Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Kaminoan rain never stopped.
It battered against the durasteel windows, thin fingers of water crawling down the glass like veins. Crane’s reflection stared back at him, sharp-jawed and hollow-eyed, not quite the same as the cadets standing at attention beside him. He was taller by a fraction, broader in the shoulders, his features not a perfect match.

Half-bred. Wrong.

He could feel the trainers’ eyes on him even before they spoke.
“Virellus,” one of them hissed his last name like a curse. “Behind again. You hesitate, you’re dead. Worse—you get your squad killed.”

Crane’s blaster felt heavy in his hands. He had lined the shot perfectly, precise enough to hit a target through smoke, but the commandos weren’t graded on precision. They were graded on speed. On aggression. On whether they could fire before the other man even thought about aiming.

He couldn’t. His mind calculated too much, too slow.

The others stormed through the obstacle course, grenades set, rifles blazing. Crane lagged behind, steady, deliberate. He hit every target, but three beats late. By then his squad was “dead.”

The Kaminoan trainers made notes on their slates, their long faces unreadable. The word liability echoed in his ears.

Later, in the barracks, whispers followed him. Not clone enough. Not commando enough. Just wrong.

But it wasn’t the whispers that cut. It was the memory of his father—the clone who had handed him off to the Grand Army as if he were a piece of equipment, not a son. The man hadn’t said a word, not even goodbye. Just turned and walked back into the ranks.

Crane had never forgotten the way his boots sounded against the durasteel floor.
Cold. Final.

So Crane learned to stay quiet. To be colder still.

If he couldn’t be the soldier they wanted, he’d find another way.

Chapter Text

“Dead weight,” one of the cadets muttered when Crane dropped onto the mat, the last to clear the course.
“More like half-dead,” another snickered. “Maybe his defective genes slow him down.”

Crane ignored them. He always ignored them. Words couldn’t bruise as deep as the truth already did

But the instructors didn’t ignore it.
“You hesitate, you pay.”

Punishment was swift. Endless pushups in the rain, blaster drills until his arms shook, laps until his lungs burned. Every mistake meant more. For Crane, there were always mistakes.

He counted each breath like a number on a slate, crisp and detached. One. Two. Three. He refused to cry out. Pain was only another lesson, another test.

When the cadets were dismissed, he was ordered to stay. Alone. Standing before the Kaminoans, water dripping off his cropped black hair.

“You are imprecise for commando work,” the tall one intoned.
“You are slow,” another added. “Hesitant. Unsuitable.”

Crane’s fists curled tight, nails biting his palms. He wanted to shout that he wasn’t unsuitable, he was different. But shouting would mean weakness. So he stayed silent.

Inside, though, his thoughts seethed.
Slow? Precision isn’t slow. Hesitant? No—I think. Thinking saves lives.

But they didn’t want thinkers. They wanted weapons.

When they turned away, he caught his reflection again in the polished floor. The same dark hair, the same sharp cheekbones as every brother around him—yet not the same. Never the same.

A liability. A failure.
And yet, as his muscles ached and his breath came ragged, Crane swore he would not be discarded. Not like this.

If the Republic couldn’t use him as a weapon, he would find another way to matter.

Chapter Text

The reassignment came without ceremony.

Two days after his last failure on the range, Crane was summoned into one of the Kaminoans’ sterile briefing rooms. The walls were white, seamless, suffocating. A data-slate waited on the table, glowing faintly blue.

He didn’t sit. Soldiers didn’t sit unless ordered.

The Prime Instructor didn’t look at him when it spoke. “ Virellus. You are reassigned.”

The word clanged in his head like durasteel.

“Reassigned?” His voice was flat, but it burned in his chest.

“You are inadequate for commando duty. Hesitant. Inefficient. Your combat reflexes are deficient.” The Kaminoan’s eyes, lidless and cold, blinked down at the slate. “However… your precision and observational retention are high. Uncommon. Your vitals during strain indicate unusual cognitive stamina. These are better suited for medical application.”

Crane’s jaw clenched. “A medic.”

The other Kaminoan inclined its head. “Correct. Effective immediately, you will begin GAR medical training.”

The words rang like a sentence, not an assignment.

A medic. A backliner. Someone who picked up the broken pieces of real soldiers. He had bled, run, and broken himself for months to wear commando armor—and now? A downgrade. An insult.

His mind screamed with the injustice, but his mouth stayed still. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

The Kaminoan glanced at him. “Do you understand your orders, cadet?”

Crane forced the words out, clipped and sharp.
“Yes, instructor.”

But inside, rage boiled. I am not a liability. I am not weak. If they think I will fade into the background—good. I’ll prove them wrong from the shadows.

When the door slid open, he didn’t look back.

The whispers began the moment he entered the barracks again.
“Not cut out for the fight.”
“Now he’s a nursemaid.”
“Better hope he’s the one patching you up, or you’re already dead.”

Crane ignored them. He set his jaw, stripped off his commando trainee gear, and folded it with mechanical precision. Every motion was a promise to himself.

Fine. If they wanted him to stitch flesh instead of tear it, he would. He would master it. Perfect it. Become so good they couldn’t ignore him.

***

The barracks were quiet when Crane slipped back in. Most of the cadets were still at drills, their bunks neat and untouched.

His wasn’t.

The folded commando trainee gear sat at the foot of his bed like a mockery. The black-and-grey armor plates he’d trained in, the rifle he’d field-stripped a hundred times, the gear he had thought would be his future.

His hands shook as he stared at it. The room was too white, too clean, too silent except for the storm outside.

A medic.

His breath came ragged, faster and faster until it wasn’t breath at all—it was a snarl. He grabbed the chest plate and hurled it across the room. The plastoid cracked against the wall and clattered to the floor.

The rifle went next. Then the helmet. A datapad. Anything within reach.

The silence shattered with each impact, but nothing filled the hollow inside him.

They think I’m useless. They think I can’t fight. They think I’m not enough.

Crane pressed his palms into the edge of his bunk, his shoulders heaving. The anger burned hot, but beneath it, something colder coiled in his chest. A memory.

He’d been abandoned once. He would not be abandoned again.

Slowly, Crane forced himself upright. His reflection in the narrow metal locker showed a face twisted in rage, dark eyes hollow, jaw tight. Not clone enough. Not human enough.

Fine.

He dragged the broken chest plate back from the floor and set it carefully on his bunk. Precision in the motion. Control where he had none.

If he couldn’t be the weapon they wanted, he’d become something sharper. Something that cut deeper, lasted longer.

And one day, they would regret underestimating him.

Chapter Text

The medical training halls smelled different from the ranges.
Not of ozone and cordite, but of antiseptic and cold metal. The white Kaminoan lights made the place feel sterile, lifeless.

Crane walked in stiffly, jaw set, his anger coiled tight in his chest. This wasn’t his place. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be storming through obstacle courses, not standing in a line of cadets waiting to learn how to patch a wound.

“Eyes front.”

The voice snapped like a whip. Crane’s gaze lifted.

The instructor wasn’t Kaminoan. He was clone. Older, his hair clipped shorter than regulation, face marked with a burn scar running down his left temple. His armor bore red markings and a medic’s crest.

“Name’s Chief Medic Ardan Veyra,” he said, pacing before them. His voice carried no hesitation, no doubt. “You’re here because you’ve been assigned, and I don’t give a d@mn whether you wanted it or not. Out there—” he jabbed a finger toward the rain-slick windows “—you keep men alive, or they die screaming. That’s the only choice that matters.”

The cadets murmured. Crane stood rigid, cold fury simmering.

Ardan’s eyes landed on him for just a beat too long, sharp and knowing. Then he barked, “Tables. Now. We start with triage.”

The first lesson was pressure wounds. Artificial limbs lay across the tables, pulsing faintly with simulated arteries. The cadets fumbled with clamps and bandages, muttering under their breath. Crane stared at the mock limb.

His hands moved before he realized. Fingers found the artery, pressed exactly where the pressure would be most effective. He wrapped the bandage with mechanical precision. Tight. Clean. Exact.

Across the row, another cadet’s bandage slipped loose. The simulator bled red fluid across the table. The cadet cursed.

“Sloppy!” Ardan barked, swooping down on him. “That man just died because you couldn’t be bothered to think faster than your hands!”

Crane’s jaw twitched. Faster than your hands. That was what had gotten him reassigned.

Ardan turned next to Crane. His sharp eyes swept over the neat work. He didn’t smile, didn’t soften, but he gave a single nod.
“Better. Tighten your knot next time, Virellus, or he’ll bleed out in twenty.”

Crane swallowed. It wasn’t praise. But it wasn’t dismissal either.

As the drills went on, his fury dulled into something else. Not pride—not yet. But the rhythm of his work was steady, exact. His fingers never slipped. Where others fumbled, he focused.

And for the first time since the downgrade, he realized: this was a place he could excel.

Not because it was easy.
Because it demanded precision.
Because lives depended on it.

And Crane was nothing if not precise.

Chapter Text

The first week bled into the second.

Crane showed up to every drill seething, jaw locked, eyes hard. He told himself he didn’t care, that he was just following orders. But every time the simulators flared red around another cadet’s fumbling hands, his work stayed clean. Exact. Unflinching.

He hated it.
Hated how natural it felt.
Hated that he couldn’t fail at this the way he had with the commandos.

By the end of a long session on field dressings, the others filed out in clusters, muttering about how exhausting it was. Crane stayed behind, scrubbing blood substitute from his hands until the skin reddened.

“You don’t blink when the fluid sprays.”

The voice came from behind him. Crane didn’t turn.
“Maybe I’m defective,” he muttered, bitter.

Ardan’s boots thudded closer. “Defective? No. Efficient.”

Crane’s reflection glared back at him from the steel sink. “I didn’t ask to be efficient. I was meant to fight, not play nursemaid.”

There was a pause. Then a low, dry laugh.
“You think surgeons aren’t fighters?”

Crane turned at that, eyes narrowed. Ardan leaned against the doorway, scar catching the sterile light. His expression wasn’t mocking. It was… sharper. Assessing.

“You’ve got instincts most don’t,” Ardan said, voice even. “You don’t panic. You see where the blood is coming from before anyone else even realizes a man’s hit. That’s not hesitation, cadet. That’s focus. A surgeon’s focus.”

Crane’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“No one does,” Ardan shot back, voice firm but not unkind. “We don’t choose what we’re built for. We choose what we do with it.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the rain hammering against the Kaminoan glass. Crane’s hands flexed, itching for something to throw, to break.

Instead, he grabbed his training kit and slung it over his shoulder, brushing past Ardan. “I’ll do my job. Don’t expect me to like it.”

Ardan let him go, but his voice followed, steady and certain:
“Don’t worry, Virellus . You don’t have to like it. You just have to be the best at it. And you will be.”

Crane didn’t answer. He wouldn’t give Ardan the satisfaction. But as he stomped back to the barracks, the words burrowed deeper than he wanted to admit.

Chapter Text

Crane was the last one in the med hall again. Not because he lingered—he never lingered—but because Ardan had kept him back.

The older medic tossed a trauma kit onto the table with a clang. “Open it.”

Crane scowled but obeyed. Gauze, clamps, synthflesh patches, bacta injectors. Standard issue.

“Good. Now save him.”

Crane froze. On the gurney beside him lay a clone dummy, chest rising and falling shallowly, red fluid pumping out of a simulated gut wound. The bio-readout above it blinked critical.

Crane’s fists curled. “This isn’t part of the curriculum today.”

Ardan folded his arms. “Neither is war. Move.”

For a moment, Crane wanted to walk out, to leave the dummy bleeding. But something in him wouldn’t. His jaw tightened. He tore into the kit, hands moving fast.

Clamp the artery. Pressure. Sealant patch. Injector—no, not yet. He needed to stabilize first.

The red spray slowed under his hands. His breathing stayed even, his motions sharp.

When the monitor’s beeping steadied, Ardan spoke. “Four minutes. Fast. Not fast enough in the field.”

Crane snapped his head up, eyes flashing. “He’s alive, isn’t he?”

Ardan stepped forward, voice low. “And what if he wasn’t? What if you hesitated just long enough for his brothers to die trying to pull him out? You think your rage makes you stronger? It doesn’t. It makes you sloppy. And sloppy gets men killed.”

Crane’s hands trembled against the edge of the table. Rage boiled in his chest, the same as when he’d thrown his commando armor across the barracks. The urge to fight, to lash out, burned hot—

—but then his eyes dropped to the dummy, its synthetic chest still rising and falling, alive because of him.

Not rage. Not fighting. Focus.

Ardan must’ve seen the shift, because his voice softened—just barely.
“You’ve got surgeon’s hands, Virellus. Cold. Steady. Don’t waste them on tantrums.”

Crane’s jaw worked. He wanted to snarl, to spit back that he wasn’t a surgeon, he was a soldier. But the words died in his throat. Because deep down, he knew Ardan was right.

⸻

Two weeks later, the battlefield simulation proved it.

The cadets were herded into the training dome, the lights dimmed to mimic a warzone. Explosions thundered across the holographic landscape, droids swarming the field. Each cadet was given a patient—a clone trooper dummy with randomized injuries—and ordered to keep him alive under fire.

The first blast rattled the ground. One cadet dropped his kit in panic. Another fumbled with a bandage, his hands shaking. The beeping of failing vitals filled the dome like a dirge.

Crane knelt beside his patient. The chest wound was severe, pumping red fluid across his gloves. He tuned out the noise, the panic, the shouts. His hands moved in clean sequence. Clamp. Patch. Injector.

Blaster fire shrieked overhead. Someone cried out as their dummy flatlined. Another cadet shouted he couldn’t see through the smoke.

Crane didn’t look up. He never looked up. He listened to the beeps, the breath, the rhythm of life under his hands.

“ Virellus,” Ardan’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp but steady. “Status.”

Crane tied off the bandage with a swift knot. The monitor steadied. He finally glanced up, eyes hard.
“Stable.”

Around him, half the cadets’ patients were “dead.” The rest clung to fading vitals. Crane’s was the only one showing recovery.

The dome went silent as the sim ended. The smoke cleared. Ardan’s gaze found him through the haze.

“Efficient,” the chief medic said. The barest flicker of approval in his scarred face. “Cold under fire. Just like I said.”

Crane stood slowly, wiping blood substitute from his gloves. The other cadets stared at him, some with awe, others with resentment. Crane didn’t care.

Because for the first time since his reassignment, he felt it—
Not pride.
Not joy.
But purpose.

Fractured, maybe. Not the purpose he had wanted.
But purpose all the same.

Chapter Text

The mess hall was always too loud. Voices overlapping, boots scraping, laughter spilling too easily between tables. Crane hated it. He preferred the clean silence of the infirmary halls, the order of drills, the hush of a simulation where panic made others loud but him—always him—cold and still.

He sat alone. As always. His tray was lined with precision: protein slab, steamed greens, two ration biscuits. Nothing else. No extra starch. No waste. Every bite calculated. Sustenance, not indulgence. Fuel, not comfort.

He’d barely taken a mouthful before the tray across from him clattered. Someone sat.

Crane’s jaw tightened.

The clone medic cadet was young. Fresh-faced, wide-eyed—he hadn’t been ground down yet. dyed Blonde hair cropped too short, fake painted freckles like scattered stardust across his nose and Crane wondered how this kid didn’t get yelled at for breaking protocol. His grin came easy, like it had never been beaten out of him.

“Mind if I sit?” the boy asked, already sitting.

Crane glared at him over the edge of his tray. “You already did.”

The boy didn’t flinch. “Name’s Sol.” He stabbed at his ration cube. “You’re Crane, right? The one Ardan keeps talking about.”

Crane’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t give him permission to.”

Sol just laughed—an unbothered sound, too bright for this place. “Guess he doesn’t need it. Says you’ve got surgeon’s hands. Guess that’s a compliment, yeah?”

Crane ignored him, slicing neatly into the protein slab. He measured each bite against the greens—perfect balance. Nutrients precise.

Sol leaned over, peering at Crane’s plate. “What’re you doing with your food?”

Crane set his fork down. Slowly. “Eating it.”

“Yeah, but—it’s like, a pattern. Greens, protein, biscuit. Same size bites. That’s… weird, right?” Sol tilted his head, genuinely curious. “You counting calories or something?”

Crane’s stare was flinty. “I eat what I need. No more. No less.”

Sol blinked, then smiled again. “Efficient.” He took a huge, sloppy mouthful of everything on his plate at once, chewing loudly. “Not my style, but hey. You do you.”

Crane’s lip curled.

They ate in silence for a stretch. Sol hummed under his breath, drumming his fingers on the table. It was maddening. Finally, Sol broke it.

“Y’ever met a Jedi?”

Crane’s eyes snapped up, cold and sharp. “No.”

“I want to,” Sol said, voice dreamy. “I hear they’re incredible. Lightsabers that can cut through anything, powers that—Force stuff, y’know. Healing, visions, moving things with their minds.” His grin widened. “Imagine working alongside one. The stories we’d have.”

Crane’s jaw clenched. “Jedi don’t impress me.”

Sol blinked. “Really?”

“They throw lives away,” Crane said flatly. “Clones. Soldiers. Doesn’t matter how many medics patch up the pieces. They order men to die for their war and call it service.”

Sol frowned, but not angry—more… thoughtful. “Maybe. But some of them fight to save lives too. I bet not all Jedi are the same.”

Crane leaned back, eyes cold steel. “Doesn’t matter. None of them bleed like we do.”

For a moment, silence stretched. Sol studied him, head tilted, lips pressed together. Then, softly, he said:

“You sound like someone who’s bled a lot.”

Crane’s hands stilled over his fork. His stomach tightened, heat flashing like a blade across his scarred memory. Fists. Boots. The commando instructors barking failure. The sneers of cadets who laughed when he missed a shot. The word downgrade.

His chest ached.

He forced his jaw to unclench. Picked up his fork again. Ate in silence.

Sol, mercifully, didn’t press. He only grinned again, a little softer this time, and said, “Guess I’ll just have to stick around until I see what you do care about.”

Crane almost told him to leave. Almost. But when Sol stayed, Crane didn’t push him away.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The weeks bled into each other. Training, drills, simulations, repeat.

Crane barely noticed the passing of time, only the relentless cycle of orders and responses, every day carved into his mind like another tally mark on a wall. He kept to himself, sharp and unsmiling, always at the edge of groups, always watching.

And yet—Sol stayed.

The boy had this irritating habit of slipping into Crane’s orbit: sitting across from him in the mess hall, walking beside him in corridors, catching him outside the med bay before lights out. Sol had a way of talking like the universe wasn’t on fire, like the war wasn’t real.

“But like You ever wonder what it’d be like to meet a Jedi?” Sol asked one night, fork dangling between his fingers as if he’d forgotten food even existed. “Like…actually sit with one. Ask them questions. They’re supposed to be wise, right? Guardians of peace, and all that.”

