer; she didn’t need it, not yet. She just hoped that the hand-to-hand combat and fencing lessons she’d received as part of her training to be a Royal Handmaiden would serve her well enough against an Inquisitor. She helped Lady Sola over to a chair and sat her down.

“I’m going to go pack a bag. What do you want to bring with you?” Sabé asked, clasping one of Sola’s hands in both of hers.

Lady Sola shook her head no. She avoided meeting Sabé’s gaze. “There’s not enough room in an N-1’s cockpit for me, Pooja, and Ryoo, and I can’t fly….” 

“Just the girls then. I understand, my lady.” 

Lady Sola gaze fell to her hands,  already raw and bleeding from her nervous tick.“This is it, I can feel it, the inquisitors will come.” 

At that moment, Sabé realized there was little she could say to comfort Lady Sola. Instead, she grabbed the first aid kit from the top of the fridge and applied a Bacta spray to Lady Sola’s hands before bandaging her fingers. Sabé pressed a gentle kiss to Lady Sola’s forehead. 

She left the kitchen to pack Ryoo and Pooja’s things. Sabé even grabbed the cat carrier.

She hunted around the house looking for Pooja’s nexu and found it sleeping on Padmé and Anakin’s bed. Sabé slowly crept up beside it and scruffed the beast before putting it in the carrier. Then she tossed a blanket over it to calm Onoam down.  

Sabé neatly folded practical things into a duffel bag for Ryoo and Pooja: their dresses, shorts to wear underneath for modesty, multiple pairs of socks, and underwear. Gloves, and finally coats in case they got cold during the hyperspace jump to Alderaan. No toys, no books. Those were things Bail could provide for them later. The coats would take up too much space, and Sabé would rather the girls be bored than cold. She was too numb to think; this was almost…too routine. Sabé’s mind was back on Tatooine when she’d first met Anakin Skywalker. She was back on Coruscant after the second and third attempts on Padmé’s life at the start of the Clone Wars. 

Act now, feel later….If she even lived that long. 

She threw the duffel bag over her shoulder and picked up the cat carrier. Sabé went to the bathroom Ryoo and Pooja shared next. Toothpaste, their toothbrushes, combs, hair ties, it all went into a plastic travel case. 

I should take Onoam outside first so she doesn’t relieve herself in the carrier.  Sabé thought to herself, she grabbed the Nexu’s leash from its perch on a wall hook by the door. Then she went out the back door and all the way down to the hangar. 

Sabé opened the carrier and clipped Onoam’s leash to her collar. As she waited for the Nexu to do its business, she steadied herself emotionally and used the communicator Anakin had given her. 

“Anakin, we need you. There are stormtroopers and Inquisitors on Naboo; they’ve arrested Queen Apailana. I fear we’re next.” Admitting it out loud made everything feel real, finally. To Sabé, she realized she was crying when she felt the dampness on her cheek.  By the time she ended the recording. Her lip had started to quiver. 

She had no idea if he’d even see the message in time, much less make the hyperspace jump from wherever he was. Still, it was better than doing nothing. Sabé put Onoam back in her carrier and opened the cockpit of the N-1. The Nexu’s carrier went behind the captain’s chair, whilst the duffel bag with the girls’ things was shoved underneath it. 

“Keep the AC on and engines hot R5-G7.” She ordered the Astromech, which had left its charging station to investigate the commotion. 

“Your M-Count is slightly above average, but below the threshold we’re looking for.” A stormtrooper said, reading the report from a scanner.

Lady Sola nervously picked at her fingers again, “Then…We’re done here?”

“Not yet,” Said a smooth, low voice from behind the stormtrooper. An Inquisitor pushed past him and pointed at Ryoo and Pooja, “It’s their turn.”

“That won’t be necessary, my daughters already had their M-counts registered two years ago-” Lady Sola said, standing between her children and the Imperials. Pooja didn’t seem to understand the severity of what was going on. Whilst Ryoo had a look of grim determination on her face, and kept glancing out of the corner of her eye at the window seat by the fireplace. 

Underneath the bench in the compartment was an S-5 security-grade blaster and a small stash of high-quality gas canisters. Lady Sola’s hand on her eldest daughter’s shoulder was a firm, but subtle, Don’t.

“We’ve received word of records being falsified. This is just protocol to double-check.” The Inquisitor said with a wave of her hand, “Besides, if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.” 

Sola’s eyes were pleading; they met Sabé’s gaze. Whatever mind trick this Zabrak had tried on Lady Sola had failed. Not that Sabé was surprised, such deceit was only truly effective on the weak-minded.

It was all the signal Sabé needed. She was dressed in one of Anakin’s robes, his outer tunic, and below that, a plain white chemise, one of Padmé’s. With a pair of plain brown trousers tucked into her boots. There was one addition to her Jedi Uniform: a small utility knife strapped to her thigh, hidden by the fall of the robes.   She took in a breath through her nose to steady herself, then stood en garde and ignited Anakin’s lightsaber. “Inquistor, the only Jedi here, is me,” Sabé said, stepping forward out of the hallway and into the living room with Lady Sola and the others. 

Anakin’s lightsaber felt solid, correct. The balance was perfect, nearly identical to the fencing sabers she’d trained with. Sabé wondered if this was how a lightsaber truly was, or if this blade was acting as an extension of its true master’s will. Of course, Anakin Skywalker would want to protect his wife’s family. It would be against its master’s wishes if the blade acted unruly under her hand. 

“You must be one of the twelve Jedi Queen Apailana was hiding; she wouldn’t tell us where any of you were. Even at the end.”  The Inquisitor ignited her own lightsaber and went right for Sabé. 

Sabé brought the blade up and put all of her weight into shoving the Inquisitor back. Then she feinted an attack to the left, but flicked right, nearly catching the Inquistor’s arm. 

Most of Sabé’s attention was on her own footwork and that of the Inquisitor. Their steps were uneven, less steady. If she’d been able to use the Force, Sabé would have used it to crush her opponent’s left knee. 

Sabé feigned another attack, and this time started right and moulineted around for a jab at the left side of her face. 

This put the Inquisitor on the defensive; she stepped back, giving ground, and brought a hand to cover her face. Sabé didn’t let up; it was only a matter of time before the Inquisitor used the Force against her: a push, a pull onto the end of her lightsaber. Fear was Sabé’s only ally here. Dodge, parry, feint, strike, the sequence repeated. Sabé stepped forward, again and again pushing the Inquisitor closer to the wall. 

You’ve lived as a Queen, you’ve lived as a Senator, you can die a Jedi.  The thought echoed in Sabé’s head. 

“I didn’t think there were any practitioners of Makashi left,” The Inquisitor said, their blades locked in a parry once more, “A pity you’re the last one.”

With that, the Inquisitor used the Force and slammed Sabé up into the ceiling. When Sabé fell, she slashed her, catching Sabé across the chest. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was already painful. The stench of charred flesh and burnt wool filled the room.

Sabé rolled quickly onto her back to avoid the Inquistor’s blade when she brought it down, sinking it up to the hilt in the floor. The Inquisitor was now overextended, overcommitted to a final blow that was not so fatal. Sabé turned her head just enough to see where to aim. She pulled the knife from her thigh and held it in a reverse grip, thumb on the pommel as Sabé stabbed down next to her, burying the knife in the Inquistor’s back. Sabé could feel it chip something, maybe a stubborn piece of cartilage or sinew, before the blade punctured through the resistance. The Inquistor let out a gasp as the knife sank in, then exhaled a fine red mist. 

Sabé jerked the knife toward her, carving out as much as she could before pulling in her elbow with enough force that it recoiled against her. Sabé slammed the pommel of the knife into the center of her chest. The sudden blow made her cry out in pain. She was completely expecting it when the Inquisitor used the Force to lift her again, the sudden tightness in her chest, the feeling of a noose around her throat, a clear sign of the Inquisitor’s displeasure at the assault. Feet dangling off the ground, the tips of her shoes barely scraping against the ground, one hand pulling at her collar, more out of instinct than anything.  The other still stubbornly holding onto Anakin's lightsaber in a white knuckled grip. 

There was still one silent question between them: who would fall first?

The corners of Sabé’s vision were blurry; she found her grip on Anakin’s lightsaber starting to relax. But most important, was how the Inquisitor was flailing about, grasping at the knife wound on her back. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, then she fell into a coughing fit.  Each movement sent more of the Inquistor’s blood to the floor.  The pressure on Sabé's throat eased up. She took in a guttural, greedy breath of air before drying heaving so heavily Sabé thought she was going to vomit.