Crane stabbed another precise bite of protein into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. His voice was flat.
“Never cared to.”

Sol tilted his head. “You don’t believe the stories?”

“I don’t believe anyone’s that good.”

The boy smiled, but softer this time, less teasing. “Maybe not. But I’d like to see for myself.”

Crane didn’t respond. He just measured out the next portion of carbs from his tray with the same practiced motion. Exact grams. Exact intake. His control.

What he didn’t expect was for Sol to keep pushing.

They were paired more and more in drills—deliberately, Crane suspected. The instructors seemed to enjoy contrasting Crane’s cold precision with Sol’s easy adaptability. Where Crane planned every motion, Sol improvised. Where Crane clipped his voice into orders, Sol encouraged, coaxed calm into panicked cadets.

And maddeningly—it worked.

Their names started getting paired on the roster. Crane and Sol. Sol and Crane.

One simulation in particular stuck. The room was chaos—alarms blaring, holograms of troopers screaming, smoke filling the chamber. Cadets scattered, some freezing, others fumbling over each other.

Crane moved like a machine: triage, pressure, tourniquet, next. His movements carved sharp lines into the chaos. His breathing stayed even, his hands never shaking.

And then—Sol’s voice, right behind him.

“Got you covered, Crane. I’ll keep them steady—just focus.”

The boy pressed down on a hologram patient’s wound, eyes locking onto Crane’s as if tethering him. Calm. Steady. His warmth cut through the metallic cold of the sim.

Crane didn’t thank him. Didn’t even look at him for long. But when the sim ended and the instructors muttered their usual notes—Crane heard it.

“You two function like one unit.”

Later, in the mess hall, Sol leaned back with his tray and grinned at him.
“Guess you’re stuck with me.”

Crane didn’t answer. But he didn’t tell him to leave, either.

For the first time, his table wasn’t empty.
***
The days blurred into months.
Blood tests, emergency sims, triage drills. The sterile smell of antiseptics and ozone. Crane kept winning. He kept topping every scoreboard, every mock battle scenario, every surgical competition. He worked until his hands shook from overexertion and his instructors quietly muttered about him being “engineered for this.”

Sol was there through it all.
Always on his left flank, quiet when Crane needed silence, chattering when the silence became unbearable. He never flinched from Crane’s sharp answers or his clipped tone. If Crane shoved him away, Sol waited. If Crane snapped at him, Sol only tilted his head with a small smile like he’d seen right through the armor.

One evening after a grueling resus drill, Sol dropped onto the bench beside him in the mess hall, tray rattling.
Crane didn’t bother looking up.

“You ever think about who you’ll serve under?” Sol asked, blowing on his steaming rations.

“No,” Crane muttered. He measured his own portions with exact precision, scraping protein onto one side of the plate, greens on the other. Calculating vitamins in his head. Survival required efficiency.

Sol chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course you don’t. You’re always numbers, always calculation.” He leaned in. “But I think about it. Jedi, I mean. What kind I’ll end up with. The stories say they’re all different. Some are cold. Some are funny. Some are…” He shrugged, eyes glinting. “Legendary.”

Crane finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “They’re liabilities.”

Sol blinked, surprised. “Liabilities?”

“Too much myth. Too much focus. They make the enemy want to kill them. And they take us with them when they fall.” Crane stabbed a piece of vegetable with his fork. “A soldier doesn’t need a mystic with a glowstick to tell him where to go.”

For once, Sol didn’t smile. He tilted his head, studying Crane. “You really believe that?”

“I don’t believe in anything.”

There was a pause. Sol leaned back, softer now. “Maybe you just don’t want to.”

Crane didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because something in Sol’s tone cracked through that shield, and he hated it.

Later that week, their unit was pulled aside. The announcement echoed in the training hall: Graduation. Deployment assignments.

Crane didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He’d been ready for this from the start. Precision and skill, honed into a scalpel. He’d carry it into battle and make it cut.

But Sol was practically buzzing beside him, hands flexing nervously. “Can you believe it?” he whispered, low but full of awe. “We’ll be out there. Real battlefields. Real Jedi. Maybe… maybe I’ll even meet a Padawan. They say some fight alongside clones.”

Crane looked at him then. Really looked. Sol’s wide-eyed hope. The light in his face. It was so far removed from Crane’s own hollowed focus it almost felt like mockery. And yet—something in him tightened. A thread, stretched taut between them.

He didn’t know it then, but this was the beginning.
The moment Sol’s path would brush against his.

And Crane, for all his precision, all his calculation, had no way to prepare for it.

Chapter Text

The Kaminoan night was thick with rain, drumming against the barracks like a war chant. Crane sat at his desk under the cold glow of a datapad, eyes tracing down the dense columns of text with mechanical precision. His lips moved silently as he recited each medical term, each surgical step, each drug dosage. He had memorized nearly the entire medical codex—a book so long most cadets gave up after a few pages.

His fingers tapped restlessly on the edge of the desk. He couldn’t sleep. He never slept much anymore. Sleep was weakness. Sleep was time wasted. He wanted—needed—to be the best.

And Ardan knew it.

Chief Medic Ardan Veyra always called on Crane first. Always gave him the toughest scenarios, the hardest questions. And every time, Crane answered without hesitation. Every time, he excelled.

But the others noticed. They always noticed.

When training ended that night, the others shuffled toward their bunks in groups, muttering under their breath. Crane walked alone, datapad tucked under his arm, posture rigid. He heard the whispers—
“Ardan’s pet.”
“Think he’s better than us.”
“Doesn’t even act like a brother. Just a machine.”

He ignored them. He always ignored them.

But the moment he stepped into the dim barracks hall, three figures blocked his way.

“Hey, top cadet,” one sneered, voice sharp with venom. “What’s it like, having Veyra spoon-feed you all the praise?”

Crane’s jaw tightened. “Move.”

The second clone shoved his shoulder, hard. “Nah. You don’t get to walk around like you’re better than us.”

The third chimed in with a mocking smirk. “What are you gonna do? Quote the medical book at us?”

A beat of silence.

Then the first slammed Crane back against the wall.

It wasn’t a fair fight. Three against one. Fists thudded into his ribs, his gut. One cracked across his jaw. He gritted his teeth, refused to give them the satisfaction of a grunt.

But Crane wasn’t helpless. He’d studied anatomy too well—he knew exactly where to hit. His elbow drove into one cadet’s solar plexus, dropping him wheezing to the floor. He twisted and drove a knee into another’s femoral nerve, sending pain shooting up his leg.

Still, the last one caught him across the face, splitting his lip. Blood dripped down his chin.

“Stop it!”

The voice was Sol’s. The younger medic cadet rushed in, shoving between them. “What are you doing? We’re brothers, not—”

But the others backed off with snarls, one of them dragging the winded cadet to his feet. “Keep your pet medic on a leash, Sol. Before someone finishes the job.”

They left.

The silence after was sharp. Crane leaned back against the wall, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. His expression didn’t crack—just cold, hard fury simmering under the surface.

“You okay?” Sol asked carefully.

Crane’s dark eyes flicked to him, unreadable. “I don’t need you.”

“Maybe not,” Sol said softly. “But I’m not letting you fight alone either.”

For the first time, Crane didn’t snap back. He just stared, breathing hard, before pushing past Sol into the barracks. His datapad was still in his hand, still clutched like a weapon.

He had memorized every page, every word. But tonight, it felt heavier than ever.

Chapter Text

The training hall smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron. Crane sat stiff in the medbay chair, a line of blood trickling from his lip, a bruise already blossoming over his jaw. His knuckles were raw, his uniform torn at the collar.

Across from him, Ardan stood with his arms folded, expression carved in stone.

“Do you want to explain,” the Chief medic asked, voice quiet, “why three cadets are nursing broken noses while you’re sitting here pretending you don’t bleed?”

Crane’s jaw clenched. He looked away, eyes burning with that same volcanic fury that had chased him from commando training. “They started it.”

“I’m sure they did.” Ardan’s tone was flat. “But you finished it.”

Crane didn’t answer. His hands curled tight on his knees.

Ardan stepped closer, crouching so he could catch Crane’s gaze. “You’re not stupid, Crane. You know I don’t care about the brawl itself. What I care about is why you’re doing this. Why you still fight like it’s the only thing you’re good for.”

Something in Crane’s chest twisted. His throat burned. “Because that’s what I was made for,” he spat. “To fight. To kill. Not—” He jabbed a finger at the shelves of medical texts behind them. “Not this. Not babysitting soldiers who are too weak to stay standing.”

The words rang hot, bitter. His scarred face hardened like a wall.

Ardan’s eyes narrowed. “So all this—your instincts, your memory, your precision—what? That’s worthless because it doesn’t match the fantasy you had in your head?”

Crane shot to his feet, trembling with restrained rage. “I don’t trust anyone. I don’t need anyone. Every time—every time I even think about it—” His voice cracked and he forced it lower, venomous. “—it gets torn away. That’s what I’ve learned.”

Ardan studied him for one long moment. Then, before Crane could blink, his hand cracked sharply across Crane’s face.

The sound echoed through the medbay.

Crane staggered a half-step, shock flashing white behind his eyes. His hand went to his stinging cheek, jaw tightening, but for once he didn’t speak.

“Good,” Ardan said, voice like steel. “Now you’re listening.” He grabbed Crane by the collar and forced his glare to meet his own. “You’re not a failure. You’re not broken. You’ve got more control in your hands than any cadet I’ve ever trained. But if you keep hiding behind anger, you will lose it all. You hear me? Every gift you’ve been given—wasted. Every life you could save—gone.”

Crane’s breathing was sharp, ragged. The rage was still there, but now it was tangled with something heavier—something that hurt in a way fists couldn’t fix.

Ardan’s hand loosened on his collar. His tone dropped, almost quiet. “The war’s coming. You’ll be out there soon. Decide now if you want to save lives… or just be another body on the pile.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Crane swallowed hard, his chest heaving. He wanted to snarl, to argue, but the words wouldn’t come.

For the first time, he didn’t know if Ardan was wrong.

Chapter Text

The barracks were quieter at night. Rows of bunks lined in strict symmetry, sterile light humming above, the air thick with the faint tang of disinfectant. Most cadets collapsed after long training hours, exhausted enough to sleep through the hum of ventilation. But not Crane.

He sat upright on his cot, back rigid, eyes fixed on the datapad in his hands. The medical manual glowed blue against the sharp planes of his face, his lips murmuring silent terms: hemorrhagic shock, pneumothorax, peritoneal rupture. He knew them all by heart now. Every entry. Every symptom. Every cure.

And yet… he kept rereading, as if missing even one word might kill him.

A shadow slid onto the cot across from him. Sol. Always Sol. His voice soft but carrying enough warmth to push into Crane’s cold bubble.
“You’re going to burn out your retinas if you keep that thing on all night.”

Crane didn’t look up. “I’ll be fine.”

Sol leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His blond hair caught the light, softer than any of the others’, and his expression had that constant mix of gentle humor and worry.
“You’ve got it memorized. Don’t even try denying it — you rattle off med terms like you were born with them.”

Crane finally flicked his gaze up, flat and sharp. “Then why waste time on sleep when I can reinforce it? One slip on the field and a trooper’s dead. I’m not going to be the reason someone dies.”

Sol exhaled through his nose, half-smiling. “That’s the difference between you and everyone else. You’re afraid of mistakes. The rest of us… we accept we’re going to make them.”

Crane’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to talk about fear. He didn’t want to admit Ardan’s words still echoed in his head, the slap a phantom heat on his cheek. You don’t trust anyone.

Sol must have noticed his silence. He tilted his head.
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you? Chief Veyra.”

Crane’s throat tightened. “He’s wrong.”

“About you not trusting anyone?”

Crane shot him a look sharp enough to cut durasteel. “Drop it, Sol.”

But Sol didn’t. He never did.
“Maybe he’s not wrong. Brother, You’ve got these walls built so high no one can reach you. Except—” He stopped himself, biting back the words.

Crane’s eyes narrowed. “Except what?”

Sol leaned back, smile gentler now. “Except maybe me.”

The words sat between them like a live wire. Crane said nothing. Didn’t know what to say. His instinct was to scoff, to cut, to drive Sol away before he got too close. But instead, he only shut off the datapad and lay back, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t admit Sol was right. But he didn’t deny it either.

⸻

The Final Trial

Morning came fast. The cadets stood lined in the training wing, armor crisp, packs strapped. Ardan’s voice cut through the silence like a vibroblade.

“This is your final trial. A battlefield sim. You will treat, stabilize, and evacuate under fire. No excuses. No failures.”

The lights shifted, alarms blared, and the chamber became chaos. Explosions shook the walls, troopers fell screaming with staged wounds — arterial bleeds, collapsed lungs, burns across armor plates.

Cadets scrambled. Some panicked, fumbling with tourniquets, forgetting protocols. Sol darted to one patient, hands shaking as he pressed a clotting pack, whispering reassurances to a clone writhing in pain.

Crane… moved like the storm had bent around him. Precise. Sharp. Calculated.
He snapped orders at the others without hesitation. “You — hold pressure there. No, not like that, like this. Clamp it. You—stabilize the airway. Sol, he’s going into shock, keep his vitals steady.”

His voice carried authority he didn’t even mean to project. Every motion was surgical. Every choice immediate.

A cadet froze when the sim’s soundscape ramped — blasterfire raining heavy. Crane didn’t hesitate; he shoved the boy aside and went in himself, dragging the “wounded” clone behind cover, sealing a chest wound with steady hands.

When the alarms finally cut, silence rang deafening.

Ardan stood with arms crossed, unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“You kept your head while the rest of them drowned in theirs. That’s what makes a medic worth a kriff.”

Crane’s chest rose and fell heavy. Sweat lined his brow, but his eyes were steady, colder and sharper than ever. He should have felt proud. Victorious. But all he felt was the echo of Ardan’s words the night before.

You don’t trust anyone.

Yet when Sol walked past, placing a hand on his shoulder, giving him the smallest grin of pride—Crane didn’t pull away. He didn’t trust easily. But maybe… just maybe… he trusted that one.

Chapter Text

The cadet barracks were unusually quiet that morning. No one cracked jokes, no one shoved each other in line. The weight of the day pressed down like the Kaminoan rain that never stopped.

Graduation. Deployment.

Crane stood in his blacks, polished boots reflecting the sterile light, medals pinned across his chest. He had more than most — commendations for precision, discipline, memorization, and the trial in which he’d kept a dozen clones “alive” while the others had lost theirs. Chief Medic Ardan Veyra lingered at the edge of the platform, watching with folded arms.

The Kaminoan instructor droned through the ceremonial words, voice flat as a monitor readout. Service. Obedience. The Republic’s will.

Names were called. Medics stepped forward. Cheers followed, half-hearted or too stiff to be genuine.

And then —
“Cadet CT-7079. Crane.”

Crane marched, jaw tight, steps measured. The hall was silent until the medals were set on his chest, marking him as top of his class. The Kaminoans had never applauded, but the cadets did — even the ones who hated him. His superiority was undeniable.

He didn’t smile. Not even a flicker.

But from the back, he caught sight of Sol’s grin — wide, unashamed, all teeth and light. When Crane returned to his place in line, Sol nudged him, whispering,
“Top of the class, huh? Not bad for someone who eats like a droid.”

Crane shot him a sidelong glare, but Sol only laughed.

⸻

Later, after the ceremony, the two sat on their bunks while the others drank and shouted in the mess hall. Sol had refused to let Crane retreat alone.

“You ever think about who we’ll serve under?” Sol asked, fiddling with his medical kit. “Could be anyone. A senator. A general. A Jedi.” His eyes lit up at the word. “I’d like that. To learn from one.”

Crane scoffed. “They’re just people with sabers and power. Not worth worshipping.”

Sol shrugged, still smiling. “Maybe. But I think… some of them might be good. I want to meet one that proves it.” He leaned back on his bunk, dreamy-eyed. “Maybe even a Padawan. Someone young. Like us.”

Crane didn’t answer.

They sat in the low hum of the barracks, silence between them for a while.

Then Sol glanced over, softer now. “You know… whatever happens out there, Crane… I’m glad I had you here. Even if you scowl more than you smile.”

Crane blinked, staring at the ceiling, heart beating harder than he wanted to admit. He’d resisted bonds, resisted friendship, resisted everything that softened the edge of his anger. But now, on the cusp of leaving, the truth clawed up his throat.

He turned his head, met Sol’s gaze.
“You’re a fool,” he muttered, voice low.
Sol chuckled. “Maybe.”

A long pause.

Then Crane’s lips parted, the word tasting strange and heavy in his mouth, but right.
“…Brother.”

Sol froze, grin faltering, eyes wide with something raw. Then it returned, softer this time. Warm. Proud.

“Brother,” he echoed.

The word hung in the air between them like a vow.

And for the first time in his life, Crane felt like it might mean something.

***

The morning air in Tipoca City felt colder than usual. Not that Crane ever noticed weather much, but today the Kaminoan rain seemed heavier, the skies darker. Maybe it was just the weight in his chest.

The gunships waited like open maws in the docking bay, engines whining, ready to scatter medics across the galaxy. Crane’s armor was fresh white, sterile, new—yet it felt heavier than the weight of his kitbag. His designation was freshly etched on the pauldron. CT-7079. Crane.

Sol jogged beside him, bright-eyed as always, a grin spreading across his face even as the storm drenched them both. “Can you believe it?” he said, nudging Crane. “We’re in it now. The real thing. Jedi, troopers, battles—everything we trained for.”

Crane just grunted, his jaw set. He hated the optimism. Hated how Sol could smile like this was some adventure.

They reached the split in the line—different boarding ramps, different battalions. A Kaminoan overseer clicked instructions with that clinical indifference, gesturing.

“ CT-7079. 501st Legion, frontline deployments. Boarding bay three.”

Crane didn’t react outwardly, but his gut tightened. The 501st. That was a name that already carried weight, even on Kamino.

“CT-2714,” the overseer continued. “327th Star Corps. Jedi General Secura, Padawan Skywalker-Lars”

Crane finally looked up at Sol. “Star Corps.”

Sol’s grin widened. “Secura? She’s supposed to be incredible. And a Padawan too? Can you imagine what they’ll be like?”

Crane scowled. “Don’t waste your time. Jedi don’t care about us. Not really.”

Sol tilted his head, still smiling, but softer now. “Maybe not all of them. Some might surprise you.”

The loading sirens wailed, troopers shouting boarding orders. The lines were breaking apart. Sol grabbed Crane’s arm for just a second, rain dripping from his chin as he said, “See you out there, brother.”

Crane stiffened, then—reluctantly—nodded. “…Brother.”

It was the only word he could manage, but it lingered heavy between them, like a vow.

Then they were pulled apart—Crane climbing into the gunship with the 501st, Sol vanishing into the line for the 327th.

The gunship doors slammed shut. Engines roared. And just like that, Sol was gone—off to Secura’s battalion, to serve under the calm powerful eyes of Aayla Secura and her young Padawan apprentice.

Crane sat in silence, helmet in his lap, staring at the durasteel floor. For the first time, he wondered if he’d ever see Sol again.

Chapter Text

Sol POV

The gunship doors opened to a sunlit world, heat pressing down like a weight compared to the sterile chill of Kamino. The smell of dust and blaster discharge hit Sol instantly. It was nothing like the training sims—it was alive.

The 327th Star Corps marched with a rhythm all their own, golden paint on their armor glinting under twin suns. And at the center, standing with calm authority, was her.

Aayla Secura.

Her blue skin caught the light, lekku draped gracefully over her shoulders, eyes sharp and serene. She radiated a steady confidence, the kind that drew others toward her without words. The clones straightened under her gaze. Even Sol felt it.

But it wasn’t Aayla who stopped him in his tracks.

It was the figure at her side.

A young woman, cloak shifting in the breeze, light brown hair tied back in a loose braid, gray-blue eyes scanning the field with a sharpness that didn’t quite match her age. She was smaller than Secura, still growing into her frame, but there was a fire in her gaze, quicksilver intelligence beneath the weight of discipline.

Her saber hilt gleamed at her belt.

The Padawan.

“Commander Jules Lars-Skywalker,” a trooper murmured nearby, pride in his voice.

Sol’s chest caught. Skywalker.

Jedi were supposed to be legends, distant and untouchable. But she looked… real. Not untouchable at all. Just a girl about his age, standing where she didn’t flinch at war. Something inside him stirred—a thread, faint but undeniable, weaving itself into place.

“Troopers!” Aayla’s voice rang out. “Form ranks. This campaign will be swift. We strike to protect, not destroy. Remember that.”

Jules didn’t speak, but her eyes passed over the new medics. Sharp. Curious. For a fraction of a second, they locked on Sol.

And Sol, despite himself, smiled.

⸻

Crane POV

The gunship hissed open into the choking air of a blasted battlefield. The stench of ozone and burning flesh hit Crane’s nose before his boots even touched dirt.

The 501st stormed forward like a machine—blue-striped armor already blackened with soot, voices clipped and efficient. No sunlight here, no serenity. Just smoke and chaos.

And at the center of it—him.

Anakin Skywalker. The Hero With No Fear. His presence was electric, magnetic, larger than life. He cut through droids like they were nothing, every strike of his saber brutal, efficient, and merciless. The clones followed him with fanatic loyalty.

Crane didn’t look long. His focus shifted to the medics already screaming for supplies, wounded troopers pouring off the field. Blaster wounds, cauterized stumps, a man screaming as shrapnel tore through his gut. Crane’s eyes scanned, catalogued, hands moving before the panic could set in.

Precise. Fast. Calculated.

The other medics hesitated. Crane didn’t. He shoved aside a trooper fumbling with a bacta patch, taking over with quick, exact movements. Clamp the artery. Seal the wound. Oxygen mask on. He barked orders, and to his surprise, they listened.

Within minutes, three lives stabilized.

He didn’t look at Skywalker again. Didn’t need to. His war wasn’t with sabers—it was with blood and bodies.

Still, in the back of his mind, Crane thought of Sol. He imagined him somewhere under a different sun, looking at Jedi like they were worth believing in.

Crane scowled, pressing harder on the bleeding wound beneath his palms. Fool.

Chapter Text

Crane – The 501st

The medbay of the 501st was already chaos, crates overturned, men on stretchers. Crane hadn’t stopped moving since he stepped off the gunship. His gloves were sticky with blood, his brain clicking through diagnostics like a machine.

“Hold him down. Clamp. I said clamp, not—”

A voice cut through the noise, sharp but steady.
“You’re new.”

Crane didn’t look up at first, too focused on stitching an artery. When he did, his gaze locked on a medic crouched across from him, dark curls plastered with sweat, sharp eyes measuring him like a scalpel.

“Kix,” the medic said flatly. “501st. And you’re…?”

“Crane.” His voice was clipped, cold.

Kix watched his hands work—precise, unhesitating. “Hnh. Guess you might actually be useful.”

Another voice chimed in from behind, higher, impatient.
“Come on Move faster, both of you. If he flatlines, you answer to me, we can’t let that happen.”

Crane turned—and for the first time, saw her.

Ahsoka Tano.

She wasn’t tall, not towering like Skywalker, but her presence filled the room. The way she stood—command sharp in every line of her body—made the other medics snap to attention. Even Crane straightened instinctively.

“General,” Kix said quickly, wiping his hands.

Ahsoka’s eyes flicked to Crane. “You’re new.”

“Yes,” Crane said, the word blunt, but quieter than usual. He didn’t snap at her. Didn’t challenge. Something in him… wouldn’t.

Ahsoka held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. “Good. We need medics who don’t crack under pressure. You—” she gestured to him, not even asking—“you’re with Kix from now on.”

Crane felt his jaw tighten. He didn’t like being ordered. But her voice carried the kind of weight that made resistance seem… less important. He lowered his head, muttering, “Yes, General.”

For the first time, Crane realized something unnerving: he listened to her without rage.

⸻

Sol – The 327th

If the 501st was all grit and blood, the 327th was sunlight and sand. Sol found himself dropped into a golden-armored squad that moved like they’d been fighting together for years.

Commander Bly was the first to greet him—firm handshake, sharp eyes that measured quickly before softening. “New medic? Good. We could use more steady hands.”

Behind Bly stood four others, each distinct in their presence.

Lieutenant Charger, tall and calm, already scribbling notes into a datapad as he muttered, “Assignments, rotations, casualty probability rates—” He glanced up briefly. “Don’t fall behind.”

Foil, who grinned the moment he saw Sol. “Another medic? Maker help us. Guess I’ll finally stop getting yelled at for nearly blowing myself up.”

Hawk, arms folded across his tattooed chest, scowling. “Fresh meat. Bet you think you’re special. They all do.”

And Gage, the quiet one with grease on his armor, murmuring while tinkering with a comm device, “Don’t mind him. He hates everyone. You’ll get used to it.”

Sol grinned nervously. “Right. I’ll… do my best.”

It wasn’t long before the banter shifted, as soldiers’ talk always did, to their commanders.

“Just wait till you see General Secura in battle,” Charger said, tone oddly reverent. “She’s precision itself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Foil cut in, smirking. “But what about her Padawan? You tell him yet?”

Sol blinked. “Padawan?”

“Oh, Jules Skywalker,” Hawk said, the name dripping with respect and irritation all at once. “Cold. Calculated. Doesn’t blink twice when sending us into fire.”

“She’s a strategist,” Charger corrected. “Always two steps ahead.”

“Terrifying,” Foil added cheerfully. “But in a good way.”

Even Gage looked up long enough to mutter, “Don’t underestimate her.”

Sol frowned. “She’s… cold?”

“Cold,” Hawk confirmed. “And smarter than all of us combined. Don’t get on her bad side.”

But Sol couldn’t shake the image he’d seen—the brief flash of her gray-blue eyes, sharper than steel but not without warmth. He wasn’t convinced. Something about the way she’d scanned the field… it hadn’t felt cold at all.

He smiled faintly, not saying a word.

⸻

Crane – The 501st, Later

Night fell heavy. Crane sat alone in the corner of the medbay, methodically cleaning his instruments.

“Oi.”

He glanced up. Captain Rex stood at the doorway, arms crossed, helmet tucked under his arm. His presence carried the same weight as Skywalker’s—but steadier, colder, almost more dangerous.

“You’re the new medic,” Rex said flatly. “Kix says you don’t break. That true?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because the 501st doesn’t have room for breakable men.” Rex’s gaze lingered a second longer, like he was testing the steel in Crane’s bones. Then he left.

Crane exhaled slowly, fists tightening around his kit.

Respect. He respects me. The thought was bitter, but also grounding.

He hated it. But he couldn’t help it.

⸻

Sol – The 327th, Later

Around a campfire, golden armor gleamed against the dusk. Foil told stories, Gage muttered corrections, Hawk scowled at both, and Sol laughed harder than he had since Kamino.

Then silence fell as footsteps approached.

Aayla Secura emerged from the shadows, cloak trailing behind her. At her side—Jules Skywalker.

The squad straightened instantly. Jules’ eyes flicked across them, sharp, calculating.

And when her gaze lingered on Sol again, for just a heartbeat—he swore she didn’t look cold at all.

Chapter Text

Crane – Under Fire

The 501st was fire and thunder. Their very first mission together tore Crane into the marrow of war.

Blaster fire cracked against durasteel barricades, screams ricocheted through smoke. Crane crouched low, hands slick with blood as he pressed a patch against a trooper’s chest wound. He didn’t look at faces anymore—only wounds. Faces meant hesitation. Wounds meant work.

“Medic!” another voice screamed from the ash.

Crane didn’t think. He sprinted into open fire, crouching low as bolts hissed past his head. His boots splashed through mud, his kit rattled against his side. He dropped to his knees beside another clone, half his armor burned away.

“Airway clear, pulse dropping,” Crane muttered, already moving. “Tourniquet. Sealant. Plasma in now.”

Kix’s voice cut through comms. “Crane, fall back! You’ll get yourself killed!”

But Crane didn’t even hear. His mind worked like a machine: cut, clamp, seal, save. He ignored the whine of droid tanks, ignored the blur of blue and green light ahead as Anakin Skywalker carved a swath through the battlefield.

Then suddenly—
A voice. Calm. Firm. Cutting through the chaos like a bell.

“Medic!”

He turned, and there she was again—Ahsoka Tano. Lightsabers flashing, deflecting fire away from a cluster of wounded troopers. Her montrals caught the glow of blaster fire, her movements sharp, decisive, controlled.

“Get them out, now!” she commanded.

Crane didn’t argue. He didn’t think to resist. He obeyed.

He and Kix dragged the wounded under her cover, Crane’s every motion precise, unflinching even as blaster bolts screamed past his ear.

When the last trooper was safe, Ahsoka gave a single nod. Not praise. Not warmth. Just acknowledgment. But Crane felt it like a burn under his skin.

For the first time in his life, he realized his rage was gone—not because the battlefield demanded it, but because he’d chosen discipline.

Because she’d expected it of him.

⸻

Sol – A Different Front

The 327th’s mission couldn’t have felt more different. The sunlight was blinding, the air hot and dry, the terrain a sprawl of desert cliffs and canyons. The battle was fierce, yes—but less chaotic, more deliberate. Controlled.

And at the heart of that control stood Jules Skywalker.

Sol had seen her from afar before, always flanked by Commander Bly or shadowed under Aayla Secura’s calm gaze. But today was the first time she called him over.

“Medic.”

Her voice was quiet but firm. Not sharp like Hawk had warned him, not cold like the others described. Just… steady.

Sol jogged forward, stumbling a little over the rocks before kneeling beside the trooper she gestured to. Blaster burn across the thigh—serious, but not fatal. Sol’s hands trembled for a second, then steadied as he worked.

Jules crouched beside him, her braid falling over her shoulder, the faint scent of something earthy—herbs, maybe, from her cloak. Her ocean eyes followed his every motion, curious but not judgmental.

“You’re new,” she said softly.

“Yes, Commander,” Sol managed, trying not to choke on the title.

“You’re fast,” Jules noted, watching as he sealed the wound. Then her lips curved, the faintest smile. “Good.”

Sol blinked. The rumors had painted her as an icy strategist, untouchable. But here, so close he could see the faint slope in her nose, the pale curve of her cheekbones… she wasn’t cold at all.

She was kind. Gentle, even, in a way that the battlefield didn’t deserve.

“Thank you,” Sol blurted before he could stop himself.

Her eyes flicked to his. And for just a heartbeat, Jules smiled again—brighter this time, soft enough to undo him completely.

Something in Sol’s chest gave way. His heart wasn’t beating right anymore—it was too fast, too loud, tripping over itself like it didn’t know what to do.

Bly called her name, and she rose quickly, cloak sweeping around her as she moved back into the fray, giving orders with sharp precision.

Sol watched her go, breath caught in his throat.

All he could think was—
The others were wrong. She isn’t cold. She’s… luminous.

Chapter Text

Crane — Aftermath

The medbay stank of scorched plastoid and singed flesh. Crane worked on autopilot, stripping gloves, sanitizing his kit, logging casualty numbers with sharp strokes of the stylus. His face was set in stone, unreadable.

He didn’t even hear the boots at first, not until they stopped directly behind him.

“Trooper.” The voice was clipped, but familiar.

Crane froze. Then, deliberately, he turned. General Skywalker. Taller than most men, presence like a shadow made solid. Ahsoka lingered nearby, arms folded, watching.

Crane gave the briefest nod. “General.”

“You saved eight men today.” Anakin’s tone was equal parts approval and command. “The 501st doesn’t forget that.”

Crane’s jaw tightened. He bent back to his datapad. “Just did my job, sir.”

Anakin didn’t move. “That attitude—cold, detached. Is that how you survive?”

Something in Crane’s eyes flickered, but he forced his voice flat. “It’s how I don’t waste time. Dead men don’t need warmth, General. Living ones need a medic.”

The silence stretched until Ahsoka stepped forward, softer, but still probing: “You can’t patch up bodies if you burn out your own heart in the process.”

Crane’s mouth pulled into a hard line. He didn’t answer. He just finished logging the report, tossed the datapad onto the cot beside him, and muttered under his breath—
“I’ll live.”

⸻

Sol — Aftermath

The stars outside the cruiser’s viewports stretched like rivers of fire. Sol lay back in his bunk, arms behind his head, grinning like an idiot.

Foil was perched on the top bunk, flipping a vibroknife between his fingers. “You’re still smiling like a cadet who found out the rations got upgraded to actual meat.”

Sol didn’t move. “She smiled at me, Foil.”

Foil’s grin widened. “Ohhh, the scary little Jedi ghost girl? The one Charger swore could out-plan an entire droid battalion?”

“She’s not scary,” Sol said softly, almost dreamily. “She’s… she’s kind. Her eyes—”

“Force save me,” Hawk muttered from across the barracks, tattooed arms crossed. “We’ve lost him already.”

Foil leaned down, smirking. “One smile, and suddenly you’re writing poetry in your head, huh?”

Sol flushed but didn’t deny it. His heart replayed it again and again—the curve of Jules’ lips when she’d looked at him, the way her voice carried gentleness he hadn’t expected. Like she’d cracked something open in him he didn’t even know was locked.

Foil whistled. “This’ll end great. Sunshine boy meets marble statue. What could possibly go wrong?”

Sol just closed his eyes, smile lingering. “Worth it.”
Crane — Recognition

The hangar stank of oil and ozone, gunships cooling after battle. Crane was finishing his last casualty report when Rex’s shadow fell over him.

“Medic.”

Crane snapped to attention, stylus still in hand. “Captain.”

Rex’s expression didn’t shift, but his words carried weight. “Kix told me what you pulled off today. No hesitation. No wasted movements. You don’t rattle.”

Crane’s shoulders tightened, uncertain if it was praise or interrogation. “I follow procedure. That’s all.”

Kix stepped up beside Rex, arms crossed but eyes sharp. “No, you do more. You don’t just patch bodies, you keep the line standing. Men are already talking about you. Word spreads.”

The words should have warmed something in him. Instead, they scraped against old scars. He looked away, voice clipped.
“Recognition doesn’t stop blaster bolts.”

Rex studied him for a long moment before nodding once. “Orders just came down. You’re being reassigned—capital rotation. They want you heading up a fresh battalion.”

The stylus nearly slipped from Crane’s hand. “Reassigned?”

“You’ve proven yourself,” Kix said firmly. “It’s a step up.”

But Crane’s chest felt hollow, colder than Kamino’s seas. He’d done everything right, earned the top, earned the trust—
and all it bought him was distance. Again.

He just muttered, “Understood,” and returned to his datapad, ignoring the gnawing silence inside him.

⸻

Sol — Orbit

The night cycle was soft in the 327th, light dimmed to a blue glow. Sol leaned against a bulkhead, helmet under one arm, watching as the Jedi walked past—Aayla, graceful as a starbird, and beside her… Jules.

Her braid swayed against her back, brown hair catching the pale light. She was scribbling notes on a datapad, muttering softly about angles, battalion placements, ratios. Every line of her face was elegant, but her mouth was drawn tight—frustrated with herself.

Foil elbowed him. “There’s your marble ghost.”

“Shut it,” Sol hissed, but his eyes stayed on her.

When Aayla veered off, Jules paused, glancing at the men. Her gaze caught on Sol, and for a heartbeat—just one—her lips curved into a small, soft smile.

“Evening,” she said, voice quiet but kind.

“Evening, Commander,” Sol blurted, straighter than a blaster barrel. His chest burned.

She tilted her head, eyes ocean-bright, but then something shifted—her expression dimmed, like a shutter sliding over a flame. She tucked her datapad against her chest, dropped her gaze, and moved on.

Foil whistled low. “See that? Cold one minute, soft the next. Like she doesn’t know what she wants to be.”

But Sol wasn’t listening. He was too busy replaying it—the smile that had felt like sunlight through armor, and the way it had vanished just as quickly.

She’s kind, he thought, but she doesn’t believe it.

And that thought made his heart ache more than any battlefield wound.

Chapter Text

CRANE POV
Coruscant should’ve been deafening. The hangars, the barracks, the constant movement of ships and boots and orders. But Crane only heard silence.

The others filled the mess with laughter, clatter, voices. Crane sat alone, datapad open, scanning supply lists with the same precision he’d memorized every field manual. But it was different now. No Sol leaning across the table to tease him. No battlefield urgency sharpening his mind.

Only stillness.

“Brooding again.”

Crane looked up sharply. Chief Medic Ardan Veyra stood over him, scarred brow lifted, that familiar mix of disapproval and challenge in his eyes.

“Sir.” Crane snapped to attention, but Ardan waved him down.

“Relax, Crane. I’ve read your reports. Flawless under fire. You’ve earned this rotation, but… you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

Crane’s jaw tightened. “Recognition is irrelevant. Dead men don’t care who patched them up.”

Ardan’s gaze hardened, voice cutting. “That’s the problem. You think the work is about you. About proving you’re better. But recognition feels empty because you treat men as equations, not brothers.”

Something snapped. Crane’s voice came out low, harsh. “Equations don’t bleed. They don’t betray you.”

Ardan’s eyes narrowed, stepping closer. “And yet you’re still alone. You can’t patch that with skill. So tell me, Crane—when does the proving stop? When will it be enough?”

Crane had no answer. Only silence pressing in, heavier than Coruscant’s skies.