With the Inquistor’s focus broken, Sabé suddenly found herself half on the coffee table and half on the floor. Her head was throbbing from where it’d connected with the solid wood furniture. Instead of moving or trying to get up again, she simply lay there on the floor. Sabé took her thumb off the activator switch on Anakin’s lightsaber. 

What happened next, Sabé was not expecting, not in a hundred different lifetimes. A stormtrooper, the only one that had remained in the house from the looks of it, turned the safety off on his blaster. Then, it aimed not at her but at the Inquisitor before opening fire. 

Sabé pulled herself up, her fingernails digging into the surface of the coffee table. Her eyes felt heavy, the sudden movement threatening to make the room spin. She felt the stormtrooper pick her up and move Sabé onto the couch. Then he moved her onto her side, and she felt a sting in her upper thigh. Sabé looked down in time to see him hit the plunger on a stimpack. 

“Why are you helping me?” Sabé asked, her voice strained and weak. 

The stormtrooper took his helmet off. He had light brown eyes, black hair, and a distinctive lop-sided smile with only one dimple.

“A Soldier from the lake-you were at the picnic.” Sabé reached a hand out to touch his face, and he caught it after her grip went slack.

“Yeah, ES-63…This isn’t what I signed up for. I wanted to fight insurrectionists, criminals. Not to terrify innocent women and children.” He gently rested Sabé’s hand at her side. Then put his helmet back on. “Just a bad man trying to do some good.” ES-63’s words echoed what Lady Sola had said.

…maybe that’s what this Galaxy needs most. A few bad men just trying to do good. As easily as Palpatine took control of the senate, there certainly aren’t many good men left.….

Sabé heard heavy footsteps; the air in the room seemed to grow cold. Shadows flickered in the corners, then a devouring shadow fell over them. ES-63 tripped over himself getting out of the way.

Instead of using the Force to move her, Anakin put his hands on her shoulder and torso, flipping Sabé onto her back. He knelt before her on the couch, even took his old lightsaber from Sabé’s hand

“You fought off an Inquisitor by yourself for Sola and the children…” Anakin said, as if he couldn't believe it himself. 

With Anakin’s helmet, it was impossible to tell exactly where his eyes were. However, he seemed at least distressed by the sight of bruising, tattered clothes, and lightsaber burns on Sabé’s body. 

“You always arrive just in time…Forget about me Anakin. Go save them.”  Sabé pointed in the direction of the small hangar Ryoo kept her N-1.  She hoped that Ryoo and Pooja had gotten away, but feared the worst for Lady Sola.

“I wasn’t strong enough to save her. I promised I would not fail again. ES-63, stay with Lady Sabé. I’ll be back.” Anakin said, his mask turning toward the stormtrooper.  He placed his lightsaber down on the coffee table.  

His words made Sabé think. Did he see her? His mother? Padmé, or all three?  Which failure from his past was haunting the man behind the mask? 

“ Assertor, send a medical evacuation to my location. The patient is a human female, 28 years old. There may be more.” Darth Vader ordered into his communicator. Then, with the message sent. He hurried out of his own house, feeling more a guest, a stranger, than the rightful homeowner. 

“Yes, Lord Vader.” ES-63 bowed his head as Darth Vader left. 

ES-63  stayed with Sabé as they waited for the medical evac his lord had ordered.  Sabé pointed toward the fireplace mantle, at Padmé’s framed wedding dress. 

“Could you fetch that for me? This place isn’t safe anymore; there are heirlooms I need to retrieve. I-I know Lord Vader won’t mind having them on his ship.” 

“Yes My Lady,” ES-63 got up and took the shadowbox down off the mantle. He set it next to Anakin’s lightsaber. “What else do you need?”

“The mobile in the crib upstairs, along with the baby blanket, and the japor snippet.” Sabé said, thinking of what couldn’t be replaced. She wasn’t sure which of the twins Padmé would give the mobile to, but knew her Mistress would want that baby blanket back. It was made with fabric from the handmaiden’s uniform Padmé had been wearing when she first met Anakin.

Sabe's thoughts turned to Padmé, everyone knew the famous Naboo senator Padmé Amidala. But no one remembered Cordé, the jeweler’s sister, killed alongside Versé in one of the numerous attempts on Padmé’s life.

Even in death, she still served their Queen. 

No one on Dantooine paid any mind to Cordé or her two infant children, Luke and Leia. She was just another widow displaced by the Clone Wars seeking a quiet life in the middle of nowhere. One faced amongst billions in a crowd.  Hiding in plain sight had always been the Queen’s forte. 

It didn’t hurt that Obi-Wan Kenobi was on world with her. One final line of defense.

The pain was coming back, and that dreary floating sensation. Sabe’s breath shuddered enough that it got ES-63’s attention. She could hear him pacing around, throwing drawers and cabinets open. Obviously searching for something, if Sabe had to guess, a second stimpack.

Truth be told, Sabé didn’t know if there was some hidden stash of medical supplies Padmé had nestled away here or not. She tried not to rummage through Padmé and Anakin’s things unless necessary; this was still their house after all. Lady Sola, herself, and the children were merely the ones maintaining the property in case the Skywalkers ever came back.

“ Die a Jedi, ” Sabé whispered the words to herself, and she reached her arm out and grabbed Anakin’s lightsaber from the coffee table. Had he left it here for a reason? Or could he just not bear the sight of it? She didn’t notice how much paler her skin was or the coolness. Or, when her grip finally went slack and the lightsaber fell from her pale fingers and rolled along the floor until ES-63 stopped it with his boot. 

The world seemed so much smaller now. She barely felt the second needle jab. It was more of an uncomfortable pinch. Though the aftermath certainly brought Sabe back to her senses when her body was demanding air again.

Being lifted from the couch, placed on a stretcher, and having her clothes cut away was equally unpleasant. The sudden temperature change against her bare skin made Sabé recoil, but someone held her down while another put a Bacta sleeve on her chest. 

ES-63 wanted to look away; seeing a woman in such an exposed, vulnerable state made his stomach churn. Yet, he obeyed the medic’s orders to keep Sabé from struggling too much. He wasn’t a medic; the extent of his medical training was how to properly administer a Stimpack, and stop bleeding.

What the EMTs and their droid did to Sabé was well beyond his pay grade; all he knew was that she wasn’t dead yet. 

Chapter Text

Grievous was silent for once, which was quite an unusual thing, but it was with a purpose. He was well out of range of a holocommunicator. Upon which, the image kept flickering between Doctor Harx and Luthen Rael as the two negotiated a deal. Those directly in front of the communicator included a Rutian Twi’lek woman holding Ronderu as if she were her daughter.

This Grievous did not like, but Kalani had suggested the ruse because Luthen himself had a youngling, and seeing another parent and child may make him less likely to just pocket all the funds from the sale of the lightsabers. 

Plo Koon sat next to Grievous on the couch in the crew quarters, silent witnesses to the most intimate of negotiations. 

“Where did you get these by chance?” Luthen asked the Mon Calamari before him. He seemed to be an average human. Soldier's build,  dark circles under his eyes. The hologram's blue light made it impossible to tell what color the human's hair was or the true hue of his eyes.  

Doctor Harx held up one hand. “I’m sure you understand why I cannot reveal my sources to someone I’ve only just met. I must protect my people.”

“Are there any fighters among you?”  Luthen whispered, as if he almost dared not to ask the question.

Doctor Harx replied warmly, with a reassuring “Yes.”

“Would they be willing to join a resistance against the Empire?”

Doctor Harx glanced back at the crew in frame of the holoprojector. It was the sole Zygerrian amongst the Ruination’s crew who nodded. The Twi’lek revealed the blaster on her hip. 

“Good, I need all the help I can get. You’ll have your money, but it won’t be as much as you think. Empire’s tracking credits, you’ll be getting peggat, and the Hutts are stingy with the exchange right now.”

“As long as my people can eat and keep the life support going on our ship I don’t care.” There was a tension between them. Grievous noted the subtle twitches in Luthen’s demeanor, the way the wrinkles around his eyes softened every time he looked at Ronderu or one of the other younglings posing simply as innocent children caught in the aftermath of the Clone Wars. 

What did you do in service to your Empire? What guilt are you hiding behind that mask?  Grievous dared not speak any of his questions. When he felt a coughing fit come on, he left the room as quickly and quietly as he could. 

The aged warlord stopped several doors down, holding onto a guardrail as he practically doubled over, coughing and dry heaving until he was seeing floating specks. He dropped to his knees and rested his head against the wall, taking a moment to recompose himself. 

He stood back up. Had Luthen killed children? That was a line even Grievous himself hadn’t crossed -not by his own claws at least. 