⸻

Sol — The First Orders

The jungle air of Felucia was thick with heat and spores, the ground trembling faintly with distant cannon fire. Sol adjusted his kit, waiting with the other troopers as Commander Jules bent over the tactical table.

She tapped a glowing map, brow furrowed. “We’ll split into two flanks. Bly, take Charger and Hawk. Sol—”

Her eyes flicked up, catching his. For a second, the mask slipped—uncertainty flashing before she smoothed it away.

“—you’ll hold the rear line with Foil and Gage. I’ll signal when to advance. Timing has to be exact.”

“Yes, Commander,” Sol said immediately, though he kept staring. He could see it now—the way her shoulders hunched, the faint tremor in her hands. Not fear, but… anger. At herself.

After dismissal, Sol lingered as the others filed out. “Commander,” he said carefully, “that plan’s sharp. Precise.”

She blinked, surprised. “It should be sharper. I hesitated. Aayla wouldn’t have.”

He frowned. “You’re not Aayla. And none of us need you to be.”

Her mouth opened, closed. For a moment, she looked so small, the weight of marble carved too heavy for her frame. Then she drew herself back up, voice even.

“Go with your squad, Sol. That’s an order.”

“Yes, Commander.”

But as he turned, he carried the image with him—the brilliant strategist who didn’t believe her own brilliance. And for the first time, Sol realized his loyalty wasn’t just to the GAR, or the Jedi.

It was to her.
Crane — 79’s

“Come on, Crane.”

Kix’s voice had that infuriating lightness—half invitation, half order. Crane stood stiffly in the med bay, arms folded, eyeing the medic like he’d just spoken Huttese.

“Where?”

“79’s,” Kix said, already tugging off his gloves. “Bar down in lower Coruscant. Strictly clones, no regs, no civvies. Place to breathe for a night.”

Crane frowned. “A… bar?”

Kix smirked. “Maker, you are green. Yeah, a bar. Music, drinks, brothers unwinding. Try acting like a person for once.”

Crane should’ve refused. He should’ve stayed buried in his medical journals, numbers safe and silent. But something in Kix’s grin—easy, grounded—dragged him along.

79’s hit him like a riot. Music pulsed through the walls, voices rising in drunken laughter, helmets clattered on tables, arms slung around shoulders. Whole squads leaned together like family, messy and loud.

Crane froze near the door, hands twitching at his sides. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t know how.

“Relax,” Kix muttered, shoving a drink into his hand. “You patch men up better than anyone. That makes you one of us, whether you like it or not.”

But as Crane looked around—the brotherhood, the warmth he’d walled himself from—his chest felt hollow. He downed the drink in one sharp motion and muttered, “It changes nothing.”

Still, some part of him didn’t leave.

⸻

Sol — The Flank

Felucia was a nightmare—fungus towers blotting out the sun, spores clinging to skin, the ground alive beneath their boots. But the plan had worked.

Sol’s squad had held the rear until Jules’ signal flared, then advanced at the exact angle she’d calculated. Separatist lines buckled like glass. By nightfall, the battalion had secured the ridge with minimal casualties.

Troopers cheered, clapping each other on the back. Bly called it “cleaner than any sim.”

But Jules stood apart, arms wrapped around herself, gaze fixed on the jungle floor. Sol lingered, helmet in hand, before stepping closer.

“You did it,” he said quietly.

Her head snapped up, eyes ocean-bright but stormy. “I hesitated again. I lost seconds. Someone could’ve—”

“No one did,” Sol cut in, firmer than he’d meant to. “We won. Because of you.”

Her lips parted, as if to argue, but her voice faltered. She shook her head instead, retreating behind the mask. “You don’t understand.”

Sol wanted to say he did—that he saw her carrying a war inside herself even when the battle was already over. But instead, he just stood there, steady.

“You’re the reason I’m standing here,” he said simply.

For a heartbeat, the marble cracked again. A flicker of warmth, fragile and fleeting, before she turned away into the shadows.

And Sol, heart pounding, decided he’d carry that flicker for as long as it took.

Chapter Text

Crane — The Language of Connection

The music of 79’s throbbed on, but Crane’s ears rang with a hollow buzz. His second, third, fourth drink sat like embers in his stomach. He’d taken the stool at the farthest corner of the bar, away from the laughter, the clattering helmets, the songs that carried the sound of brotherhood.

He watched them—men leaning shoulder-to-shoulder, trading stories, speaking in a language Crane had never learned. Connection.

It was too loud. Too warm. He left early.

The Coruscant night pressed in heavy, neon dripping down duracrete walls. Crane’s boots carried him with no destination, the aftertaste of drink thick on his tongue.

He thought about what it meant to belong. He thought about how every word of camaraderie sounded like static to him.

And then Jesse’s voice cut through. “Oi, loner.”

Crane blinked, realizing the trooper had followed him out, leaning lazy against a pillar with that ever-present grin. “You’ve got the look of a man thinking himself into a grave. What’s on your mind?”

Crane hesitated, then answered the only way his buzzing thoughts could form. “Women.”

Jesse arched a brow. “Women?”

Crane’s voice was low, unyielding. “They’re the most powerful creatures in existence. Respected, untouchable. Terrifying.”

Jesse laughed, not cruel but genuine. “You’ve been drinking too much, vod. Powerful, terrifying? You talking about Jedi?”

“All of them,” Crane muttered, eyes distant. “They break men without lifting a hand.”

Jesse’s grin softened, but he clapped Crane’s shoulder. “Maybe. Or maybe they just see through armor faster than we do.”

Crane didn’t answer. He only walked on, still chasing a language he couldn’t speak.

⸻

Sol — The Teasing

Back at camp, Sol sat cleaning his rifle, but his mind wasn’t on the weapon. It was replaying the look on Jules’ face when she’d doubted herself, the way her eyes softened for a second when he’d spoken.

Foil flopped down beside him with all the grace of a dropped ration pack. “Maker above—you’ve got the googly eyes.”

Sol stiffened. “What?”

“You know,” Foil teased, waggling his brows. “The sappy, puppy-dog, moon-over-Coruscant stare every time she walks by. I’m shocked you don’t trip over your boots drooling.”

“Shut it,” Sol muttered, cheeks heating.

Charger wandered in next, catching just enough to smirk. “What eyes for who?”

“Commander Jules,” Foil sang, grinning wickedly. “Our Sol’s already writing sonnets in his head.”

Gage barked a laugh. Hawk muttered, “Poor b*stard,” without looking up from his gear.

Before Sol could defend himself, a new voice cut through the noise—steady, firm, with a hint of dry amusement.

“Talking about the Commander, are we?”

Every trooper snapped straight. Bly stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Foil coughed, suddenly nervous. “Just, uh—friendly chatter, sir.”

Bly’s gaze swept over them, then settled on Sol. For a heartbeat, Sol thought he was about to be dressed down, court-martialed, maybe executed on the spot.

But Bly only nodded slowly. “She’s more than her rumors. Treat her with respect. She’s family.”

The room fell silent, the weight of those words sinking deep.

Then Bly added, voice softer, “And if any of you hurt her, you answer to me.”

The threat wasn’t loud, but it landed harder than any blaster bolt.

Foil swallowed audibly. Sol just sat frozen, heart pounding, realizing his “googly eyes” were now under a commander’s watchful shadow.
Crane — Black Ops Silence

The orders came without warning.
A sealed datapad. A rendezvous in the undercity. Crane wasn’t told the target—only that he was to provide medical support for a black ops insertion.

The streets of Coruscant’s lower levels were wet with neon and rain, shadows crawling between durasteel ribs. The squad he followed was silent, armor painted in matte black. ARC troopers, moving like ghosts.

Crane didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

When the ambush came, it was chaos compressed into seconds. Blasterfire seared the dark, one trooper collapsing with a hole punched through his abdomen. Another with a scorched arm. Crane dropped beside them without hesitation, hands steady, breath even.

Clamps. Sealant. Field transfusion. Every motion precise, surgical. Men screamed, but Crane did not flinch.

“Alive,” he said flatly, shifting to the next, then the next. His calm was colder than the rain.

The squad leader’s comm crackled—mission secured, package extracted. They vanished back into the undercity, leaving only scorch marks and the stink of ozone behind.

Hours later, Crane sat alone in his barracks. His gloves were still stained with blood. His datapad blinked with commendations.

And yet… nothing. No pride. No warmth. Just silence.

Recognition meant nothing if you were still alone.

⸻

Sol — The Father and the Marble

The barracks still hummed with tension after Bly’s words.

Foil flopped back onto his bunk, whisper-shouting, “Maker, he’s like a protective dad!”

“Dad?” Charger snorted. “More like executioner. You saw his face.”

“Executioner dad,” Gage offered dryly.

Hawk muttered, “You’re all idiots,” but even he looked a little shaken.

Sol stayed quiet, heart thudding. Dad or not, Bly’s words lingered: She’s family.

Later that night, Sol found himself walking past the command tent. Jules stood alone outside, helmet tucked under her arm, face tilted toward the sky. Her braid slipped loose around her shoulders, catching the faint glow of Felucia’s fungi.

He almost kept walking. Almost. But then her voice drifted.

“Sol.”

He froze. “Commander?”

She didn’t look at him right away. “The rear flank. You kept them steady. I should thank you.”

He swallowed, stepping closer. “I only followed your lead.”

Finally, she turned. Her ocean eyes shimmered in the dim light—bright, but shadowed. “You don’t know what that means. Everyone thinks I’m… cold. Calculated. Marble.” She gave a brittle laugh. “If they saw me the way I see me, they’d know the truth. I hate it. All of it. Especially—” she faltered, biting down on her lip, “—my reflection.”

Then she mumbled, just barely “I have no clue why I told you that.”

Sol’s chest tightened, words tangling in his throat. She looked so small then, despite the title, despite the legends whispered around her.

Carefully, softly, he said, “The reflection’s wrong, Commander. It doesn’t see what we see.”

Her eyes widened, but before she could respond, a comm crackled from inside the tent. She straightened instantly, mask sliding back into place.

“Get some rest, Sol,” she said briskly. “We move at dawn.”

“Yes, Commander.”

But as he walked away, he carried the echo of her voice—I hate my reflection—burning heavier than any battlefield wound.

Chapter Text

Crane — The Weight of “Best”

The med bay smelled of antiseptic and steel. Crane stood at attention before Chief Medic Ardan, his armor stripped down, gloves still tacky with a day’s work.

Ardan read the datapad in silence, scarred brow furrowed. Finally, he looked up.

“Another commendation. Another flawless record.”

Crane said nothing.

“You know what the commanders are saying?” Ardan pressed. “That you’re going to the best medic in the Republic.”

The words should have cut like a blade of pride, but instead they landed heavy, suffocating. Crane’s jaw clenched.

“I’m doing my job.”

“No,” Ardan snapped, stepping closer. “You’re doing more than your job. You’re setting a standard no one can reach. You’ve made medicine into a weapon. And still…” His eyes narrowed. “Still, you look like a man waiting to die.”

Crane’s fists tightened. “I work harder than anyone. I am better.”

“Better at what?” Ardan’s voice was steel. “At saving lives? Or proving you’re not worthless?”

Crane’s teeth ground together, rage and emptiness twisting in his chest. He turned on his heel before he could answer, before Ardan could carve deeper.

If he had to claw his way to the very top, higher than every brother, higher than every expectation—then so be it. He would burn his hands raw before ever being seen as less again.

⸻

Sol — Shielded

Felucia’s air was thick with spores again, Separatist fire cutting through the fog. Sol’s squad pushed forward, but a droid turret pivoted fast, sights locking.

He saw it too late.

Blasterfire erupted—except it didn’t hit him. Jules was there, saber flashing in a blur of cyan. She cut the bolts from the air, body angled in front of him, eyes blazing.

“Stay down,” she barked, voice sharp with command.

Sol ducked behind her instinctively, chest pounding, watching as she dismantled the turret in three fluid strikes. When the silence returned, she turned back, breathing hard.

“You alright?”

Her tone was brisk, but her eyes flickered—checking, worried.

“Yes, Commander,” he managed, though his heart thundered. “Thanks to you.”

She nodded once, already scanning the field. “Good. Don’t make me do that again.”

But Sol couldn’t move yet. Couldn’t stop staring at the way her braid clung to her shoulder, at the way she looked too small and yet unstoppable, at the way she put herself between him and death without hesitation.

Something inside him cracked open.

It wasn’t just loyalty anymore. Not admiration. Not even the quiet ache he carried when she smiled.

It was love, sudden and certain, terrifying in its simplicity.

And Sol knew, as blasterfire rang again, that he’d follow her anywhere.

Crane — Past the Edge

The datapads were stacked like walls around him, manuals on battlefield medicine, trauma surgery, chemical warfare, neurotoxins. He read until the words blurred, then forced them clear again. His scar throbbed under the glowstrip lights.

He memorized dosage tables, then made himself recite them backwards. He rewrote entire med protocols from memory, hand cramping until blood spotted the paper.

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

By the time Ardan returned to check on him, Crane was half-slumped over the table, knuckles pale.

“You’ll kill yourself at this rate,” Ardan said flatly.

“I’m fine.” His voice came rough, scraped thin.

Ardan studied him. “They’ve noticed you. Senators. The Guard wants a medic they can trust in the capital. You’ll be moving into their rotation.”

Crane blinked once, hard, as if he hadn’t heard correctly. The Guard. The inner circle.

Recognition. Power. Proof.

And yet, staring at the commendation order, he felt only a strange, gnawing emptiness. Like climbing a mountain and realizing the peak was fog.

He shoved the datapad away, jaw tight. If he wasn’t satisfied yet, then it meant he wasn’t finished. He would keep climbing until he was.

⸻

Sol — Quiet Confessions

The battle had ended hours ago, but the adrenaline still hummed under Sol’s skin. He sat on the roots of a great Felucian mushroom tree, helmet off, sweat streaking down his temples.

“Mind if I sit?”

Jules’ voice startled him. He turned to see her lowering herself beside him, braid loose, eyes gray-blue like stormlight.

For a moment, Sol forgot how to breathe. “Of course, Commander.”

She sat cross-legged, saber at her side. Her gaze was far away. “You probably know this already, but… Anakin Skywalker. General Skywalker. He’s my half-brother.”

Sol blinked. “…Really?”

“Different Fathers same mother.” She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “People think that makes us the same. It doesn’t. Sometimes it’s hard to live up to him, I guess sometimes i live in his shadow”

Her voice cracked, just barely. Sol’s chest ached.

“I don’t think that,” he said quickly.

She tilted her head, studying him. “No?”

“No.” His throat tightened. “My best friend—he’s the same. Crane. He’s… not a full clone. Half like me. People treated him different for it. He never fit, never belonged.”

Jules’ brows lifted. “Half like you?”

“Yeah.” He tried to laugh, but it came soft, awkward. “Guess we’re all halves. But Crane—he’s proof it doesn’t make you less. Just different.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, heavy and fragile. Jules looked down at her hands, then back at him, eyes shimmering with something he couldn’t name.

“Thank you, Sol.”

Two words. But they rooted in his chest like something permanent.

And Sol knew, with absolute certainty, that if Crane ever met her—if the two halves touched—they would both see the reflection they’d been hiding from their whole lives.

Chapter Text

Crane — The Guard

The Coruscant Guard’s barracks were nothing like the med labs of Tipoca or even the field tents of the front. The walls were durasteel gray, the air sharp with polish and discipline.

Fox himself stood waiting in the hall, red armor catching the glowstrips. His visor tilted as Crane approached.

“So you’re the medic they sent us.” His voice was clipped, efficient, leaving no room for warmth.

“Yes, Commander.” Crane’s tone was flat, matching.

Fox handed him a datapad. “You’ll report directly to me. Guard medics don’t just patch up soldiers—we treat senators, prisoners, high-value targets. Discretion is required. Attachment is not.”

Crane’s jaw flexed. “Understood.”

The first assignment came fast. He shadowed Fox into the Senate District, where politicians whispered in corners like carrion birds. Crane’s hands saved a wounded aide from an assassination attempt in the corridor—but when the senator brushed past, thanking Fox instead, Crane felt that emptiness widen inside him.

Recognition didn’t matter here. Names mattered. Power mattered. The Guard was a colder battlefield than Kamino had ever been.

And as the night fell, Crane stood alone on the barracks balcony, staring out at the endless cityscape, wondering if he was slowly turning into another ghost in red armor.

⸻

Sol — A Warning

Felucia’s night air was humid, buzzing with insect calls. Sol sat polishing his DC-15 when Bly dropped beside him. The commander didn’t waste time.

“You’ve been looking at her.”

Sol froze. “Sir?”

Bly’s golden eyes were steady, unblinking. “Commander Jules. You’ve got that look in your eyes, trooper. I’ve seen it before.”

Heat flushed up Sol’s neck. “I—I wasn’t—”

Bly cut him off. “Don’t. You’re a good soldier, Sol. But Jules? She’s not just a commander. She’s a Jedi. A Skywalker. That path doesn’t leave room for what you’re feeling.”

Sol swallowed hard, fingers tightening on the rag in his hand. “I wasn’t going to—”

“Even if you never say it out loud, it’ll show in the way you fight.” Bly’s voice softened just barely. “And if it puts her at risk? If it puts this battalion at risk?”

Sol’s chest twisted. He thought of Jules’ smile, the storm-colored eyes that carried both warmth and sorrow, and it hurt to even imagine shutting that light out.

“I understand, sir.”

Bly gave a small nod, but his gaze lingered, heavy, as if he knew understanding wasn’t the same as obeying.

And when Sol lay back under the canopy of glowing fungi that night, he told himself over and over—he couldn’t love her.

But the memory of her voice, soft and kind, refused to leave.
Crane — No More Pain

The underlevels of Coruscant stank of oil and rot, the shadows crawling thicker than any trench. Crane’s boots echoed against duracrete, every step heavier than the last. The Guard spread out, red armor cutting the dark, their rifles raised.

The target was a trooper. A brother.

“Reports say he’s infected,” Fox had said before deployment. “Mental virus. Makes them unstable. He’s already stabbed two civilians.”

Crane gritted his teeth. A brother wasn’t a target. A brother was a patient.

The echo came before the figure—footsteps, ragged breathing. And then, from the shadows, a clone stumbled forward. His eyes were wide, wild, unfocused. His hand shook around the hilt of a dagger.

“Stay back,” the trooper gasped, voice breaking. “Just leave me alone.”

The Guard leveled their rifles.

“Don’t make me aim higher—don’t make me cut her eye—” His blade trembled, jerking up, flashing.

Crane’s blood ran cold. He knew that phrasing. Not her name, not her face—but some fractured memory gnawed at this man’s mind. A scar.

“Stand down!” Fox barked.

But Crane was already moving. He pushed forward, hand raised. “Vod,” he said, tone low, steady. “Please. Let me help you.”

The trooper’s blade slashed wide—Crane felt the sting, white-hot, as it tore across his cheek, up the side of his face and stopped just past the top of his ear. His vision blurred red, but he didn’t move back. Didn’t lift his rifle. He caught the trooper’s wrist in both hands, forcing it still.

“Please,” Crane whispered, heart hammering. “I won’t hurt you.”

For a moment—just a breath—the wild eyes met his.

And then the trooper’s shoulders sagged, his voice breaking into a sob. “No more pain… no more…”

His body went limp. The dagger clattered to the ground.

Crane lowered him gently, fingers trembling, chest burning with a grief he couldn’t name.

The Guard moved in around him, rifles still humming, but Crane couldn’t hear Fox’s orders. He pressed a hand to his bleeding face, the scar already searing itself into memory, and fought the tears threatening to break.

A brother. Gone. And all Crane could think was—he should’ve done more.

⸻

Sol — A Commander’s Trust

The battlefield on Felucia was a graveyard of steaming fungus and smoking droid limbs. Sol’s armor was scorched, the plastoid cracked across his forearm, but he was alive. Breathing.

And then—she was there.

Jules. Her saber still hummed faintly, the glow painting her features sharp and soft all at once. Dirt streaked her cheek, her braid loose from combat, but her eyes—those ocean-blue eyes—found him.

“Sol.” Her voice was quiet, careful, but direct.

“Yes, Commander?” He snapped straighter, heart pounding.

She crouched beside him, hands brushing over the crack in his armor, the bruise swelling underneath. Her touch was gentle, warmer than the humid air.

“You held the line perfectly,” she said. “That flank maneuver—it worked because of you. I wanted to thank you.”

Sol blinked, stunned. “I was just following your orders.”

But Jules shook her head, strands of hair falling into her face. “No. You adapted when you had to. That… saved lives.”

Something in her voice wavered, so soft it barely reached him. And then she added, almost to herself, “I wish I could see what you see. Not just the mistakes.”

The words slipped out like a crack in armor, unguarded.

Sol’s chest ached. He wanted to tell her she was brilliant, that the battalion lived and breathed by her strategy, that he’d never seen anyone lead like her. But his throat closed, and all he managed was:

“You’re more than you think, Commander.”

Her eyes flickered to his, caught for a moment in a stillness that felt sacred.

And then she rose, the wall sliding back into place, voice all command again. “Get that arm checked. That’s an order.”

But Sol couldn’t stop replaying that single moment—her choosing to speak to him. Her letting him see the crack she hid from everyone else.

Chapter Text

Crane — Reflection

The medbay was quiet except for the hiss of sterilizers and the buzz of a lamp. Crane sat on the edge of the cot, jaw locked tight, as the droid pressed synthflesh over the wound.

The cut burned, running from his cheekbone down to the corner of his jaw. A mark that would never fade.

When the droid left, Crane stood, crossing to the mirror on the far wall. Harsh light bled across his features, outlining the raw line of red etched into his skin.

He stared.

Not at the injury. At what it meant.

He saw the trooper’s eyes, wide and begging. “No more pain.” He saw his own failure staring back at him through that ragged scar.

His fist clenched at his side. He wanted to smash the mirror. To make the reflection vanish.

Instead, he whispered to the empty room, voice hoarse:

“You should have saved him.”

The silence offered no reply. Just the hollow truth—he was alive, the other wasn’t. And now his face would carry that story forever.

He turned away, the weight of his own skin suddenly unbearable, and sat in the dark until the city outside dimmed to nothing but neon and smoke.

⸻

Sol — Replay

Sleep never came easy on Felucia. Too humid. Too loud. But tonight, Sol couldn’t close his eyes for an entirely different reason.

He lay on his back in the barracks tent, staring at the canvas roof, armor shed beside him. His brothers snored in uneven rhythms all around, but he barely heard them.

All he heard was her voice.

“You held the line perfectly.”

“You saved lives.”

And softer still—“I wish I could see what you see.”

Sol turned the words over in his mind like a precious artifact, worn smooth from handling. Each syllable carried a weight he couldn’t put down, even if he wanted to.

She had looked at him. Not at Bly. Not at Charger, or Foil, or anyone else. At him.

For a heartbeat, she hadn’t been Commander Skywalker. She’d just been Jules. A girl with storm-colored eyes who carried the galaxy on her shoulders and still doubted herself.

His chest ached, sharp and sweet all at once.

Foil mumbled something in his sleep across the tent, probably a joke even in his dreams, and Sol had to bite back a laugh. But the moment it faded, his heart throbbed harder.

Because he knew—whatever Bly had said, whatever lines were carved between Jedi and soldiers—he couldn’t help it. He was already falling.

And he didn’t want to stop.

Chapter Text

Crane — “Useful”

The scar had barely sealed when Fox summoned him.

“Gear up.” The Commander’s voice was steel, no hesitation. “You’re with me.”

Crane didn’t ask where. The Guard didn’t trade in explanations—only orders. He followed into the Senate District, his armor still fresh with bacta patches beneath.

They were running escort for a senator. Crane kept his pace measured, scanning the crowd. A pickpocket, a drunkard, a twitch of a shadow—every movement catalogued, dissected.

When blasterfire erupted from the balcony, Crane didn’t flinch.

The senator screamed. Guards scrambled. Crane dove, hauling the senator down with one arm while firing his sidearm with the other. His shot was clean—burning the attacker’s wrist, the weapon clattering.

Fox was already on the shooter. Crane turned back, hands steady, checking vitals, sealing the senator’s bleeding arm in seconds flat.

“Alive,” Crane said, clipped. “Stable.”

Fox’s visor tilted toward him, unreadable. For a moment, Crane thought he saw something like approval.

Then: “You’ll do.”

No thanks. No recognition. Just another assessment of usefulness.

That night, alone in the barracks, Crane touched the scar burning on his face and wondered if that was all he’d ever be—another instrument, sharpened and used until broken.

⸻

Sol — A Line in the Sand

The new planet was dust and smoke, a wasteland of ash-choked skies. Their squad held position near the ridge, waiting on Jules’ signal.

Sol crouched with Foil, Charger, Hawk, and Gage—listening to Hawk mutter curses under his breath.

When Sol checked his blaster again, Hawk snorted. “Maker, you polish that thing more than you fight. What’s the matter, Sol? Too busy making
Romantic scenarios in your head about the Commander to focus?”

The others chuckled. Even Foil laughed, though softer.

Heat crept up Sol’s neck. He opened his mouth—but Jules’ voice cut sharp across the comms.

“Hawk.”

The ridge went silent.

She stepped into view, blade humming low, dust clinging to her robes. Her eyes locked on Hawk, unflinching.

“Sol executed the last flank perfectly. He kept half your men alive while you lost track of your squad.” Her tone was ice. “So if anyone’s distracted here, it isn’t him.”

The laughter died. Hawk shifted uncomfortably, muttering something under his breath.

Sol’s chest went tight. He’d never—never—had a Jedi defend him like that. Most commanders let the banter slide. Most barely noticed. But Jules? She hadn’t just noticed—she’d stood up for him.

“Stay sharp,” she ordered, before striding past, hair catching the dim sunlight, eyes unreadable.

The squad adjusted, quiet now, following her lead.

Sol didn’t move for a moment. His heart thudded too hard against his ribs, the memory already burning into him.

Not just kindness this time. Respect.

Chapter Text

Crane — Shadows of the Guard

The chamber stank of ozone and sweat. Durasteel walls boxed them in, the air thin, suffocating.

Fox stood tall, helmet on, voice flat as stone. “We need names. Methods. Now.”

The prisoner—a weasel of a smuggler—was shackled to the chair. His lip bled where Fox had struck him already.

Crane stood against the wall, arms crossed. He was here to observe, Fox had said. To “patch the prisoner up if he breaks too early.”

It made Crane’s stomach twist.

The smuggler wheezed, shaking his head. “Please—I don’t know anything.”

Fox slammed a gauntlet into the table. “You do. Tell me who sold you the codes.”

Crane’s fists curled. His instincts screamed—the man’s dehydrated, malnourished, terrified. This isn’t intelligence-gathering. This is breaking.

“Commander,” Crane said, tone sharp. “He won’t last another twenty minutes like this.”

Fox didn’t turn. “That’s not your concern, medic. Keep him alive. Nothing more.”

The smuggler whimpered, rocking in his chair, voice breaking: “Don’t hurt me anymore… please.”

The words cut through Crane like the dagger had. No more pain.

He bit down hard, forcing his face blank, but inside he was splintering. His scar burned, and the reflection he’d hated stared back at him even without a mirror.

Fox’s hand came down again. The prisoner cried out.

Crane stayed silent, every nerve screaming, and wondered how much longer he could keep living as someone else’s instrument.

⸻

Sol — The Tumble

Blasterfire lit the air, a streak of red cutting too close. The ground shook as the droids fired a missile into the ridge.

“Fall back!” Bly’s voice barked across the comms.

Sol pivoted—too slow. The explosion roared, the earth giving way beneath his boots. He saw the fireball split the sky—

And then Jules slammed into him.

Her small frame hit with surprising force, knocking him clean off his feet. They rolled down the slope, the ground crumbling into loose soil, bodies tangled. Sol’s helmet cracked against stone, his arms instinctively locking around her as they tumbled.

Dust and heat filled his lungs until—sudden stillness.

They lay at the bottom of the hill, the world muffled by ringing ears. Sol blinked up at the canopy of smoke, chest heaving—then realized Jules was still pressed against him.

Her braid had come loose, hair spilling around them, her ocean eyes wide, pupils blown from adrenaline. He felt her heartbeat against his chest, quick and fierce, matching his own.

“Are you—” he started, voice hoarse.

“I’m fine.” Her voice trembled, but she didn’t move right away. Her hand was still clutching his pauldron, grip tight.

For a moment, the battlefield fell away. It was just her weight on him, her breath brushing his neck, the warmth of her presence.

Then she blinked, pulling herself up, cheeks flushed. She offered him her hand, pulling him to his feet.

“Stay close, Sol.” Her voice was steadier now, command sliding back into place. “I’m not losing you.”

Sol’s heart thundered, louder than the battle, louder than the blasterfire.

Because he realized, with terrifying clarity, that he’d never felt more alive than in that single, breathless tumble with her.

Chapter Text

Crane — After the Interrogation

The cell block was quiet now. Too quiet.

The prisoner had been dragged out, barely conscious, his wrists raw from the binders. Crane sat at the edge of the medbay cot, gloves still stained with antiseptic and blood, the phantom echo of the man’s pleading in his ears.

Fox’s boots clanked against the durasteel floor as he entered. Helmet still on. Voice clipped.
“You lasted longer than I thought.”

Crane didn’t answer. He kept staring at his scarred reflection in the medbay’s darkened viewport.

Fox stepped closer, folding his arms. “You want my advice? Don’t get attached. Attachment makes you weak. That man was nothing. Numbers and leverage. Nothing more.”

Crane’s jaw tightened. He wanted to shout, to punch the wall, to be something other than silent obedience—but the words lodged in his throat.

Fox turned on his heel. “Clean yourself up. You’ll be back on rotation by morning.”

Crane’s reflection stared back at him, empty-eyed.

Then—chirp.

A datapad message blinked on the console beside him. He frowned, picking it up.
From: Senator Vireen Rhal
I will be meeting with the Guard medics tomorrow regarding conditions in the field. I’d like you present, Medic Crane.

Crane’s scar ached as if it somehow knew this mattered. An invitation—his name, not a number. His pulse thudded uneven in his throat.

For the first time that day, something like air slipped back into his lungs.

⸻

Sol — The Tumble Teased

The campfire crackled low, sparks trailing into the dusk. Troopers lounged around crates, armor half-off, voices carrying in laughter.

“Oi, Sol!” Hawk called, grinning like a nexu. “That was some landing you and Commander Skywalker pulled off earlier. Real graceful tumble.”

A chorus of snickers rippled around the fire. Someone mimed rolling dramatically down a hill.

Sol, helmet off, flushed so red it rivaled the embers. “It—it wasn’t like that—she just—”

“Oh, I saw,” Gage drawled. “She practically tackled you into a cuddle-pile. You’re welcome, by the way, for not whistling.”

More laughter. Sol buried his face in his hands.

Across the fire, Jules sat cross-legged, pretending to polish her lightsaber. Her ears were pink. “Can you all shut up?” she muttered, but the edge of a smile betrayed her.

The teasing only got worse.

Finally, Jules stood, tugging Sol’s arm. “Come with me.”

Sol blinked, heart slamming into his ribs. “W-what? Where—”

She didn’t answer, just pulled him toward the row of supply tents.

Inside, the lanternlight threw shadows on canvas walls. Jules turned, arms folded, calm but with a flush on her cheeks.

“My master,” she began, matter-of-fact, “wanted you to check on a cut on my back. I got it in the fight.”

Sol froze, every nerve short-circuiting. Alone. Tent. Her back. His face burned hotter than the battlefield.

“Uh—yes, Commander ,” he stammered, fumbling for his medkit. His hands trembled so badly he almost dropped it.

Jules raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Relax, Sol. It’s just a cut.”

But her voice was softer than usual. And when she turned, pulling aside her tunic to bare the jagged line of red across her shoulder blade, Sol thought he’d never known fear and awe and longing tangled so tightly in his chest.

His fingertips hovered just shy of her skin, and he wondered how he was supposed to survive this war when the most dangerous thing in the galaxy was standing right in front of him, asking him to touch her.

Crane — Meeting the Senator

The senate tower was brighter than anything Crane had ever walked into. Polished marble, shining transparisteel, fountains whispering in the corners. Everything here gleamed as though it had never known dirt, blood, or war.

Crane sat at the edge of a long table, scar half-hidden in the light. His armor had been polished until it squeaked, but he still felt out of place, a blade among cutlery.

Senator Vireen Rhal entered with a rustle of fine silks, eyes sharp as vibroknives. She smiled—not the pitying kind Crane expected, but the kind that calculated and approved.

“You’re Crane,” she said. Not CT, not medic, not soldier. Crane.

“Yes, Senator.”

She circled him as if inspecting a rare weapon. “I’ve read the reports. Your work is meticulous. You’ve saved more men than any field unit twice your size. And you’ve done it without recognition.”

Crane’s hands curled into fists under the table. He said nothing.

Her smile widened. “That can change. With me, you won’t be invisible. I want you trained, resourced, elevated. You could be the most powerful medic in the Republic—consulted by generals, trusted by the Guard, a name written into history.”

The words landed heavy. Powerful. Recognized. A name, not a number. Something his brothers never dreamed possible.

But why, whispered a quiet part of him, did it feel like a collar disguised as a crown?

“Do you want that, Crane?” she asked.

He swallowed. “Yes, Senator.”

But the reflection in the window behind her still looked hollow-eyed.

⸻

Sol — Patchwork Hands

The tent was quiet, lantern flickering low. Jules sat on a crate, back turned, tunic draped off one shoulder. The cut ran from her shoulder blade down, jagged and angry.

Sol’s hands trembled as he dipped the cloth in antiseptic. He pressed it gently to her skin, biting back an apology when she flinched.

“It’s fine,” Jules murmured, voice softer than he’d ever heard. “I’ve had worse.”

“Still,” he said, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounded, “you shouldn’t just brush it off.”

She gave a small laugh. “That’s all I ever do.”

The words slipped from her lips without armor, and Sol felt something ache in his chest. He wanted to tell her she wasn’t alone, that she didn’t have to keep breaking herself down—but he didn’t know how.

Instead, he worked in silence, fingers brushing lightly against her shoulder as he taped the bandage in place. His hand lingered, just a fraction too long.

She turned her head, gray-blue eyes catching his. For a moment, neither moved. The air felt fragile, like a secret that might shatter if either breathed too loud.

“Thank you, Sol,” she whispered.

His pulse roared in his ears. He managed a nod, but his hand still rested against her shoulder, warm against her skin.

In that heartbeat, Sol knew two terrifying truths:
1. He hopelessly in love with her.
2. And there was no way back.

Chapter Text

Crane — The Senator’s Future

The senator’s office smelled faintly of spice tea and old books, a place untouched by the grit of war. Crane stood ramrod straight before her desk, scar catching the lamplight.

Senator Rhal leaned back in her chair, fingertips steepled. “You’ve proven yourself in the Guard. More than proven—you’ve exceeded every measure. You belong in a position that matters.”

Crane didn’t respond. He had learned silence was often safer than speech.

She smiled, leaning forward. “The Kaminoans make soldiers. I make futures. Tell me, Crane, what happens when this war ends?”

He blinked, chest tightening. He had never let himself picture it.

She continued, voice low, persuasive. “Most of your brothers will be discarded. But not you. I can secure you a place. The Republic’s most brilliant surgeon, second only to Chief Ardan himself. A name on the records—not erased when peace comes.”

A flicker of something—hope? hunger?—cut through him. Second lead surgeon. A future beyond war. A name.

He bowed his head. “Yes, Senator.”

Her smile sharpened, a blade hidden in silk. “Good. Then from this day forward, you are not just another medic. You are mine to shape into the Republic’s finest.”

For the first time in months, Crane felt…seen. But deep in his gut, the hollow ache only widened.

⸻

Sol — Blushing Silence

Outside the tent, Sol staggered like he’d just taken a hit to the chest. The night air was cool, but his face burned.

She thanked me.
She looked at me.
She trusted me.

Every thought came crashing at once, tumbling over itself until all he could do was pace the camp like a stunned cadet.

Foil spotted him first, sprawled by the fire with Charger. “Oi, Sunshine, you look like you swallowed a thermal detonator. What’s got you so pink?”

“Nothing,” Sol blurted too fast, ears going red.

Foil sat up, smirking like a loth-cat. “Don’t tell me it’s all because our scary-strategist Jedi.”

Charger snorted into his drink. “Maker, look at him. He’s glowing. He’s done.”

Sol pulled his helmet down just to hide his face, muttering, “Shut up.”

But no amount of teasing could undo the truth spinning in his chest: Jules’ voice, soft and unguarded, echoing like it had been carved into him.

He couldn’t stop replaying it. Couldn’t stop remembering the warmth of her shoulder beneath his hand. Couldn’t stop feeling like his whole world had just tilted on its axis.

For Sol, that night, the war didn’t matter. Orders didn’t matter. The galaxy didn’t matter.

Only she did.

Chapter Text

Crane — The Surgeon’s Mask

The GAR Medical Wing gleamed white and sterile, more like a senator’s chamber than a place where men bled out. Crane moved through the halls with his new insignia stitched into his blacks—second lead surgeon, capital base.

Everywhere he turned, eyes followed. Respectful, yes. Fearful, too.

Ardan greeted him at the main ward with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Congratulations. You’ve climbed faster than anyone I’ve ever trained.”

Crane gave a curt nod. “Thank you, Chief.”