It had been easy to command the droids; he could lie to himself, pretend there were no such innocents in a campaign.  It was the main reason why he’d ordered -not requested- ordered them to be programmed to take prisoners. But by his own hand?

No. Jedi Younglings and Padawans too young to remember the Battle of Naboo always made him hesitate. They were so easy to overpower, to command. The children simply did not pose the same level of threat as an older Padawan. He couldn’t bring himself to. If he murdered children, was he any better than the Huk or Jedi who had slaughtered so many of his own?

Ahh, there was that feeling again. Regret, he should have fought harder for the Bergruutfa Clan. He knew at least one of the Padawans had survived Order 66. Plo Koon had told him Codi Ty had been banished from the Jedi Order and returned home to his parents on Shili.

As for Allara, Banz, and Tak-tak…Grievous didn’t know what had happened to them or their clanmates. As ferocious as Allara’s appetite for battle was, she had certainly perished during Order 66. Undoubtedly holding the line for her fellow Younglings to escape. 

While if he’d fought harder to keep them, then all twelve of the younglings would still be alive. Grievous’s claws dug into the metal handrail, leaving a noticeable dent. He took Aagisk’s communicator from a pouch on his belt and contact juggled it over his claws, toying with it. He knew that they'd suggested Plo being the one to contact Aagisk first. But...Grievous did not care.

There was one child he knew was still breathing, if Grievous could just bring himself to take that first step. He stopped playing with the communicator and held it properly in one hand. Yet, still hesitated. 

His son, his little boy, was so close. Lor was in his grasp, literally. All he had to do was activate the communicator Aagisk had left in the Jedi Temple on Ach-to. But he couldn’t. 

The possibility that his son would hate him was too high. Why hadn’t Lor reached out to him during the Clone Wars?  How deep had the Jedi indoctrination gone? It was this not knowing, the cusp, or rather illusion, of a happy reunion that felt most comfortable. What familial love was left between them?

He could understand it if Aisha detested him; she’d practically still been an infant when she was taken. The Jedi were the only family she’d ever known. But his son?

Lor was old enough to remember, old enough to hate. 

Grievous let out a snarl, his grip tightened around the communicator, threatening to crush it. He wasn’t a coward. He turned on the communicator and listened to it ring. 

Chapter Text

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>>>Access Denied

>>>Access Denied

>>> A̸c̵c̵e̴s̴s̷ ̵D̸e̷n̵i̴e̷d̴

>>>

>>>  

>>> E̴r̸r̶o̴r̷

Chapter Text

“He’s not dead, that’s all I can tell you right now- I know…I know.” Aagisk was pacing around the living room. His ear, or rather ear-hole, pressed against a communicator that was on the lowest possible volume setting but still rattled him like he was standing next to an accelerating ship’s thrusters.

“It’s….bad. Let’s just say your son’s magnetic from the shrapnel shards in his body right now. Need to keep him away from MRI machines…rely on those medical scanners only.”

“But-”

“Yes…Yes I can tell you who did it. You remember Onderon? Kalani? It was Saw.”

“No need to shout, I can hear you just fine.” Aagisk held the communicator away from his face.

He waited until the shouting stopped and then nestled it between his ear and shoulder again. “Yes he’s been in a Bacta tank, but it only healed his wounds and it didn't do anything about the bacteria. He’s taking Azithromycin for the infection in his chest but it’s hard on him…I don’t know how much more his body can take.”

“Yes, Saw. I said Saw, Saw Gerrera. Focus.”

“No, I don't know where Saw is.”

“Listen, instead of playing fifty questions, how about I send you the security footage from Saleucami? Ignore the file names, they’re not actually episodes of a Eriaduan cooking show. I can’t exactly send things titled Imperial Intelligence Report 77 Delta, or watch a Kaleesh Jedi humiliate an entire Imperial Outpost, without getting the ISB and slicers all riled up. It’s been one of the most pirated things on the holonet lately. The security footage will just look like another torrent for that show…I should actually add a couple of episodes to the torrent to really seal the deal. I don’t think the ISB is going to sit through all of it.”

“How I got the footage? Some slicer allied with the Partisans uploaded it in a data leak to raise morale and show off a victory against the Empire. One of my associates grabbed a copy and sent it to me as… reading material. After Lor told me what happened, I took a closer look at the files.”

Lor wasn’t sure what, but something told him to get out of bed. He felt like his head was crooked, the lull of slumber still clinging to him like a second skin. Yet, the dreamer had no dreams. No memories of what he’d endured in the other realm, or if he’d merely been reliving memories of the waking world.

He pushed the door open with his shoulder and stumbled out into the hall, leaning heavily against the wall dragging a blanket. Lor stopped at the corner of the hallway. Directly in front of him was the living room; to his left was the kitchen, a utility closet, and further down the door leading out of the apartment. The rest of the living room was to his right past the corner.

And there Aagisk stood, back to the window on a communicator call.

Shock, worry, fear, anger, then finally concern flashed across his reptilian features in the span of about sixteen seconds.

“What are you doing up? H-how are you up first of all, why are you out of your room?” Aagisk practically interrogated him, his voice stern, but the compassionate undertones seeping through with each syllable.

“I felt something.” Lor said, stepping further into the room. He sat down on one of the barstools at the kitchen island and stared across their shared living quarters at Aagisk, trying to read more of his emotions.

All Lor could sense was that his protector was keeping himself extremely guarded.

Silence — not a sound between them in the apartment. Only the noises from outside in the gloom and filth of the Smuggler’s Moon.

Then, a voice Lor couldn’t quite make out from the communicator, followed by a loud half-groan, half-hiss.

Defeated, Aagisk mumbled, “I’ll put you on speaker.”

Aagisk turned the volume up on the communicator. He closed the distance between himself and Lor and turned the communicator to speaker mode before setting it down on the island counter.

“He’s here, you can talk to him.” Aagisk said, sticking his hands in his pockets.

The hesitation in the room, the crackle of static from the communicator. Everything felt heavy. Tense, and Lor still had no idea what was going on.

“Lor?”

One echoed whisper, one three-letter word that spoke more than a symphony. The ache, the tear; Lor heard it all.

Lor knew that voice; he’d know it all his life. He swiveled around on the barstool and leaned over the communicator, panic setting in his chest as he tried to think of what to say. Disbelief aside, this was his one chance. If he said the wrong thing, Grievous could simply hang up, destroy the communicator much like Lor had after hearing Obi-Wan Kenobi’s proclamation that the human Jedi had killed his father. But how would he know what the right thing to say was? Shame buried its way deep inside Lor’s chest much like the shrapnel had — both for the love and emotional attachment he had toward his father, and the Jedi themselves, at least on an individual basis. Lor had loved his master; he loved Cin Drallig. Much the same as he’d loved Serra Keto, his clones, Aisha, and Grievous. 

He spoke in Kaleesh; his mother tongue tasted foreign after so many years speaking Galactic Basic. “Baba, I forgive you.”

Grievous answered in Kaleesh. “You shouldn’t. I wasn’t there to protect you when you needed me. After everything I’ve done. I-I… everything I didn’t do in time.” The crack in his vocalizer made the words stumble into static.

Lor could feel a mass of loose phlegm in the back of his throat. He took a shuddering breath and managed to cough it up, spitting it out onto the blanket he was still dragging around. 

Aagisk respectfully took his universal translator out of his ear so he wouldn’t be hearing words not meant for him. Lor noticed the small silver earpiece in between Aagisk’s claws.

Lor picked up the communicator, holding it carefully between his claws. “It’s not your fault.”

“Lor—”

“It’s not your fault. You sacrificed everything for us. I forgive you.” Lor pushed the words forward, as if forcing them through a blast door, or particularly stubborn cyborg. Aagisk shifted behind him, suddenly finding the view outside the apartment windows extraordinarily interesting.

Internally, Lor was quickly realizing there was no home to go back to. He already knew he couldn’t return to Kalee because too many of the people there would be willing to die for him as his father’s son. If they both went back… if the empire found out either of them were alive. Lor shuddered, thinking about what Sidious did to Kamino.

“…You have no idea how much I needed to hear that,” Grievous said, small and raw.

“Where do we go from here? What do you want to do, Baba?” Lor asked.

“I would have you at my side, as father and son, as things should have been,” Grievous said, his voice softened by guilt. “But I have no medical facilities fit for your wounds. I do not want you to suffer again for my failures.” Grievous took in a breath. “Stay out of sight. Stay with Aagisk until you are healed and it is safe. He has funds, influence. My ship..The Ruination is rationing fuel; we’re low on Bacta and nearly depleted of medication. I can offer you nothing but a tomb.”