But then he noticed the datapads piled on the desk. Protocols. Reports. Endless strings of signatures and procedures.

“These are yours now,” Ardan said simply. “Politics. The other side of medicine.”

Politics.

Crane sat in silence through endless meetings—senators debating medical budgets, generals weighing “acceptable loss margins.” He was expected to nod, to advise, to be the Republic’s model medic.

Not once did anyone ask him about the blood that didn’t wash off his hands.

That night, he stared at his reflection in the ward’s polished glass. The scar bisected his face like a truth he couldn’t scrub away. They wanted his precision, his obedience, his image.

But not him. Never him.

⸻

Sol — The Chosen Company

The battle had ended hours ago, the camp buzzing with the sound of exhausted laughter and armor being stripped off for repair. Sol sat cleaning his rifle, trying to keep his head down as Foil and Hawk argued about who had been braver.

Then—

“Sol.”

He froze. Her voice.

When he looked up, Jules stood there—General Secura’s Padawan, hair half-loosened from battle, face streaked with dust. For once, she wasn’t flanked by Bly or the others. She was looking directly at him.

“Can I sit?”

The words knocked the air out of him. “Y-Yes, of course, Commander.”

She settled cross-legged on the crate beside him, hands folded in her lap. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the camp noise fading into nothing.

Finally, Jules broke the silence. “You’re… different.”

Sol blinked. “Different how?”

Her ocean eyes studied him, unflinching. “You don’t treat me like I’m a legend or a rumor. Or a weapon. Just… a person.”

Sol’s throat tightened. He wanted to say something clever, something worthy of her. Instead, all that came out was, “You are a person. A good one.”

And there it was—that fleeting, rare smile, soft enough to undo him completely.

For Sol, that single moment was louder than blaster fire, brighter than the stars above. Jules had chosen him.

Crane — The Performance

The Senate hall glittered like a reliquary. Cameras angled, senators in layered silks murmured, and the whole thing smelled faintly of disinfectant and expensive perfume. They had arranged the stage to look like a field triage—an anesthetized volunteer trooper, a rumpled stretcher, holo-readouts. It was theater dressed as medicine.

Crane stood behind the surgical drape, the light over his head too bright, every face in the room a question he hadn’t asked. Senator Vireen Rhal, flanked by aides, sat like an empress; Fox and Ardan both stood to the side, arms folded. The applause when they announced him was polite and calculated.

“Today,” the senator intoned, “we demonstrate the Republic’s finest medical techniques. Observe how our top surgeons keep our soldiers alive.” Her smile was open, but her fingers tapped a datapad with diplomatic hunger. Crane could feel the weight of that smile like an order.

He molded his expression into flat professionalism and moved. Instruments slid into his hands with practiced motions. He barked short commands to the assistant medics placed for show—“Clamp. Retractor. Cauterize.” Each action precise. The holo readouts blinked and bled in staged urgency. Cameras zoomed. A senator leaned forward like it was story time.

When the “complication” came—a simulated arterial rupture they’d scripted to show heroics—two assistant medics froze in the theatrics. The room inhaled.

Crane didn’t dramatize. He stepped forward, one hand steady where others might shake. He worked fast, silent, efficient. The volunteer’s vitals steadied. The cameras cut to smiling senators. The applause was immediate, the sort that smells of profit.

Then someone asked a question about policy—blood banks, rationing, budgets. Crane’s mouth opened in that brittle way it did when forced into words. His answers were short, blunt, clipped to bone.

A councilman in a lavender robe tried to coax a more comforting line. “Medic Crane, how do you reconcile such—” he began.

Crane’s reply was cold as a scalpel. “Reconcile?” He looked out over the sea of silk and titles. “If you want to see how quickly I work, give me a blaster, put one of you under that table, and I’ll operate.” His voice was even, the comment stripped of malice but heavy with contempt.

Silence for one beat. Then nervous laughter, a ripple of uncomfortable clapping. Senator Rhal’s smile didn’t flicker, but something in her eyes sharpened—interest, appraisal. Fox’s jaw tightened; Ardan gave a clipped, unreadable sound.

Crane stood there as they rewired the conversation into applause and talking points. The theater swallowed the edge of his truth and left him with the hollow buzz of being used as spectacle.

Afterwards, officials lined up to pat his arm, to promise wards and funding. He fielded their praise like he did wounds—precisely, as if cataloguing symptoms.

He left the hall with another promotion quietly dropping into his file, another title, another public face. In the polished window of the antechamber his reflection showed the scar, the grief, the practiced politeness. He had become useful—and in the usefulness, he felt less like a man and more like an exhibit.

⸻

Sol — The Quiet Claim

The planet they’d landed on for the next campaign smelled dry and metallic. The 327th set up quickly—fast runs, quick med checks, quiet efficiency. Sol moved with the unit, but his head kept returning to one moment: Jules asking him to check her back. The memory had a warmth to it he couldn’t explain.

Between rotations, while squads tightened straps and foils joked, Commander Bly approached Jules with the morning brief. She ran through placements, then paused.

“Bly,” she said, “I want Sol with me on the next recon.” The tone was simple, the sentence like a settled fact.

Bly’s face tilted, searching hers. “You choose your medics, Jules?” His voice was both amused and proud—fatherly in the way it softened when it came to his commander.

“Yes,” she answered. “He kept the rear steady last time and I trust him.” Her eyes flicked in Sol’s direction—he was repairing his comm—and she added, quieter, “And he doesn’t treat me like a kid.”

Foil, who’d been lounging, snorted. “Look at that. The marble queen picking a pet.” The group laughed, light and teasing.

Sol felt all of them at once—pride, a sudden fluttering heat, an embarrassed, giddy glow that made his cheeks warm. He tried to keep his posture casual as Charger called out logistics, but his hands trembled on the strap he was tightening.

Later, while they prepped, Jules came over to his side with minimal fanfare. “We leave at fifteen,” she said. “Stay at my flank.” There was no ceremony—just instruction. And in that instruction was trust.

He nodded, trying to make his breath sound ordinary. “Yes, Commander.”

Hawk muttered something about favorites under his breath, but even he watched with a modicum of respect. Sol caught Aayla’s slight nod across the lot—a formal, quiet approval that settled in his chest like a warm weight.

That recon was sharp: precise angles, quiet movement, Jules’ commands like thread through the unit. At one point, when a hidden starter charge went off too close to Sol, she dove without thinking and shoved him down behind a slag boulder. They hit the ground hard; for a second they were pressed together, dust and adrenaline and the smell of ozone. She flashed him a glance—not amused, not teasing: measured concern.

“Again,” she said when they’d taken cover. “Maintain your position. Don’t be reckless.”

He met her eyes, breath ragged. “I—won’t be.” The certainty in his voice surprised him; it felt true in a way his other promises hadn’t.

At the debrief, Bly walked past Sol and clapped him once on the shoulder. “Good work,” he murmured. “You’re with her. That’s a compliment to you.”

Sol’s ears buzzed. He wanted to say something big—poetic, perhaps a clumsy confession—but instead he grinned, cheeks still warm. “Thank you, sir.”

As the squad dispersed, Jules hung back for a second, looking at him as if she were checking to make sure he could be counted on—really counted on. Sol felt seen in a way that made his limbs light. She had chosen him to be close, to be trusted. It was the quietest, most dangerous kind of honor.

⸻

The room they’d both entered—a different kind of battlefield—split them in opposite directions. Crane was polished and placed under chandeliers; Sol found himself deliberately placed at the side of the girl who’d once let him touch her shoulder in the dim light of a tent.

Crane’s public life smelled of speeches and optics now. He spoke more in that glass world, but each word was a blade—dry, pointed, dangerous. The senator’s promise glittered like a cage.

Sol’s world had narrowed to a flank and a promise: stay at my side.

Both choices would demand something he might not be ready to give.

Chapter Text

Crane — Gilded Cage

The dinners were the worst.

The senator’s townhouse sat high over Coruscant, walls of glass looking out on endless citylight. Chandeliers glowed low and golden, expensive wine flowed, and the guests—senators, admirals, corporate liaisons—droned about policy, about trade routes, about acceptable numbers.

Crane sat where Senator Rhal placed him, a curiosity among jewels. The Republic’s model medic. They asked him questions meant to flatter, to show off the senator’s prize.

“What’s the most difficult procedure you’ve done?”
“How do you stay calm under fire?”
“Are the Jedi as reckless as the reports say?”

He gave clipped, dry answers, voice flat. “Cardiac repair. Focus. Yes.”

Laughter rippled like breaking glass. Someone clapped his shoulder. They thought it was charm. The senator smiled her smooth smile and raised a glass.

Afterward, he escaped. Always escaped. Past the night guards, down the service lifts, back into the sterile white quiet of the medical wing. The night shift was thin, just a few droids and tired medics.

There, Crane worked. Not for cameras. Not for senators. For himself.

He dissected training holos, replayed battlefield simulations, ran impossible scenarios on blank dummies. His fingers moved like knives across flesh and synth-skin. He muttered every term, every step, until his voice was raw.

Sleep was irrelevant. Hunger could be timed. His scar itched under the lamps but he ignored it. Precision mattered. Practice mattered. Medicine mattered.

When Ardan found him one night—alone, elbows deep in a practice thoracic cavity—he just stood in the doorway. “You’ll break yourself this way,” Ardan said quietly.

Crane didn’t look up. “Better me than them.”

And the scalpel went on moving.

⸻

Sol — Meeting the 501st

The 327th had rotated back to Coruscant for refit, their armor battered and their boots heavy with dust. Sol expected downtime. Instead, Bly walked him across the hangar with a rare grin.

“Thought it was time you met some of the Republic’s… sharper edges,” Bly said.

They stepped into the echoing bay just as a gunship lowered its ramp. Out strode Captain Rex—command posture like iron—followed by a laughing medic Sol had only heard stories about: Kix, fast-talking and sharp-eyed. Behind them, a Jedi Padawan with orange markings on her lekku—Ahsoka Tano.

And then came the general.

Anakin Skywalker. Taller than Sol expected, stride confident, voice warm but clipped as he barked greetings. Soldiers snapped to attention like lightning.

Rex clasped Bly’s arm, then looked at Sol. “New blood?”

“Medic,” Bly confirmed. “Good head under fire.”

Rex gave Sol a once-over. Not unkind, but weighing. “We’ll see.”

Kix grinned, elbowing him. “Don’t let him scare you. You’ll fit right in if you don’t trip over your own boots.”

Ahsoka added brightly, “Don’t mind them. If Bly says you’re good, you’re good.”

But Sol could hardly breathe. Because behind them, stepping out into the hangar with a datapad tucked under her arm—brown hair loose from a braid, ocean eyes catching the light—was Jules.

His pulse jumped. Bly was talking, Rex was answering, Anakin was gesturing—but Sol’s focus tunneled on her. She walked past, serious, focused, murmuring something to her brother. She didn’t even notice him.

But Sol noticed everything.

Foil would have teased him mercilessly. Hawk would’ve called him pathetic. But standing there, with Rex sizing him up and Anakin’s shadow looming, Sol only thought one thing—

Maker help me, I’m in deeper than I realized.

Chapter Text

Crane — The Penthouse

The door slid open on silence and opulence.

Glass walls wrapped the penthouse, the city’s veins of speeders glimmering below. Rugs thick enough to drown a boot, couches in pale ivory leather, a kitchen stocked with more food than he’d ever seen in one place.

All his.

The senator had said it like a gift, her hand light on his arm. “You can’t live in barracks forever. You’ve earned this.”

Earned. He almost laughed. The word didn’t sit right in his throat. But he stood there anyway, scar reflecting in the glass, armor traded for pressed civilian black.

A credstick lay on the counter. Enough to last a lifetime, if clones were given lifetimes.

He should have felt victorious. Instead, he felt… displaced. Like he’d stepped into someone else’s life.

On the low table, datapads waited—tomorrow’s cases. His hand stopped at one. Small file. Small body. Designation: CT-19284. Age: 10 years (he looks 10, but he’s probably like 6 or 5 being a clone and all) . Congenital defect. Cardiac reconstruction scheduled.

Crane sat heavily on the couch, datapad glowing in his scarred hands.

Ten years old. Too young to hold a blaster. Already broken.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his eye socket, teeth gritted. Luxury pressed in from all sides—soft, rich, meaningless. And all he could think about was the boy on the slab tomorrow, and how many of these senators sipping wine upstairs would ever remember his number.

⸻

Sol — Under Skywalker’s Eye

The campfire burned low, clones scattered in their usual knots of armor and laughter. Sol had been cleaning his kit when Bly called him over, voice carrying too casually for comfort.

“General Skywalker wants a word.”

Sol’s stomach dropped.

Anakin Skywalker sat apart, arms folded, firelight catching on his scar. He was younger than Sol expected, but sharper too—eyes that saw straight through excuses. Jules sat nearby, silent, datapad in her lap, though she wasn’t reading.

“Medic Sol, right?” Anakin said. His tone was measured. Not unkind. But not friendly.

“Yes, General.” Sol kept his posture rigid, words clipped.

“I’ve been hearing my sister favors you on missions,” Anakin continued, one brow arching. “That true?”

Heat rushed Sol’s neck. He wanted to deny it, but Jules’ glance flicked up like a warning. Honest. Always honest.

“She—she asked for me in her squad, sir. I do my best to keep her safe.”

Anakin studied him. Long. Silent. Then he leaned forward, voice low.

“My sister’s not like other Jedi. She’s been through enough already. I won’t have anyone—clone, Jedi, or otherwise—make things harder for her. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Sol’s voice nearly cracked.

Anakin’s gaze softened, just barely. “Good. Then prove it.”

Jules finally looked up, gray-blue eyes catching Sol’s for half a second. Something unreadable there—warning, or gratitude, or maybe just shared nerves.

And Sol walked away with his heart pounding harder than any blasterfire could manage.

Chapter Text

Crane — The Surgery

The operating theater gleamed. White lights. Sterile steel. A child clone on the table, chest small enough that Crane could nearly cover it with one hand.

And above, the gallery. Senators, aides, brass in polished uniforms. Watching. Waiting.

Crane’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. They wanted to see him perform. A spectacle. A half-clone miracle on display.

He flicked a switch without a word. The glass between gallery and theater fogged instantly, opacity shielding the room from view. Gasps rippled above, muffled.

“This isn’t theater,” Crane muttered, voice flat behind the mask. “This is a life.”

He bent over the boy, gloved hands steady as durasteel. Incision. Retraction. Sutures finer than hair. His mind narrowed, world contracting until there was nothing left but anatomy and survival.

Every heartbeat on the monitor was louder than the senators pounding at the glass. Louder than their protests.

And when the boy’s heart stabilized, Crane finally stepped back, drenched in sweat. Empty gallery lights glared down, but he didn’t look. His reflection in the steel tray was enough—scarred, cold, tired.

The boy lived. That was all that mattered.

⸻

Sol — Alone With Jules

Camp settled quiet after orders dispersed. Most clones drifted to mess or to their bunks. Sol lingered by the medical tent, half-hoping, half-dreading.

And then she was there. Jules. Gray-blue eyes finding him in the low glow.

“Did Anakin talk to you?” she asked softly. No preamble. Just slicing straight to it.

Sol’s chest tightened. “…Yeah. He—warned me.”

Her expression flickered. A shadow of guilt, maybe, or frustration. “He means well. But he thinks he has to protect me from everything.”

Sol shook his head quickly. “I don’t— I’m not trying to—”

“I know,” she interrupted, voice calmer than he expected. Kind, but tinged with something else. Weariness. “That’s why I wanted to find you. To say… don’t let him scare you off.”

His breath caught. She didn’t notice—or pretended not to.

Instead, she pulled a datapad from her belt, flicked it on, and the map of their next mission glowed between them. She pointed, close enough that her sleeve brushed his hand.

“Here. This ridge. My squad’s going to need someone quick-thinking if things go sideways. That’s you.”

Sol stared at the map, but all he felt was the warmth of her presence, the way her trust settled like a weight he wanted to carry forever.

“…I won’t let you down,” he said quietly.

She gave him the faintest smile. “I know.”

Chapter Text

The penthouse lights were too bright. Too white. Everything gleamed like the operating room—his uniform, his hands, even the untouched meal cooling on the table.

He hadn’t slept. The child’s heartbeat still pulsed behind his eyes.

The door chimed once. He didn’t move.

Then it opened anyway.

“Chief Veyra said I’d find you here,” came a smooth voice—Senator Auren, the one who’d been spearheading the “medic demonstration” initiative. She looked calm. Too calm. That kind of calm that came before a detonation.

“You fogged the gallery,” she said simply.

Crane didn’t answer.

“You embarrassed me. You embarrassed the Senate. You were meant to inspire confidence, not remind them we’re pouring billions into soldiers that can’t even follow orders.”

“I saved the boy,” he said flatly. “You got your miracle.”

Her lips tightened. “Watch your tone, Sergeant.”

He stood. Taller than her, shoulders squared, eyes unblinking. The scar down his face caught the light—an ugly, beautiful rebellion.

“I don’t care about their confidence,” he said. “I care about the next heartbeat that depends on my hands.”

Silence.

She stepped forward, voice low. “Careful, Crane. There’s a difference between saving lives and wasting potential. You could be so much more if you learned how to play the game.”

When she left, the quiet roared.

He stood at the window, overlooking Coruscant’s endless glow, and only when the door shut again did he see Ardan’s reflection in the glass—arms folded, eyes weary.

“She’s not wrong about your skill,” Ardan said softly. “But she’s wrong about what it’s for.”

Crane turned, anger cracking. “What is it for, then? Because right now it just feels like I’m patching up lives so they can be thrown back into hell again.”

Ardan didn’t flinch. “It’s for you, Crane. To remember you’re still human. Because the moment you forget that, all this—” He gestured to the lights, the rank, the sterile grandeur— “it swallows you whole.”

Crane looked down, breath trembling once before his jaw locked again. “Maybe I already let it.”

⸻

Sol — The Ridge Mission

The wind screamed across the canyon ridge. Droids’ fire hissed through the dust, orange bolts cutting the air.

“Gage, on the flank!” Jules’ voice rang sharp, commanding, alive. “Charger, Foil—pin them on the left! Hawk, cover Sol!”

Sol didn’t think; he moved. His rifle barked. Droids dropped. Their line pushed forward with perfect formation—like she’d planned it all hours before the first shot was fired.

“Grenade!” Foil yelled.

Jules’ saber whirled, cyan flash splitting the blast in two. Sol blinked the dust from his eyes, lungs burning, heart hammering in rhythm with her strikes.

Minutes later, the droid fire faltered. The Separatist commander, a tall Neimoidian, stumbled back into the bunker, clutching a datapad.

Jules advanced, calm and cold. “Sol—cover the door.”

He obeyed, hearing only fragments inside. Her voice, low and precise. His, defiant, desperate. Then a hum—then silence.

When she stepped out again, saber still lit, her face was unreadable. Only her eyes betrayed her—too bright, too hollow.

“Got what we needed,” she said simply.

Foil cracked a joke, trying to lighten the air. No one laughed.

Sol’s gaze followed her as she turned toward the horizon, the setting sun igniting her silhouette. He’d never seen someone so strong—and so completely broken underneath it.

And for the first time, the weight of the war hit him full-force.

Chapter Text

Crane — Into the Senator’s Orbit

The Senator’s office overlooked Coruscant’s core spires, a nest of glass and gold gleaming against the perpetual dusk. Crane stood at the edge of it, gloves still faintly stained from his last operation, trying to remember when his hands had last shaken.

“Sit,” Senator Auren said smoothly, setting a drink on the table beside him. “You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re never fine, Crane.” Her tone was honey—just enough warmth to slip through the cracks. “That’s what makes you brilliant.”

He didn’t respond.

“Word spreads fast. The gallery incident, the surgery—half the Senate’s medical board is obsessed with you.”

“I didn’t ask for obsession.”

“No,” she said, moving closer, “but you earned it.”

She handed him the glass. His fingers brushed hers. The contact was brief, accidental—or not.

“Tell me,” she said, almost softly, “do you ever rest?”

He stared at the amber liquid. “Rest means slowing down.”

“And slowing down means failing?”

He met her gaze. Her smile was small, knowing. “You remind me of myself when I was young,” she said. “Sharp, unyielding, convinced the galaxy owed me nothing. But Crane…”

Her hand rested lightly on his forearm. “The galaxy needs people like us to hold it together.”

He should’ve pulled away. Instead, he stood there, rigid, heart hammering once.

Her voice lowered to a whisper. “You don’t have to carry everything alone. Let me help you.”

Something in him twitched—some deep, wordless ache. The offer felt like oxygen.

And yet—behind it, something hollow. Something too sweet to trust.

He set the glass down untouched. “Help me by letting me work.”

Her smile didn’t falter. “Of course.”

When he finally left the office, the corridor felt colder. But her words stuck like needles in his chest.

You don’t have to carry everything alone.

For the first time, he wanted to believe her.

⸻

Sol — The Quiet After the Ridge

The ridge was silent now. No droids. No fire. Only the hum of the distant engines and the soft hiss of cooling metal.

Sol found Jules sitting a few meters away, on a broken ridge of stone. The light from the fading sun caught on her hair, streaking it gold and copper. Her saber lay beside her, unlit.

He approached slowly. “Commander?”

She didn’t turn. “You did well today, Sol.”

He sat beside her, hesitating before answering. “You… scared me a little.”

That got her attention. Her head tilted, eyes flicking to him. The faintest smirk tugged her lips, tired but genuine. “Scared you?”

“You were…” He struggled for the word. “Different.”

Her gaze drifted to the horizon again. “That’s war.”

“No,” Sol said quietly. “That’s not you.”

Something inside her shifted—like a wire pulled too tight.

“Sol,” she said, and her voice dropped, almost a whisper. “You don’t understand. One day you will.”

He wanted to argue, to reach out, to say the galaxy didn’t deserve someone like her. But she looked so impossibly far away even when she was right beside him.

“You used to be different, didn’t you?” he asked softly.

Her breath caught. “Kind. Playful. Annoying, according to my brother.” A humorless smile flickered across her face. “That girl burned out a long time ago, good thing though, this war would have killed her.”

“No,” he said, too fast, too fierce. “She’s still in there.”

She finally looked at him then—really looked. Her eyes were ocean-blue and green at once, luminous in the dying light.

“You shouldn’t look for her,” Jules murmured. “You’ll just end up hurting.”

And then she stood, collected her saber, and walked back toward the others—leaving Sol staring after her, feeling like he’d just seen a ghost wear someone else’s skin.

Chapter Text

The Study of Flesh and Power

He stopped noticing when the nights bled into mornings.

Stacks of datapads lay open across his penthouse desk: neural schematics, cytokine response charts, casualty statistics, senator briefing transcripts. Crane’s handwriting marched in precise lines down every margin—clinical, sharp, detached.

He’d memorized everything. He always did. The manual knowledge had once been his comfort; now it was a cage he built himself, cell by cell.

And yet… none of it explained people.

Why his patients smiled when they were dying. Why soldiers clapped him on the shoulder after being stitched shut. Why the senator called him brilliant like it meant something more than anatomical accuracy.

He didn’t understand any of it.

A knock came at his door. He didn’t look up.

“It’s open.”

Senator Auren glided in, wrapped in silver fabric and calm. Her voice was smooth as the silk she wore. “Still working?”

“I’m always working.”

She smiled. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”

She stepped closer, reading over his notes. “You’ve gone far beyond your assignment. No one asked for cytokine breakdowns.”

“They should have,” Crane muttered. “It’s inefficient otherwise.”

“You’re relentless.” She said it like a compliment. “That’s why I wanted to see you.”

He finally looked at her. Her eyes glimmered, sharp and assessing.

“The Republic needs medics who don’t just treat wounds,” she said softly. “It needs strategists who can shape outcomes. You could help me build a program—integrating your methods into every battalion. Think of it, Crane. Every life you touch multiplied a thousandfold.”

His jaw tightened. “You make it sound like cloning data.”

“Data saves lives,” she countered smoothly. “Emotion doesn’t.”

Something inside him tensed at that—some tiny echo of resistance.

She noticed. Her hand brushed his shoulder lightly, perfectly measured. “You’re a weapon, Crane. A scalpel in a galaxy of hammers. I just want to make sure you’re aimed in the right direction.”

He froze at the word weapon.

It should’ve sounded wrong. Instead, it sounded simple. Understandable.

He nodded once, mechanical. “Understood.”

As she left, the door’s quiet hiss sealed the silence again.

He stared at his notes, eyes catching on a phrase he’d written earlier: Human empathy—variable response, inconsistent.

He underlined it once, then again, until the paper tore.

⸻

Sol — The March

The march through the canyon was long, red dust rising with every step. The squad was stretched thin but steady—Charger up front, Foil humming an off-key song, Hawk muttering complaints under his breath.

Jules walked ahead, her saber clipped at her belt, posture razor-straight. Sol trailed behind her, helmet under one arm, trying to think of something—anything—to make her smile again.

“Hey, Commander,” Foil called, grinning through the grit. “You ever see Sol without that lovesick expression? Man looks like a kicked tooka every time you talk.”

Hawk snorted. “Maybe he’s just scared of her. I would be.”

Sol flushed scarlet. “Cut it out, Foil—”

Jules didn’t even turn. “That’s enough.”

The tone was sharp, clipped—cold enough that the whole squad went silent.

They marched in silence for another few meters before Sol finally caught up to her. “Sorry about them,” he said carefully. “They don’t mean anything by it.”

“I know,” Jules said flatly. “But you should learn not to apologize for things that don’t matter.”

He frowned. “It does matter. They’re your men also about that man you—”

She stopped walking. Turned. Her eyes, ocean-blue and tired, locked on his.

“This is a war, Sol,” she said quietly, but her voice was iron. “I’m not going to spare my enemies to make you happy. Your happiness does nothing for me or this squad.”

He froze.

“The only thing that matters is victory,” she continued, every word sharper than the last. “Keeping them alive. That’s our payment. Not comfort. Not laughter. Just survival and victory.”

For a second, he saw the flicker of something behind her anger—fear maybe, or the ghost of grief—but it vanished just as quickly.

She turned back around, robe catching in the wind. “Stay focused,” she ordered.

Foil whispered something under his breath, but Sol didn’t hear. His pulse drowned it out.

He wanted to argue, to remind her that she was still human. But the look in her eyes—the exhaustion, the quiet despair—silenced him.

She was right about one thing: this was war.

And she was burning herself alive to win it.

Chapter Text

The senator’s lab smelled too clean.
Crane stood under the bright surgical lamps, every inch of him washed in white light, no shadows left for a man to hide behind. The senator circled him slowly, speaking in that gentle, precise tone that always made him feel like an instrument being tuned.

“You’ve outgrown simple triage and trauma work,” she said, her nails clicking faintly against the metal table. “You could change medicine, Crane. You could make the Republic’s army immortal.”

She gestured to the table where a half-sedated clone lay, his vitals fluttering weakly. “This one’s neural net is failing. We’re testing experimental regeneration stimulants. I need you to see how far the brain can handle it.”

Crane’s jaw flexed, pulse unsteady.
He wasn’t supposed to experiment on them. But she was looking at him—admiring him. “You’re the only one skilled enough to try this,” she murmured, stepping closer, fingertips ghosting his arm. “You see things others can’t. You don’t hesitate.”

And Maker help him… he didn’t.
Because the moment he hesitated, she would turn cold again, and that unbearable silence of disapproval would return.

When it was over, the clone’s heart still beat—but Crane’s chest felt hollow. The senator smiled, serene.

“You’re extraordinary,” she whispered. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

He didn’t meet her eyes. He didn’t feel extraordinary. He felt like he’d crossed a line he couldn’t find his way back from.
Later, long past midnight, he sat alone in the ward, practicing fine-motor sutures on an empty med-droid chassis, his gloves still smelling faintly of antiseptic and guilt.

⸻

Meanwhile…

The night outside the canyon camp was quiet. The stars were pale pinpricks between smoky clouds. Sol stood outside Jules’s tent, working up the nerve to speak.
He’d seen how her expression had gone blank after she snapped at him—how her hands trembled faintly when she thought no one was looking.

He raised his hand to the tent flap… and froze.
A voice. Hers. Low, almost breaking.

“You said once that I still have light left, Zephir… but I can’t feel it anymore.”

Silence. Then—her voice again, softer, as though she were answering someone unseen.

“I know you’re trying to protect me. But every time I close my eyes, I see the faces. The ones I couldn’t save.”

Sol’s heart lurched.
He didn’t understand who she was talking to—didn’t want to intrude—but something in her tone made his chest ache.

“You keep saying I’m still the girl you met,” Jules whispered. “The one who laughed with Ahsoka and joked with Bly… but she’s gone, Zephir. She died a long time ago.”

He stepped back from the tent, silent, the cold air burning his throat.
Because for the first time, Sol realized—she wasn’t just hardened by war. She was haunted.

And in some distant part of Coruscant, Crane was learning the same lesson through another form of haunting: what happens when you let others strip you of your humanity, piece by piece, until you can’t tell where the orders end and your conscience begins.

Chapter Text

The senator’s gala was a spectacle—gold draped across marble, the hum of strings echoing in the atrium. Crane stood beside her, the crisp white of his new medical uniform blinding under the lights. His name was on everyone’s lips: Lieutenant Crane, the miracle surgeon.

He smiled when expected, bowed when told. Inside, his stomach twisted.

“You saved a life most said couldn’t be saved,” the senator announced, raising her glass. “The Republic owes you gratitude—and faith in the brilliance of our medical division.”

Applause. Cameras flashing.
Crane nodded once, dry and tight. He could still see the clone’s wide eyes during surgery, still hear the senator’s pleased hum as she watched from behind the glass.

Later, when the crowd thinned, she drew him aside. The lights from Coruscant’s skyline glittered behind her.

“You should enjoy yourself more,” she said softly, pouring him a drink he didn’t touch. “You’re too serious.”

He shrugged. “Seriousness keeps people alive.”

“And what keeps you alive, Crane?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared out over the city, his reflection ghosted against the window—clean white coat, faint lines of muscle now visible under it. He’d started working out lately, partly to quiet his head, partly to feel like his body still belonged to him.

“You spend too much time with machines,” she murmured, teasing.

He looked at her, voice flat.

“Machines don’t lie. Or judge. Or need small talk.”

Her smile faltered, just for a heartbeat. But then she reached up, brushed an invisible speck from his collar.

“One day you’ll have to learn the value of people again.”

He didn’t answer.
Because right now, the weight of their applause felt heavier than any wound he’d ever treated.

⸻

CHAPTER: The Morning After

The camp was still waking. Sunlight filtered through dust, making the world look half-dreaming. Sol spotted Jules crouched by the fire, fastening her boots. Her hair was a tangled curtain, her expression unreadable.

He hesitated—then walked over.

“Hey… can I ask you something?”

She looked up, wary. “What?”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling stupid.

“Last night. I… heard you talking. To someone. Inside your tent.”

Her eyes widened instantly, a faint pink rushing across her cheeks.

“You were spying on me?!” she snapped, voice higher than usual.

He raised his hands quickly. “No! No, I just— I was coming to apologize for earlier and I heard you. I swear I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

Jules crossed her arms, still flustered. “Well, next time don’t linger outside someone’s tent, Sol. That’s creepy.”

He blinked, caught between guilt and confusion. “I wasn’t lingering! I was worried about you.”

Something in his tone softened her a little. She sighed, looking away.

“It was… nothing, okay? Just—just me talking to myself.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You don’t seem like the type to talk to yourself.”

Her lips twitched, almost a smile. “Yeah, well. War changes people.”

For a second, he thought she might actually say more—but then Charger called for them to move out, and the moment dissolved into dust and marching orders.

Still, Sol couldn’t shake the image of her voice in the dark: soft, cracked, talking to someone.

And somewhere back on Coruscant, Crane was learning that the same silence Jules feared was the only thing that made sense to him anymore.

—
The desert air shimmered with heat as the squad made their way down the ridge. Jules was at point, her braid whipping in the wind, the pale light of her lightsabers occasionally glinting off her armor plates when she moved to scout ahead.

Sol had been watching her more than he meant to.
Not because he wanted to—well, not just because he wanted to—but because she kept doing something strange.

Every few kilometers, when the others weren’t looking, she’d tilt her head slightly… like someone had spoken just beside her ear. Sometimes her lips moved faintly, forming quiet words no one else could hear.

It happened again just as they reached the ruins of an old comm outpost.

Sol slowed his pace, pretending to check his weapon.
Jules had stepped away from the group, eyes narrowed, murmuring to empty air.
He couldn’t catch the words, only the tone—low, tense, as if she were arguing with someone who wasn’t there.

Foil jogged up beside him, whistling under his breath.

“Our General sure loves her little walks, huh?”

Sol frowned. “Yeah. You guys ever notice her… talking to herself?”

Charger snorted. “Vod, she always does that. We figure she’s planning tactics or something.”

Gage adjusted his rifle. “Or whispering to the Force. Jedi thing, maybe.”

Foil grinned, always the joker. “Or maybe she’s got a secret boyfriend. Talks to him on her comms. Those Jedi rules don’t stop everyone.”

Charger shoved him lightly. “Don’t be an idiot. Jules ain’t like that.”

Sol half-smiled, but it faded quick. His eyes had caught something glinting at her hip—sleek, black, unmistakable.
A blaster.

He blinked. “Wait—hold up. She’s carrying a blaster?”

Charger followed his gaze, squinting. “Yeah. She’s had that for years.”

“I thought Jedi don’t use those.”

Foil chuckled. “Most don’t. Jules ain’t ‘most.’”

Gage added, “She’s got perfect aim. Rumor says she grew up in the Hutt cartel before the Jedi found her. Learned to shoot before she could talk.”

Sol looked back toward her, brow furrowing. “The Hutt cartel?”

Charger nodded. “Yeah, that’s what Cody said once. Explains the attitude, huh?”

The others laughed, but Sol didn’t. He kept watching Jules, watching the way she holstered the blaster again like muscle memory, every motion efficient and quiet.

She turned back toward them then, face calm, the sunlight catching the gold of her saber hilts.

“We move in ten minutes,” she called.

The squad fell into motion. Sol lingered a moment longer, something cold curling under his ribs.

He’d thought he was starting to understand her. But now he realized—every time he thought he saw the full picture, Jules just shifted, showing another piece he hadn’t known was missing.

Chapter Text

FIELD – SOL’S POV

It was supposed to be a quiet watch rotation.
The stars hung low over the dunes, the wind soft and steady. The rest of the squad slept in a loose circle near the campfire’s dying glow. Sol was making his second perimeter check when he heard it.

Jules’ voice.

Low, sharp, half-whispered.

He followed the sound toward a cluster of rocks beyond the ridge, the sand crunching beneath his boots. And then—another voice.
But it wasn’t any voice he recognized. It sounded like static and thunder layered over warmth, the edges curling with laughter that wasn’t quite human.

“You shouldn’t push yourself so far, little storm,” it said.

Jules’ voice came soft, cracked around the edges.

“I have to, Zephir. If I stop… I don’t know what I’ll become.”

Sol froze. His throat went dry. Someone was there. Someone she was talking to.

He peered around the rock—
And saw nothing. Just her, kneeling, eyes shining faintly in the darkness like silver glass, one hand pressed to the sand.

The air shimmered faintly around her, like light bending.

Sol stepped forward. “General?”

Her head snapped up. For a split second, pure panic flashed across her face. Then, before he could say another word, Jules was on her feet—closing the distance between them—and her hand pressed over his mouth.

Her palm was trembling.

“Don’t,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Please, Sol. Don’t speak.”

He could feel her pulse against his skin. Her eyes—those impossible ocean-grey-
eyes—were wide, desperate, and more human than he’d ever seen them.

For a moment, the whole galaxy seemed to still.

Sol’s face burned so hot he thought his helmet might fog up just from being near her. He nodded—once, jerky—and she slowly lowered her hand.

Silence hung heavy between them.
Then Jules swallowed hard and said, almost pleading:

“What you heard… you didn’t hear. Understand?”

Sol tried to find words, but his mouth was dry. He just nodded again.

She turned away, shoulders tight.

“Go back to camp. Please.”

He obeyed.
But that voice—the one that called her little storm—it still echoed in his mind long after the stars had blurred into dawn.

⸻

CORUSCANT – CRANE’S POV

The senator’s laboratory was not in the Senate district. It was buried far below it—down in the sublevels where the air always smelled faintly of iron and ozone.

Crane stood beside the operating table, gloves already on, expression carved from stone.

The senator swept in, elegant as always, her red silk sleeves fluttering like flames.

“I wanted you to see something special today,” she said. “A project no other medic has the clearance for.”

He said nothing, only watching as the draped sheet was pulled back.
The figure on the table was… barely a person. Half cybernetic, half living tissue—some poor clone test subject whose body had been remade piece by piece.

His jaw tightened. “You’re merging organic brain tissue with droid cores.”

She smiled, all teeth. “I’m saving them. This is the future of the Republic, Crane. Flesh that doesn’t fail. Soldiers who don’t question orders. Medics who never tire.”

He took a step back, the hum of the machines crawling up his spine.

“You didn’t bring me here to heal,” he said flatly.

Her eyes glittered. “No, darling. I brought you here to transcend.”

The hum sharpened. One of the half-living clones twitched on the table.

Crane’s hand went to his blaster. The sound of it unholstering cracked through the silence.