Lor reached his free hand up and took off the mask Aagisk had given him, setting it down on the counter. He rubbed his eyes with the base of his wrist, pushing the tears away. “I would like that too, I’ve missed you. So much.”

“Does this have to be goodbye?”Lor asked,  he could feel an itch in his throat.

“No, no never. If you call, I will answer. I swear it, you have my word.” The reassurance in Grievous’ voice caught Lor off guard; somehow he wasn’t expecting that.

Lor couldn’t respond; a rattle-coughing tore through him. The sound was ghastly enough that it even had Aagisk’s attention back on him.

Grievous swapped back to Galactic Basic, “Bounty Hunter! You care for my son, he is of Kalee, he doesn't deserve this.”

“You should know better than anyone Jedi don’t do what you tell them to and ignore sound advice like it’s their job. But don’t worry I’ll keep him alive. The Scorekeeper would curse me to live as a womp rat or wookie in my next life if I failed him.”

Chapter Text

The first thing Sabé saw was a pair of stormtroopers, and a rather disheveled Imperial doctor looming over her. There was a small flashlight in the doctor’s hand, which she assumed meant he’d checked her pupils to see how they responded to light while she was still unconscious. She also felt wet, slimy. Clear signs of being recently submerged in Bacta.

The stormtrooper to her right spoke first, “Apologies, Lady Sabé, we wanted to leave you in the tank longer, but that was no longer an option.”

Wait…

Suddenly, Sabé pulled herself up, her eyes darting frantically around the medical bay, “Ryoo! Pooja, where are they? Where is Sola Naberrie?” Panic was etched on every syllable that left her lips. The pain from her wounds was secondary, unimportant.

“The children are alive, they’re being treated privately in Lord Vader’s quarters,” the doctor said, offering her a hand to help her off the table.

“And their mother?” Sabé dared to ask.

“She’s…” The doctor paused, his pupils were little more than flecks of dark pigmentation lost in his already dark brown eyes. What Sabé noticed most was the wrinkle in his brow, the way the whites of his eyes seemed to overwhelm everything else. The sweat at the corner of his forehead. It was a primal, almost instinctive fear written clear as day across his features.

“She’s no longer with us,” he continued.

Sabé felt the tears already forming in her eyes. She focused on her breathing, recomposing herself. “Ryoo and Pooja are alive?” she asked again.

“Yes, I can have the guards bring you to them after you… ease Lord Vader's troubled mind.” The doctor explained. One of the stormtroopers brought her a lab coat and a pair of paper slippers. It wasn’t much, but it offered more protection from the cold than the hospital gown she was garbed in.

Sabé stood in silence, fearing if she uttered a word her composure would crack like an egg. Her fingers felt numb as she buttoned the lab coat. She put the slippers on and did appreciate the slight comfort they offered against the cold durasteel floor.

She fixed her hair so it was resting against the back of the lab coat instead of her bare skin where the hospital gown didn’t cover.

The two stormtroopers escorted her out of the medical bay. The halls of the ship looked vaguely familiar; Sabé could tell she was on some kind of Star Destroyer. But she wasn’t sure if it was a Venator or a different model.

Cracks in the viewing glass overlooking cargo bays, missing plating on the walls, ceiling, and floors, the damage got worse the further along they went. Sabé noticed how a few of the smaller bolts, screws, and shards of broken glass all floated in the air. Yet, nothing seemed wrong with the artificial gravity, as she had no such issue. Some of the light fixtures overhead were even blown out, sparks dancing across the otherwise pitch-black corridors. Cables and stray wires dangled overhead, just out of reach.

All the damaged plating, the shattered glass; it was facing the same direction, radiating out from a central point. The extent of the destruction made her wonder what could have caused this. Even a thermal detonator wouldn’t have done this much.

Then, they reached a blown out bulkhead. The doors pushed outward by some immense force. The two stormtroopers stepped through first, and then helped Sabé safely across the twisted metal carrying her. But neither of them dared go any further. They just pointed her toward a door.

“Lady Sabé, good luck,” was all they said. She couldn't help but feel like a sacrifice.  She turned back in time to see one give her a thumbs up before the other stormtrooper smacked him on the arm.

There was more debris floating here. The air felt heavy, electrically charged. Yet Sabé continued on and heard mechanical breathing get louder and louder.

She whispered one single name, “Anakin?”

One of the shadows moved, then footsteps.

“You’re alive,” Anakin reached out a hand, touching her briefly as if to check she was really there.

“You of all people should know I’m hard to kill,” Sabé said, putting a hand on Anakin’s shoulder.

Anakin looked down at her, then past Sabé, bowing his head as he stared at the floor. “I was too late. I couldn’t save Padmé’s sister or their parents… I was too weak, too slow. It’s all my fault; it’s over.”

“Anakin, look at me,” Sabé commanded. She waited until Anakin raised his head. “You saved Ryoo and Pooja.”

“It’s not enough. I needed to save all of them, and I failed. I got too comfortable on Naboo, I-I no longer have a future with Padmé. She won’t forgive me. She won’t take me back.”

“I can’t… I can’t…!” Anakin turned away quickly, pacing to the other end of the room. The heavy breathing in the room grew faster, more frantic. The static in the room grew worse, and Sabé found herself floating, caught up in the aftershocks of Anakin’s power. The ceiling, with its shattered light fixtures and sea of broken glass and metal shards, was suddenly much closer.

Sabé screamed, “Ani!”

Everything stopped. It felt like time itself was standing still. Then, Sabé fell and landed in Anakin’s arms. He gingerly set her down. “I’m sorry, Sabé.”

Sabé took his helmet, and to her own surprise, he let her.

She stared directly into his eyes, unflinching, unblinking. The helmet heavy in her hands. “Anakin, listen to me, Ryoo and Pooja need you. Padmé can’t raise four Force-sensitive children on her own. It’s too dangerous.”

Sabé took a moment to study Anakin’s face: the burn scars, dark circles under his eyes, the unnatural yellow glow and Force corruption marring his features. Yet, the softness-the look he was giving her. It was all Anakin, all that little boy on Tatooine all those years ago, even with the clear discomfort he was feeling.

She spoke softer this time. “Those little girls have lost everyone else in their life. You don’t get to turn your back on them. You’re all the family they have left. They love you, Anakin; don’t hurt them. Don’t abandon them. Be a father.”

She gave the helmet back. Anakin turned it around in his hands, staring at the mask he needed to breathe. He said nothing yet, simply closed his eyes, nodded, and put the helmet back on.

“Come with me, Sabé. I’m taking Ryoo and Pooja to Ilum for their lightsabers. I’ll be choosing kyber crystals for Leia and Luke… one final gift from their father. Then go back to Padmé,” Anakin said, offering her his hand.

Sabé didn’t hesitate; she rested hers in his palm. “You don’t want me around anymore?”

Anakin closed his fingers around her hand. “I want you to tell Padmé what happened in person, tell her I’m sorry, and deliver those kyber crystals yourself. What you do after is your own choice.”

Sabé thought about it. Padmé had Obi-Wan and Bail to help her; who did Anakin still have at his side? Ahsoka and Rex were both dead after the Tribunal crashed. “You know I will do everything in my power to serve my queen. But after my mission, I think you need me more, Anakin.”

Chapter Text

Grievous stood for a long time simply holding onto Aagisk’s communicator, his lifeline to Naledi’s son. He thought back to one of her prophecies, one of the last she’d given him before her death. 

A tomb of white, a tomb of red, and nay a tear to be shed. The proclamation of which had gotten Naledi slapped rather violently by one of his other wives for suggesting no one would mourn him. But, Grievous’ thoughts had always dwelled on the deeper meaning behind her words. 

A tomb of white…. Grievous glanced down at his hands, at the duranium plating covering his body. That one he’d deciphered years ago. She’d foreseen his death in service to the Confederacy of Independent systems. Not an unreasonable outcome given the realities of war.

He still didn’t know what she meant by a tomb of red. 

Whilst nay a tear to be shed was easy, the Republic in its twilight hours had celebrated his supposed death. That just left the last line of Naledi’s prophecy untranslated. Was it a reference to the color of Utapau’s sun? The crimson lightsaber of a sith? The color of blood? A metaphor for how hatred and anger had all but consumed him? Grievous was familiar with the phrase ‘red hot blinding anger’.

But none of them felt right. 

Grievous strolled along the corridors of his ship. Lazily resting one claw along the side of the wall leaving light scratches in the paint. This was his ship; the Ruination was his to command, to mark, to destroy as he saw fit. 

More importantly, the screeching sound every time his claw caught on something on the wall was sudden enough that the sound pulled him out of his mind. It was reassuring in a way. 

The call with Aagisk and Lor had been voice only. He hadn’t seen his son in years, Grievous found himself wondering if Lor wore Naledi’s face or if he’d taken after him. He needed to check the Ruination’s computer banks for the security footage Aagisk promised he’d transfer over.

Such a grisly thing, to finally see his son’s face again in the recordings of his own near death experiences. 

Clink.

There it was, Grievous’ claw caught on a bolt he turned to his right and drew his hand back. 

Grievous heard a voice behind him.“I was wondering where you ran off too. You had me worried.” 

“I should have known you of all people would notice my absence, Master Plo.” Grievous couldn’t bear to look at him. 

“You contacted Lor on your own, didn’t you?” Plo Koon asked, stepping closer to Grievous.

“Yes.” Was all the cyborg said.

“And did you regret it?” The question weighed heavily in the air. A shroud almost as heavy as the suffocating presence of a dark sider.

“Not…for the reason you would think.” Grievous admitted, finally meeting Plo Koon’s gaze.

Plo Koon spoke gently, resting both hands over his cane as he leaned against the wall.“Why is that?”

“You would have been able to help him. I could only offer words. Hollow pointless things they are, he’s wounded, sick. Hunted by the Empire and those masterless dogs like Saw Gerrera the Republic left behind.” Grievous explained, noticing the slight tremor in the wounded Master’s hands.

“And yet he survived, the fall of the Jedi Order, the Empire’s rise…Still standing, still unbroken. He truly is his father’s son.”Plo Koon replied, he had one hand on the guide rails running along either side of the corridor, the other holding his cane. In his current state, Grievous doubted Plo Koon could even wield his lightsaber, he could hardly stand as it was. But, still didn’t complain. He still cared about others more than his own needs. 

Grievous wasn’t as surprised as he should have been when the realization of Plo Koon’s crippled state stirred something protective inside of him, not predatory. 

“His mother and masters at the Jedi Temple both had more to do with Lor’s current state than I.” Grievous turned away.

“You still gave him your love.” The six words cut deeper than any knife ever could.
 

 Grievous thought about it.

The Na Jang lessons he’d given Lor as a hatchling, his son’s cortosis weave vibroblade. While, yes it was true that Cin Drallig’s training undoubtedly helped Lor’s survival chances, he was still only a young knight. It was only the loyalty of his clones that saved Plo Koon, Tiplar and Tiplee had survived hidden in their ships until rescue, and Luminara Unduli only survived because of IG-113 and I-219’s involvement on Kashkyyk. 

Of course Grievous would never forgive himself for what had happened to Lor and his siblings in their father’s absence, but perhaps he hadn’t completely failed as a parent. But, it was at that moment the weight of it all actually hit him.

The Jedi were gone, he’d all but exterminated the Huk after joining the Confederacy of Independent systems and gaining access to their navy. His own father, Ronderu, Naledi, the children he’d lost. He’d avenged them all. He’d outlived all but one of his enemies, even Dooku was no more. 

The last foe he had left was Darth Sideous, the heart of all evil sitting atop his throne at the center of the labyrinth. Oh how he wished he’d at least tried to kill him when he had unknowingly abducted Sideous from his gilded palace on Coroscaunt.

Force Users had such difficulties reading machines. He might have had a chance. Especially as Sideous was playing the role of a frail old man in front of his rescuers, Obi-wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker.  If Grievous had only been quick enough…

It would have saved everyone so much trouble in the end. 

“We should find you some place to sit down.” Grievous finally spoke, motioning toward the nearest officer’s lounge. It was still a fair walk away. But, not nearly as demanding on Plo Koon’s body as returning to the bridge or crew’s quarters would be. 

“I do greatly appreciate the concern.” Plo Koon said following Grievous. 

He even opened the door for Plo Koon, and closed it behind him. 

Plo Koon used the Force to raise a plastic cup from a stack next to a water cooler and fetched himself a drink all the while still sitting down at the conference table in the center of the room. Neither spoke, there were no words to say. Grievous took a seat next to Plo Koon. He watched him drink using a straw in his mask.

The only sound was that of the Ruination herself, the gentle lull of the ship’s beating heart. After the Starweird’s attack, it was determined it was safer for everyone to leave her shields and the main guns online. Which did nothing for their fuel shortage. But it was better than an electro magnetic pulse ruining Grievous’ cybernetics, suffocating him and slaughtering  all the droids on board, including IG-113 and the rebuilt IG-219.

“I’m so tired…” Grievous whispered, finally breaking the silence.

Chapter Text

>>>Error

 >>>Error

>>>Error

 _ _ _ _ 

>>>[AUTH_KERNEL_BYPASS] 

>>>[CRIT: KERNEL_BYPASS] 

>>> 

>>> **AUTH_LEVEL: General_Grievous(OVERRIDE_J-4-ALPHA-MUMUU)** 

>>> AUTH_PASSWORD 

>>> ********

>>> AUTH_VALIDATION: 

>>> **SUCCESS** 

>>> Establishing connection

>>> 11%

>>> 19%

>>> 26%

>>>40%

>>>52%

>>> 78%

>>> 83%

>>> 100%

>>>[LOAD: KERNEL_BYPASS]

>>> **SUCCESS** 

>>> SYSTEM DIAGNOSTICS 

>>> Core Temperature: _233_Standard Critical Failure Imminent

>>> Processor Load: 98% 

>>> Memory: 100% 

>>> Error 

>>> **Emergency Shut Down** 

 _ _ _ _ 

>>> Reboot? 

>>> Yes 

>>> SYSTEM DIAGNOSTICS 

>>> Core Temperature: _106_Standard

>>> Processor Load: 30% 

>>> Memory: 57% 

>>> Reboot? 

>>> Yes 

>>> **IG-100-Serial-113: CMD: KERNEL_JUMP_FORCE** 

>>> **SUCCESS** 

>>> **001XF337-SAFE** Initiated 

IG-113 couldn’t believe it when his audio and photoreceptors started processing his environment again. He sat up on the work bench, and noticed that things felt…bigger.  He looked himself over and noticed that his legs were different; shorter. They weren’t IG anymore.

He ran an internal diagnostic scan which told him that his hydraulics system had been replaced with one from a BX-series droid commando. Which, apparently meant his legs were too. Nothing else seemed different as he looked himself over. Nor did his internal diagnostic scan pick up any heavy modifications; other than the absence of his restraining bolts, and the removal of his remote deactivation and self-destruct kits.

All of which were things IG-113 had done to himself. 

“I died.” IG-113 said flatly, two of his digits on the underside of his wrist as if checking himself for a pulse. 

“If that’s how you want to put it…” SO-B79 said disconnecting a cord from the back of IG-113’s neck. His vision went fuzzy for a moment before his systems adapted.

“How long was I dead?” IG-113 asked, “Why do I have droid commando parts?”

“You were out of commission for 96 hours, High Commander. We didn’t have any spare IG-100 series Hydraulic systems on hand, I had to make due with the parts we had in inventory. I attempted to use your legs, but they were too long for the hydraulic tubing. Improvisations were made, but don’t worry once we get the parts I can put you back together…Look I even wrote your name on them.”  SO-B79 said holding up a leg, which did have “IG-113, do not scrap!” written on it in what looked like black ink.

“Please store those somewhere no one will touch them…preferrably not on deck.” IG-113 said, running a clawed hand down his face.  

“I died….I was gone,” IG-113 repeated, holding his arms around himself. He could almost feel a chill. 

“General Grievous has a personal supply closet, I’ll have your parts stored there, by the way have you run any self diagnostic scans yet? Were there any error messages about the commando droid parts when you rebooted?”  SO-B79’s level of excitement was pushing what IG-113 could handle.

“My scans only registered the hydraulic system, it did not detect the change in hardware.” IG-113 replied, trying to keep his composure. Internally however those same two words kept repeating in his head.

“Ahh scrap, figured that might happened, I tried to blend the software for the hydraulics in your pre-existing systems but Baktoid Combat Automata parts don’t play very nice with Holowan mechanical.” SO-B79 shrugged, “Go figure the Hydraulic systems were the one thing built to be proprietary instead of modules.” 

“You did amazing work getting it to integrate into my systems.”

“The only downside is that your temporary legs only have maglocks in the feet, none of those fancy thrusters or repulsor lifts the IG models have.” SO-B79 kicked a loose bolt across the floor, “Nothing I could do about that.” 

“I was unfit for combat before my most recent injuries, your work is more than enough.” IG-113 said putting a hand on SO-B79’s shoulder. 

He noticed a droideka on the next work bench over, this droid was still online. Though it was a mismatch of parts. Some were obviously brand new, others like its legs and part of its head had wear and tear, streaks of missing paint, scorch marks. One of its photoreceptors was out, a simple damaged bulb. 

IG-113 pulled his hand back and wrapped both arms around himself once more.  That same line repeating in his head. I was dead, I died. 

“Thanks Commander, you’ll have to stay in Hangar Bay 3 for observation and some hardware tests, but if everything goes well I’ll have you on your way later today. Just uh..give me a minute, D7-339 has been waiting his turn.” SO-B79 pulled on a drawer opening it. The contents were neatly organized by row with different photoreceptors and light bulbs.  He grabbed a small, thin screwdriver almost like a surgeon’s scalpel and replaced the Droideka’s broken photoreceptor.

“There, all better!”  SO-B79 put the screw driver back on the tool belt he wore.

D7-339 started tapping one of his legs. “-.-- --- ..- .----. .-. . / .-.. ..- -.-. -.- -.-- / .. / .-- .- ... / .--. .-. --- --. .-. .- -- -- . -.. / - --- / .-. . ... .--. . -.-. - / - .-. .. .- --. . / -.-. .- - . --. --- .-. .. . ... / .-.-.-” 

“I know I know, go ahead and give me a bad review for the wait time,” SO-B79 joked waving a hand at him. The Salvage Officer seemed to be doing an internal tally of all the other droids waiting around for repairs. Several were on the various charging stations along the walls of the workshop. 

“It’s gonna be forever until my caf break.” SO-B79’s shoulders dropped, “I might need to recharge first.” 

“.. / .-- .- .. - . -.. / ... . ...- . -. / .... --- ..- .-. ... / ..-. --- .-. / .- / .-. . .--. .-.. .- -.-. . -- . -. - / .-.. .. --. .... - / -... ..- .-.. -... .-.-.- / --- -. . / ... - .- .-. .-.-.-”  IG-113 turned his head toward the Droideka, he didn’t know why but he had such a sinking suspicion that if D7-339 was human, or any organic for that matter he would have such a grin on his facial features.

The little B1 droid rotated around suddenly holding one finger up as he did, the motion was reminiscent of a particularly clumsy ballerina. If such a thing existed.

"Wait, I was supposed to tell you something too." SO-B79 started tapping his finger against his head thinking, "General Grievous said good morning! That's what I was supposed to tell you first, sorry about that, High Commander."

IG-113 looked up. Grievous knew what that meant for droids, he knew what good night meant. To hear such a thing from the General, even inadvertently.  IG-113 thought back to when he had shoved a lightsaber into General Grievous' claws , with the other end against his chest.  Grievous could have killed IG-113 then, easily in fact in his weakened state.

And here he was again, Grievous didn't have to authorize the bypass. He could have left IG-113 dead on the operating table. But he didn't. IG-113 thought about everything, how Tiplee had tried comforting him after their shared experience at the hands of one of the Unknown Regions many monsters. The Wolf Pack's nickname for him, which was spreading throughout the ship's organic crew. Perhaps not quickly, but more people were calling him Iggy. That is, except for Messar, his little Padawan who exclusively called him Master. 

His photoreceptors dimmed slightly, "I am loved." 

Chapter Text

There was no rest for the wicked, and there was certainly no rest for IG-113. Who upon his resurrection, and subsequent discharge from SO-B79’s care had been thrust once more unto the breach. 

Everyone on the bridge, from the lowly janitorial B1s, to Kalani, the rest of the tactical droids, and even IG-113, General Grievous, Plo Koon, Tiplee, and the rest of the Ruination’s command were all huddled around the holographic visage of a massive star destroyer. 

Tiplar spoke first, “That isn’t a Venator.”

“No, it’s not.” Magnet said. The clone had his helmet under his arm. He scratched at his chin, which had a slight shadow on it from his stubble.

“That isn’t an Imperator either, is it?” Grievous inquired, breaking the uneasy silence.

“Negative.” IG-219 replied, the MagnaGuard had a most unusual posture with his arms crossed over his chest and was leaning against the railings separating the upper and lower levels of the bridge. 

“Has it seen us?” Tiplee asked, clinging to her sister’s arm for a moment before she recomposed herself.

Plo Koon glanced around at the others. “It must have, we cannot pretend this fleet is an abandoned wreck from the Clone Wars when our energy signatures show we’re operational with the shields and artillery fully charged.” What Plo Koon didn’t say was that the direction the Star Destroyer was travelling lined up with Jedi star charts leading to Ilum. 

“Then they might know.” Grievous stepped closer to the hologram, reaching out with one hand letting his claws disturb the protection.

The bridge grew quiet. IG-113’s audioreceptors could pick up the individual breaths each member of the Ruination’s organic crew took. Beyond that, the only other noise was the sound of the generators keeping the Ruination’s shields and life support running. Plo koon broke the silence. “It is a possibility.”

“What do we do?” Tiplar asked, IG-113 noticed how one of Grievous’ hands moved closer to hers. Two of his claws lightly tapped against the back of the Jedi Master’s hand. She turned hers around, palm facing Grievous’ before her hand disappeared, fully encased by Grievous’ claws. 

“All we can do is wait, I'm afraid, we could send a scouting ship further into the abyss to find a safe place to jump, but we’ll be dangerously low on fuel and hypermatter after that. If we are attacked again by a starweird or something…worse out here we’ll be defenseless.” Plo Koon’s rather expressive face fell. IG-113 had a feeling that he was thinking about all the Jedi younglings and Padawans that the Ruination’s crew had dutifully rescued from certain death at the hands of the Empire.

Grievous looked…defeated. There was nowhere to run, they were running out of supplies, and the only thing the Ruination’s crew had left was each other. “So this is how it all ends, not with a war cry but a whimper.”

One of the B1 droids still manning their stations turned around, “Generals, we’re being hailed over long range sensors, encoded transmission.”

Plo Koon limped forward, “I have a…funny feeling about this, let me see.” He said moving to the B1’s side and reading over the droid’s shoulder.  “This is a Republic encryption key, how peculiar.” 

That had Grievous’ attention, a little bit of life had returned to his eyes. He exchanged a look with Tiplar and both of them went to Plo Koon. “What does it say?”

The B1 moved so Plo Koon could sit down at its station. It held onto Master Plo’s cane whilst he worked the console. “Let me see if I remember the full key…it’s been so long, ahh there we are.”


The communication sent from the star destroyer turned out to be  a holo-recording of three Jedi, Plo Koon, Anakin Skywalker, and Ahsoka Tano. Plo Koon had a straw between his fingers and the three of them were laughing at something just off screen. Anakin had one arm around Ahsoka pulling her in, whilst a hand rested on Plo Koon’s shoulders. As for Ahsoka, she was mid laugh herself and holding two bottles of some kind of juice or soda. The labels weren’t in focus making it impossible to read them. 

“This was…this was a long-long time ago. I understand.” Plo Koon’s expression turned mournful.  IG-113 knew that Ahsoka had been the closest Plo Koon had to a daughter.  He felt like he should do something, to try to comfort the old Jedi.

However, Grievous got there first. A hand on Master Plo’s shoulder, a sympathetic eye as both knew what it was like to lose a child. Even IG-113 felt like he should hold Missar a little closer. 

“That Star Destroyer is no threat to us.” Plo Koon took the cane back from the B1 and slowly limped his way to the view port at the front of the bridge.

“Anakin Skywalker….It’s good to see you again too, my old friend.”

Chapter Text

“That is horrible for your health Sabé.”  Darth Vader said looming over her as one might a particularly troublesome admiral who was not quite replaceable yet. 

She exhaled a ring of smoke, “Most things are,” Sabé took another drag from a cigarette. They weren’t as popular as death sticks, considered messy by most. But she did not care.

Senator Padmé Amidala did not drink anything less than a fine champagne from the Core Worlds. Or, rather naturally spirits from her homeworld Naboo. She certainly did not partake in such a dreadful lowborn habit such as smoking death sticks, much less cigarettes. 

Sabé did. 

It was her vice, her moment to claim her own identity instead of existing solely as her lady’s shadow. 

Anything the noble houses of Alderaan, Coruscant, Corellia, or Chandrila would scoff at; Sabé chose to indulge in during her free time. It was cathartic.  As long as there was no chance anyone would mistake her for Padmé during such rare occurrences. 

She took another drag from her cigarette, “Something’s on your mind, you know I’m here to listen. Is it about the girls?” 

“I felt someone in the Force when the Assertor was preparing for the next jump…It brought back memories.”  Darth Vader confessed, he stayed next to Sabé, gazing out into the abyss of the Unknown Regions with her. 

Sabé kept leaning on the railings separating them from the two story viewport, “Who was it?” She asked gently.

Anakin’s fingers rested over Ahsoka’s lightsaber, dutifully clipped to his belt as if part of a memorial, “Master Plo.”

“Was he alone?” Sabé asked. She knew there was one of three answers he could give her.

“No, there were others.” Anakin’s voice faltered, for a solid two minutes the only sound between them was his mechanical breathing. He took his hand off of Ahsoka's lightsaber “She wasn’t with him.” 

 Sabé dropped her cigarette and stomped it out with her foot. If there were any ash trays present, she would have done the proper thing and thrown it out. She lit up a second one, the dull embers the only light illuminating Anakin’s suit. 

“What are you going to do?” She held the cigarette in her mouth between her teeth.

“I told the crew it was a Force illusion constructed by some predatory beast to lure us in. I must confess, I cannot bring myself to hurt him. It’s not what she would have wanted.” Anakin went silent again. 

Sabé was halfway through her second cigarette by the time he spoke.

“That ship might have recordings of conversations between Palpatine and Dooku, Trench, or Grievous in its memory banks, or a droid that does. If we had more proof that he was the one that orchestrated the Clone Wars we could turn the Galaxy against him and rule together.” 

“You want me to talk to him don’t you, After Ilum.” Sabé finally stood up straight, “I’ll do it.”

“Take Ryoo’s N-1 Starfighter. You should know how to fly that, and I have faith they would not fire upon you…Then tell Padmé what happened on Naboo and give her Luke and Leia’s Kyber Crystals.” 

“As you wish, Anakin,” Sabé said quietly, she smoked the rest of her cigarette. Her to-do list was getting longer and longer. First, accompany Anakin, Ryoo, and Pooja to Ilum as the girls build their first lightsabers. Then take Ryoo’s N-1 to the Separatist Fleet and try to gain an audience with Plo Koon. Then go to Dantooine to inform Padmé of Sola and their parents’ deaths in person and give her the Kyber Crystals Anakin picked out for the twins. Once that was done, the only thing she had left was to return to Anakin’s side.

Though Sabé planned on asking Master Plo if he knew anything about Ahsoka. Or, if she really had perished when the Tribunal crashed. She wondered if Master Plo and the surviving Jedi had reprogrammed the battle droids after the shut down order went out. It was clever, using the machine servants of the enemy to protect themselves. 

“You should kill him.” Sabé said so nonchalantly. 

“Who?” Darth Vader asked, turning his head to stare at her.

“Palpatine of course, he has that private yacht he’s so proud of. It’s based on a Nubian like the J-type Royal Starships the Queens have. If that Hyperdrive fails and it blows up or the engines melt down, who would know?”

“And you believe I’m capable of that?”

“If you tried hard enough,  I’ve heard stories of Sith who could crush a man’s throat halfway across the galaxy with a thought. You could destroy that ship with Palpatine on it. Padmé told you that you couldn’t be together as long as he was alive. Now he’s proven he’s willing to murder her family to get to you. You kill Palpatine, and Padmé may be willing to let you see your children, to hold them.” Sabé explained. 

“I bound the gods of Mortis to my will. I can execute one frail old man.”  The aura coming off of Darth Vader made the hairs on Sabé’s arms stand up. 

“He’s not omnipotent or omniscient either. If he was, why need you at all? Why am I still alive? He should have known you were going to save me, Ryoo and Pooja.” Sabé took a breath to let her words sink in.

 “I go to that Separatist fleet, I find more proof that Palpatine is Sidious for the crew, we tell them he’s the traitor and win them to our side. Then we ruin that cockroach and everything he stands for, and you can finally start to make amends for what you’ve done.” Sabé said standing on her toes to touch her hand to the side of Darth Vader’s mask. 

Darth Vader mumbled, “A second chance…I hope Luke and Leia understand this was all for them and their mother.” 

Chapter Text

I did my own spin on Padmé's ombre dress from episode II for this one.

I wanted her to have something special for when she meets our favorite warlord. 

Chapter Text

Normally, IG-113 would have been greatly concerned to see General Grievous on the ground. But the question, “Are you alright” instead of the more mechanical “Do you require assistance” died upon his metaphorical tongue as IG-113 realized Grievous was not coughing, he was laughing.

The younglings that had swarmed Grievous with their assortment of  hard polymer tubing -no doubt taken from a supply closet-  and Bokken sabers kept beating him with them. 

“General,what are you doing?” IG-113 asked, fidgeting with his hands unsure of what to do with his robotic digits.

“Teaching,” Grievous said, turning his head to look at him like it was the most obvious answer in the galaxy. One of the younglings, a little Togruta  took the opportunity to hit him in the back of the head. Which earned a chuckle from the aging warlord.

“She is bold, I like this one.” Grievous purred in amusement, though when she raised the Bokken saber for a second blow one of his secondary arms shot out grabbing the wooden staff. He didn’t even need to look at her to know where to grab the staff.

“But not enough to let her do that again,”  Grievous used his three other arms to push himself up from the pile of younglings he was holding onto the Bokken saber. A little girl dangling from it kicking her feet in the air. 

She could have simply let go, and fallen perhaps two feet back to the durasteel floor. Yet, she stubbornly refused, a look of pure determination on her face. Grievous stared at her before letting the Bokken saber go. The little Togruta fell right down on her bottom, one hand still holding her Bokken saber as she dusted herself off and toddled off, as if sensing the game was over. 

“What are you teaching them?” IG-113 inquired, noticing how Grievous had none of his lightsabers on him, instead a couple of electroblades were scattered on the floor.

“The might of my army was its strength in numbers. If it wasn’t for the interference of the Sith I would have won the Clone Wars in a year’s time,” Grievous was coughing now, he raised a hand waving off the younglings before sitting down in one of the chairs in the room.

Another addition from a supply closet, as Master Plo’s missing leg meant more and more of them were placed in the crews’ quarters, near the bridge, and other parts of the ship the Jedi frequented. 

“The Galaxy is out to kill them. If I can teach these hatchlings how to fight, how to use their strength to face down their foes instead of cowering in fear…” Grievous closed his eyes, “that would be enough.” 

“If you’re tired I could turn on the same training protocol I use with Missar and continue the lesson.” IG-113 offered, Grievous shook his head no.

“They’re young, and flesh. Take them back to the others, they need their rest.” Grievous instructed. It was times like these that made it hard not to see him as he was before San Hill, Count Dooku, and the others ruined his life. IG-113 did not see General Grievous, feared Commander of the Separatist army. 

All his photoreceptors saw was Qymaen jai Sheelal, a tired father wanting a moment of peace after rough housing with his children. 

“Yes General, with me younglings,” IG-113 said, guiding them along. They all seemed quite proud of their little makeshift weapons and the ‘victory’ over Grievous. The oldest of this group of younglings couldn’t have been any older than seven.  They wouldn’t even be fit to be Padawans for at least three years, which gave IG-113 a chilling thought.

There weren’t enough surviving adult Jedi  onboard the Ruination to teach all these younglings. At best, Luminara, Tiplee, Tiplar, Plo Koon, and Tera Sinube would all end up with three or four of them to train at once. Though, if Missar and the other older Padawans finished their training in time, that could lighten the load. 

The truth of the matter was, IG-113 knew that most of the adult Jedi in the galaxy were dead, or in Imperial custody. Much like Missar’s original mentor, they’d simply sacrificed themselves to give the younglings a chance to survive. 

IG-113 hoped Obi-Wan Kenobi was among the dead.  He did not forgive him for the MagnaGuards he destroyed on Utapau, nor almost murdering General Grievous.  

He felt fear again. The combat simulations and protocols IG-113 had run against Obi-Wan Kenobi were done a lifetime ago, when he was still in fighting condition. With his combat efficiency in the single digits, IG-113 knew all he could do if faced by the hostile Jedi Master was pray, and run. 

IG-113 did not like how fear felt. Such  a cold, invasive thing that threatened to seize his heart in its grasp.

He was almost entirely lost in his own head until one of the younglings reached up for his hand, the feeling of touch brought IG-113 back to his senses. 

“Yes, little one?” IG-113 said, glancing down. 

“You felt scared.” Was the only response he got from a little Shistavenen pup. Which was a miracle itself that a Force sensitive could sense the emotions of a droid. IG-113 wondered if it was because no one told him he couldn't. 

“I am, every day.” IG-113 confessed, the bewildered younglings had stopped walking and were surrounding him now.

“Why?” That same Torgruta asked, “You’re so strong and in charge of everything.”

“That is why I am scared. My failures mean devastation for the crew, with the General’s….illness I am ultimately responsible. Regardless, I must fulfill my purpose and keep everyone safe even if it means fighting things I am scared of.” IG-113 said choosing his words carefully.

“What are you afraid of? I don’t like the dark.” One of the younglings asked.

“Neither do I…” IG-113 decided he was not going to traumatize the children by telling them what he had learned to fear.

Chapter Text

Sabé held one of her cigarettes between her teeth as she settled in to the pilot’s chair. She already had a blanket around her, and had turned up the heat. But; the cold of Ilum would not be so easily dissuaded. 

Frost grew along the edges of the canopy, a spreading forest of fractal symmetry. She wondered if it would be a better idea to wait for Anakin’s signal in space instead of on world. After all, Ryoo’s N-1 Starfighter was designed for the void of space.

It was not designed for extreme cold. However, it was the best they had. Approaching the remnants of a Separatist fleet in an Imperial craft was asking to get spaced. 

A beep got her attention, she glanced down at the view screen and read what the new astromech had to say. “Please do not smoke in the cockpit.”

The corners of Sabé’s lips fell in a dour, sullen expression. She popped open the cockpit and climbed out. The blanket still around her shoulders, she turned her back to the wind as she used ES-63’s lighter to light her cigarette by bringing the lighter up to her face. The small flickering flame still managed to give off enough warmth for it to be noticeable against her skin. Sabé pocketed the lighter again afterwards.  She took a  drag from her cigarette, then glanced over her shoulder up at the Astromech. It was an imperial model, freshly memory wiped. Brand new, no personality, not yet. She missed R5-G7. 

But Ryoo’s little astromech was gone. His death had been quite horrific from how Ryoo described it. The astromech Anakin had given his niece had been targeted by Imperial TIE fighters as they pursued Ryoo through the swamps of Naboo.  R5-G7 had sacrificed everything for his master, and been rewarded by being blown up whilst putting out a fire on the N-1’s left wing and repairing the damage.

It was one of the only reasons she’d been on world long enough for Anakin to intercept her ship and rescue the two girls. N-1’s were more aerodynamic in atmospheres than TIE fighters, Ryoo didn’t have to deal with the drag that the imperial pilots did. Thus, she was able to out speed them.  But if she’d left Naboo’s protective atmosphere too soon to try to make that jump to Alderaan like they’d originally planned without eluding Imperial forces first, the nine year old would have given up a crucial advantage. 

The other reason was that Ryoo knew Naboo’s swamps as well as her own face.  Anakin’s training, her own Force sensitivity, Naboo’s atmosphere, it was all she had. All Ryoo needed to take down two TIE fighters by herself.  Though Sabé didn’t know if she’d used the N-1’s torpedoes, or taken a sharp turn under the tree canopy that the other pilots were unable to follow in time. 

Sabé shook herself from her thoughts, there was no point in dwelling on the past. Not right now, and she doubted she’d ever find out how Ryoo managed to kill grown men on her own. She didn’t want to re-traumatize the girl. 

Instead, her eyes drifted to the new astromech. 

You’re not Padmé Amidala and can’t tell me what to do.  Sabé thought to herself, she took another drag and closed her eyes for a second leaning her head against the side of the ship. Sabé enjoyed the peace and quiet of the moment; even if the cold was starting to bite through her blanket and the imperial pilot jumpsuit she wore. She then had the thought to use the palm of her hand to beat off some of the snow accumulating on it. 

She had the kyber crystals for Luke and Leia, and bore witness to Ryoo and Pooja constructing their first lightsabers under Anakin’s guidance. Though it had been a little surprising when Pooja’s lightsaber emitted a gentle golden orange glow. Sabé had not expected Pooja to walk the path of a Jedi sentinel. By comparison, no one was surprised when Ryoo’s kyber crystal turned blue like Anakin’s. Or, had it been blue all along and the two girls had merely picked out crystals that already aligned with their nature? Sabé didn’t know, she hadn’t thought to ask Anakin or the other Jedi such questions before the Order fell. Though Sabé had thought it a little odd that Ryoo insisted on the first crystal she found feeling 'different' and giving it to Anakin saying it was for Leia.

After she finished the cigarette Sabé dropped it on the snowy ground beneath her, she didn’t even bother stepping on it to make sure it was out. Instead, she climbed back into the cockpit and closed the canopy. 

A sigh escaped her lips, she hated this waiting. But; it had to happen. They had to make sure that the Assertor was too far away for its long range sensors to pick up her ship before she flew to Master Plo’s coordinates. Otherwise, the “lie” that the Separatist fleet was merely a Force illusion cast by some abyssal predator would evaporate. 

The only problem was that Anakin’s flagship was more advanced than anything that saw active duty during the Clone Wars. She had no idea how long this would take.  Sabé sat in silence, the astromech wasn’t personable enough to even try to make chit-chat. Not, that she really had anything to talk to it about anyway. 

For hours the only sound was the wind outside howling at the ship. The occasional clink when a piece of ice or small pebble carried by the wind hit the ship’s hull.  And then, Sabé’s holo projector started beeping. She accepted the call.

“It’s time.” Darth Vader’s voice rang loud and clear. 

“Understood.” Sabé smiled, the call ended. She brought the N-1 Starfighter out of its slumber and rose to the skies.

Chapter Text

“I believe my presence on Ahch-To may be inadvertently sabotaging attempts at reunification. We have confirmed continuous Jedi activity on the planet, however my search attempts have turned up nothing but fresh camp sites, foot prints and…ghosts as you say.” IG-165 explained, his image flickering in the blue lights of the hologram.

Grievous was there, but silent. Still brooding over what he’d see in the security footage from Saleucami. IG-113 of course was beside him, present and loyal as always. Part of IG-113 thought it was foolish they hadn’t thought of this earlier, but then he reminded himself that he didn’t have a choice. IG-113 needed to send someone he could trust, and could physically go. Master Plo had proven himself trustworthy at the beginning, but with his missing leg suffered from frail health, and the clones’ betrayal of the Jedi meant Wolffe and the others would have been cut down or shot on sight by the surviving Jedi.

He’d made the best of what he’d had, and at least IG-165 had proven the Jedi were still alive.

Plo Koon crossed his arms, leaning forward in his seat, “Go on, you sound like you have an idea.”

“If the Jedi were being sought by one of their own kind, they may actually choose to reveal themselves. My soldiers and I could tactically retreat to better the odds while one of you searches for them.” IG-165 suggested.

“I like that, I’ll go.” Tiplar said, nodding her head.

“Master Tiplar…” Plo Koon’s words trailed off.

“You’re in no condition to go hiking on rough terrain like that, my sister’s still recovering from that Star Weird attack, Master Sinube’s age worries me, and Master Unduli’s mental health raises too many concerns.” Tiplar counted, she glanced over at Missar, who was speaking with a Rodian girl a few years younger than him.

“Missar, Taneetch, would you two accompany me to Ahch-To? I believe this would be a suitable first mission for my new Padawan, and seeing one of her own kind may calm Aisha’s nerves”

At Tiplar’s words, Taneetch’s fingers went to her uncle’s lightsaber, she took it from her belt and ran her fingers over it, being mindful not to touch the ignition switch.

“I think…I think it’s what Uncle Huulik would have wanted, saving Jedi, keeping the peace.”

Missar didn’t reply, first his eyes went to his own master, IG-113. Who gave him his best imitation of nod ‘yes’.

The corners of Missar’s eyes softened behind his mask. “Count me in too.”

“Then it is settled,” Grievous mumbled, stepping forward with his arms behind his back to face IG-165’s hologram.

“You and your droids are to return to the Ruination at once, Tiplar and the two Padawans will take your place.” Grievous’ attention turned to Tiplar, he unclasped his hands from behind his back. His talons lightly rested on her shoulder before going to her chin, tilting the Jedi’s head up to make her look at him. Well, to make was a bold statement as at no point did Tiplar step back, nor make any notion that she was uncomfortable with the cyborg touching her.

“Be careful.” He said before pulling his hand back. Two simple words, but what remained unsaid between them spoke louder.

“I will, we’ll be fine, just keep Master Plo on coms, if they won’t listen to me they’ll listen to him.” Tiplar promised. Then she left with the two Padawans, though Missar lingered in the doorway.

“May the Force be with you Master,” He said bowing to IG-113.

“And you as well,” IG-113 waved goodbye to the three. IG-165’s hologram vanished, and that was when Master Plo’s communicator went off. The Jedi Master accepted the call.

“Is something the matter Commander Wolffe?” Plo inquired, though worry hadn’t quite itched its way onto his brow.

“Dunno yet, there’s a N-1 Starfighter requesting docking permission, what are your orders?” Wolffe asked over the communicator.

“Let them in, I want to hear what this weary traveler has to say.”