“Tell me what your plans are,” he said, voice cold, steady. “And don’t lie to me. I don’t hesitate.”

The senator tilted her head, amused—like a nexu toying with prey.

“Oh, I know you don’t. That’s why I chose you.”

Her gaze flicked to the table controls. Lights began to surge across the instruments.
Crane kept his aim locked. But his pulse pounded against the trigger guard.

Because for the first time, he realized—he wasn’t sure whether the darkness in this room was hers… or his.
FIELD – SOL’S POV

Sol couldn’t remember the walk back to camp.
His mind was just a loop of her hand pressed over his mouth, the way her voice trembled, the faint shimmer of moonlight on her hair—
Maker, he was doomed.

He dropped onto his bedroll beside Foil, heart still hammering like a speeder engine.
Foil squinted blearily at him. “Bro, you look like you just saw a ghost or got kissed by one. Which was it?”
“Neither,” Sol blurted, too fast.
Foil smirked. “So both, then.”

Sol buried his face in his blanket and groaned.

By morning, he still hadn’t slept. He spent breakfast pretending to check his datapad just so he didn’t have to meet Jules’ eyes across the fire. But every time he tried not to look at her, she was just… there: calm, sharp, braid swaying down her back, sunlight cutting through the loose strands of her hair.

He kept telling himself to forget it.
He’d imagined the voice.
He’d imagined the shimmer.
He was just—
“Sol.”

Her voice.
He froze.

Jules stood right beside him, arms folded loosely, expression unreadable. “Walk with me,” she said.

They stepped away from camp, out past the rocks toward the ridge again. Sol felt like his heart was doing laps around Kamino.

Finally, he took a breath. “General, about last night—”

She turned to him with a slow, teasing smile he’d never seen before. It hit like a blaster to the chest.

“You’re awfully curious, aren’t you, Sol?”

He blinked. “I—what? No, I just—”

“You’re staring again.”

He turned scarlet instantly. “I’m not! I just—there was this—uh, sound, and—”
She tilted her head, stepping closer, eyes glinting mischievously.

“So you were spying on me?”

He opened and closed his mouth like his brain had short-circuited. “I—no!—I mean yes—well, kind of—not on purpose!”

For the faintest second, her expression softened. Then she leaned closer, voice low.

“There are things about me you’re better off not knowing, Sol. Some things you wouldn’t understand.”

He swallowed hard. “Maybe you should let me try to.”

A long pause. The wind stirred between them.
Jules looked away first. Her teasing smile faltered, replaced by something tired, something fragile.

“Not this one,” she whispered.

And just like that, the armor slipped back into place. She turned and walked away, leaving Sol rooted there, still red-faced, still hopelessly caught somewhere between awe and heartbreak.

⸻

CORUSCANT – CRANE’S POV

The operating bay was empty now.
The hum of the machines had gone silent hours ago, but the smell of scorched metal still clung to the air.

Crane stood by the sink, washing blood—her blood? the clone’s?—off his gloves in numb silence.

He didn’t even hear Fox enter until the armored steps stopped right behind him.

“Crane.”

Crane turned. “Commander.”

Fox’s red armor gleamed under the harsh fluorescents. His visor reflected Crane’s scar, that thin angry line running from cheekbone to jaw.

“You were scheduled to report to the upper levels an hour ago,” Fox said. “The senator’s gone missing.”

Crane didn’t flinch. He only dried his hands on a cloth. “I don’t know anything.”

Fox studied him for a long, unblinking moment.

“You were the last one assigned to her escort detail.”

“I wasn’t her escort.” His tone was ice. “I was her surgeon.”

Fox stepped closer. “Then let me give you some advice. Senators aren’t what they seem. Don’t let one own you.”

Crane finally looked up, eyes shadowed. “I know.”

Fox nodded once, the faintest hint of respect there. “Good. Because down here, you forget that—someone buries you for it.”

When Fox left, Crane stood there alone. The lights buzzed overhead.
He stared down at his reflection in the stainless steel counter—scar catching the glow—and for just a moment, the face staring back didn’t look like his own anymore.

Chapter Text

CORUSCANT – CRANE’S POV

The interrogation room was sterile—white walls, metal table, one chair. The Coruscant Guard had perfected the art of making silence feel like a weapon.
Crane sat with his hands folded, the overhead light turning the scar on his face into a slash of silver.

The officer across from him scrolled through a datapad. “You were assigned to Senator Rahni Korrin three weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
“She’s now listed as missing.”
“I’m aware.”

The officer’s gaze lifted. “Any idea why her private shuttle exploded in orbit?”

Crane’s voice didn’t waver. “I was in surgery. Check the logs.”

The other man leaned forward. “You’ve climbed fast. Too fast. Medics don’t usually get this kind of promotion without… friends.”

Crane’s jaw tightened. “I have no friends.”

A long pause. Then the officer smirked.

The door hissed open. Fox stepped in, his voice flat. “That’s enough.”
The officer stood and left without argument.

Fox dropped a small holopuck onto the table. It flickered to life—battle footage from the Outer Rim. Aayla Secura’s 327th in heavy combat. A female Jedi in grey and gold armor, short, long dark-brown braid flying behind her, lightsabers flashing—then an explosion, static.

Fox’s visor turned toward Crane. “You’re being reassigned. Medical transport to the 327th. A Jedi’s been injured. Command wants their best.”

Crane’s pulse barely moved, but his fingers twitched once on the tabletop. “When?”

“Now.”

⸻

FRONTLINES – SOL’S POV

The sky was burning.

Turbolaser fire streaked through the clouds as the squad ducked into a trench. Droids swarmed the ridge above. Jules stood ahead of them, sabers ignited—cyan light cutting through smoke.

“Gage! Flank left! Foil—cover fire!” Her voice was calm, sharp, perfectly in control.

Sol stayed at her side, blaster steady, heart hammering.
Then everything shifted.

A sudden pulse rolled across the battlefield—pressure and light all at once. Sol’s breath caught; the air itself seemed to bend around her. Rocks levitated, droids crumpled in midair. Her eyes glowed faintly, the Force roaring through her like a storm unleashed.

For a heartbeat, it was beautiful.
Then a cold laugh cut through the smoke.

Count Dooku stepped from the haze, cloak dragging the ground, his red blade igniting with a hiss. “Ah. Skywalker’s sister.”

Jules didn’t hesitate. “Sol, get back.”

Dooku moved like lightning, and she met him strike for strike—cyan against red, sparks cascading. Sol fired, trying to help, but the Sith was too fast. He hurled a surge of lightning that tore through the ground between them.

Jules caught it with both sabers, absorbing what she could, but part of it hit Sol.

He fell, pain slicing through him.

She screamed his name—and then, before he could even rise, Dooku’s rose his saber toward him.

Jules jumped.

The flash seared the sky.
She took the full hit across her torso before collapsing, sabers extinguished, smoke curling from her armor.

“General!” Sol dragged himself toward her, shaking hands pressing against the wound, but she was barely breathing. “No, no, stay with me—”

“Command, this is Charger—General Aayla Secura padawan down! We need a medic, now!”

⸻

CORUSCANT MED-TRANSPORT – CRANE

The gunship thrummed under his boots. Crane checked the surgical kit again, every instrument gleaming in the low light.
Fox’s voice came over the comm. “Patient’s a Jedi, critical condition. Two hours out from your unit. Don’t lose her.”

Crane’s reflection stared back at him in the viewport—the same scar, the same hollow eyes.
He adjusted his gloves once, murmured under his breath.

“Understood.”

Chapter Text

SOL’S POV — THE FRONTLINES
Smoke crawled low over the cratered field. The battle had thinned to a distant hum of blasterfire, but all Sol could hear was Jules’ ragged breathing.

He dropped to his knees beside her, sliding in the ash.
“Hey—hey, look at me,” he whispered, brushing soot from her face. “You’re all right. You’re fine.”
Her lips twitched into a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Told you… to stay back…”
“Yeah, yeah, scold me later.” His voice cracked. “You just—stay with me, please.”

Her armor was scorched through. Every time he pressed a hand to the wound, more heat met his palm, more blood soaked through his gloves. The Force hummed faintly around her like static; it made the hair on his arms rise.

“Charger, where’s that med-evac?”
“ETA three minutes!”

“Three minutes,” Sol breathed. “You hear that? You can make three minutes, Jules.”

Her fingers tightened weakly around his sleeve, as if she wanted to say something—but her head rolled to the side instead, breath shallow.

He leaned down until his forehead touched hers. “Don’t you dare,” he muttered, half-pleading, half-angry. “You saved me—now you’ve got to let somebody save you.”

The wind kicked dust across them as the transport’s engines howled closer.

⸻

CRANE’S POV — MED-EVAC LANDING
The gunship touched down hard, kicking up a storm of grit. Crane was already moving before the ramp finished lowering, med-kit slung over his shoulder, voice barking through the comm static.

“Where’s the patient?”

“Over here!” Charger waved him through the smoke. Crane’s boots hit the mud, every step mechanical until the shape on the ground came into focus.

A Jedi. Young. Armor blackened, skin blistered along her side. Two lightsabers lay half-buried beside her.

He dropped to his knees, scanning vitals, fingers steady in spite of the chaos. “We need a stabilizer—now.”
One of the troopers handed it off. Crane injected the compound, checked again—pulse erratic but present.

Then someone grabbed his wrist.

“Careful!” the voice rasped. “You can’t—she’s—”

Crane looked up.

The soldier kneeling opposite him froze mid-sentence. For a long heartbeat, they just stared.

“Sol?” Crane’s voice came out quieter than he expected.
Sol blinked like he couldn’t believe it. “Crane?”

The sound of their names hung between them, ridiculous and impossible over the scream of engines. For an instant the war peeled away—back to the academy barracks, to sleepless nights and shared jokes, to being brothers before everything split.

Crane tore his gaze back to Jules. “We can catch up later,” he said sharply. “Help me load her.”

They worked without another word, muscle memory syncing like old times. Crane sealed the pressure pack around her wound; Sol lifted her onto the stretcher with a choked breath.

As the ramp closed, Sol refused to let go of her hand. Crane glanced up from the monitors, eyes flicking to the grip that wouldn’t break.

“Sol,” he said, voice low, professional but not cold, “I’ve got her.”

Sol met his eyes. “You’d better.”

The gunship shot skyward, engines screaming toward the cruiser above.

Chapter Text

The gunship shuddered as it broke atmosphere—alarms blaring, med-droids rushing around the narrow cabin. The air smelled like blood and burned plastoid.

Crane was already over Jules before the deck even steadied.
“Clamp those lines!” he snapped, voice like iron over the noise. “You—yes, you, soldier—hold her arm steady.”

Sol braced her wrist with trembling hands, knuckles white beneath his gloves. “Crane—she’s burning up—”
“She’s in shock.” Crane’s tone was clipped, clinical, though the muscle in his jaw jumped. “You hold. You don’t move until I tell you.”

Jules let out a hoarse sound—half a breath, half a word—and Sol leaned closer immediately. “Hey, hey, I’m here,” he said, voice breaking. “You’re safe. We’re getting you out.”

“Talking won’t stabilize her vitals,” Crane muttered, scanning readouts. “If you want to help, help—remove the armor plating. Now.”

Sol hesitated. “That’ll—”

“Now, soldier!”

He obeyed, fingers shaking as he undid the scorched latches. The plastoid peeled away in pieces, revealing bandages already soaked through. Beneath the chestplate—bare skin, too pale, ribs showing sharp. Sol froze. He’d never realized how small she looked without the armor, how fragile.

“Stars…” he whispered.

Crane didn’t look up. “Get over it. She’s still alive—focus on keeping her that way.” He pressed a bacta patch to the wound; it hissed, blood hissing back.

Zephir was there—half-blurred in the flicker of med-bay lights, invisible to the rest. His golden eyes burned as he paced, gripping the edges of reality itself. “Jules, no—no, no, no, no—” His voice cracked the air though no one heard. “You were supposed to listen!”

He tried to touch her, hand phasing through, the Force warping faintly around her. The monitors spiked.

Crane frowned. “Her levels are fluctuating—something’s interfering.”

Sol’s eyes darted to the side, a shiver running up his spine. The air felt thick, heavy, electric. “Crane… do you feel that?”

“Focus!” Crane barked. “Compression here—she’s hemorrhaging again.”

Zephir knelt beside her, voice raw and desperate. “Don’t you dare leave me, little spark.” He pressed his forehead to hers, invisible tears falling through. “You’re stronger than this. Remember what we are.”

Jules’ fingers twitched faintly—just enough for Sol to see. He caught her hand, squeezing. “That’s it. Come on. Don’t give up, Jules. You don’t get to leave me, not like this.”

Crane’s tone softened by a fraction. “She won’t. Not if I can help it.”

The ship lurched. Crane held steady over her, drenched in sweat, hands stained red. Sol kept pressure, whispering her name over and over, voice low and breaking.

The hum of engines blurred with the sound of Zephir’s grief. Somewhere between the mortal and divine, Jules’ pulse steadied for a breath—then faded again.

Crane slammed another stim in. “Come on, Skywalker, you’re not dying on my table.”

For one second—the faintest second—Zephir’s hand connected. Light sparked around her heart monitor.

And the line beeped back into rhythm.

Crane exhaled slowly, shoulders lowering just an inch. “…That’s it. That’s it, you stubborn girl.”

Sol bowed his head, forehead brushing her hand. “Thank you,” he murmured to no one in particular.

Zephir looked at him through the flicker of light, unseen—and for the first time, his gaze wasn’t angry. Just afraid.

The med-wing was quiet in the way that made sound itself feel guilty.
Machines hummed soft and steady, the faint beep of a heart monitor keeping rhythm with Sol’s own pulse.

Jules lay pale against the crisp sheets, bacta patches blooming faint blue across her skin. Her lightsabers were on the table beside her—quiet, still, like they were holding their breath too.

Sol sat slumped in the chair at her bedside, armor smeared with dust and dried blood. He hadn’t moved since they landed.

The door hissed open behind him. The steps were heavy, even, precise.

Crane.

He paused at the threshold, datapad under one arm, a thin scar still red along the side of his face catching the light. “You’re still here,” he said. Not surprised. Not accusing. Just… stating a fact.

Sol rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Where else would I be?”

Crane didn’t answer. He came to the other side of the bed, adjusting the IV line, checking the vitals readout with detached focus. “She’s stable. For now.”

Sol let out a long breath. “You saved her.”

Crane’s jaw tightened. “I did my job.”

Silence filled the space again, thick and echoing. Only the machines dared to speak.

After a moment, Sol said quietly, “I didn’t even recognize you at first. It’s been… what, a year?”

“Closer to two.” Crane kept his eyes on the monitor. “You were always bad at counting time.”

That earned a faint laugh—tired, hoarse. “You still talk like a report.”

“I have to.” Crane finally looked at him, eyes sharp, colder than Sol remembered. “Reports don’t get attached.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Sol looked down at Jules’ hand resting on the sheet. “She—”

“Don’t,” Crane cut in.

Sol blinked. “What?”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” Crane’s tone was flat, but his gaze was steady, unflinching. “You can’t love a Jedi, Sol.”

Sol’s throat tightened. “You don’t get to tell me what I—”

“I’m not telling you,” Crane said quietly. “I’m reminding you.”

Sol looked at him, really looked, and saw the exhaustion carved deep in his friend’s face. The scar. The slight tremor in his hand when he thought no one was watching.

Crane exhaled. “You think I don’t understand? I used to believe we could choose something for ourselves. That if we worked hard enough, someone would see us. But this—” he gestured at the monitors, the room, the endless machinery of war “—this isn’t our world, Sol. It never was.”

Sol swallowed, the words catching in his chest. “She’s not just a Jedi.”

Crane gave a humorless half-smile. “That’s exactly the problem.”

For a while, neither spoke. The only sound was the quiet rhythm of her pulse on the monitor.

Crane finally turned, datapad in hand. “She’ll wake soon. And when she does, you’re going to have to decide who you want to be—her soldier, or her weakness.”

He started to walk away, then stopped at the door. His voice softened, barely above a whisper. “I’m glad she’s alive, Sol. I really am. But if you want her to stay that way—keep your distance.”

And then he was gone.

Sol sat back in the silence that followed, staring at Jules’ face—so peaceful it almost hurt to look.
He reached out but stopped halfway, hand trembling in the air between them.

“I don’t know if I can,” he whispered.

The monitor beeped once, steady and strong.

Chapter Text

The world came back in fragments.
Light first—white, soft, blinding.
Then the ache—sharp, deep, everywhere at once.
Then his voice.

“Jules? …hey, come on—look at me.”

She blinked. The ceiling swam into focus, a steady hum pressing at her ears. Sol was leaning over her, dirt still streaked down his jaw, eyes wide with that please don’t do that again kind of panic.

“Zephir?” she rasped.

Before Sol could answer, a sudden rush of warm air swept through the room; papers trembled on the table beside the monitors. Only she could see the blur of gold that appeared near her bedside—Zephir, furious and shaking.

“Do you have any idea what you just did?”
“I was saving him,” she whispered back.
“You were dying, Jules!”

Her lips barely moved; Sol thought she was talking to herself. He leaned closer, worried. “Hey, don’t try to—”

She flinched at the proximity, but then her eyes met his, and for a second the noise in her mind stopped. His hand was on hers before either of them noticed.

Sol froze. She did too. He was close enough to count the freckles on her cheeks, to see the reflection of the heart monitor in her eyes. Everything in him screamed don’t move, because if he did he might actually—

The door hissed open.

“Step back,” Crane said, voice cool as bacta gel.

Sol jolted upright so fast he nearly tripped over the chair. “She—she just woke up.”

“I can see that.” Crane checked the readings, efficient, detached, the scar on his face catching the sterile light. “Vitals are steady. No infection. You should be resting, Commander.”

Jules blinked at him, throat dry. “You’re the medic.”

“Chief Medic Crane.” He adjusted a monitor, still not looking directly at her. “Try not to tear the stitches.”

Zephir hovered behind Crane, arms folded, glaring at the human who couldn’t see him.

“That one’s got walls taller than Coruscant’s skyline,” he muttered.

Jules managed a faint, wry smile. “Noted,” she said under her breath.

Crane frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.” Her voice steadied. “Thank you… for saving me.”

He finally looked at her then—brief, unreadable—and nodded once. “Just did my job.”

Sol’s stomach twisted. Same words, same tone as before. The distance in them stung worse than the blaster burn on his shoulder.

Crane tapped something on his datapad. “She’ll need observation for another twelve hours. You can stay until rotation ends, trooper.”

Sol nodded, trying not to stare at Jules. “Yeah. Of course.”

When Crane left, the door sliding shut behind him, the room fell quiet again. Jules turned her head, voice barely a whisper. “You almost broke the code.”

Sol nearly choked. “What? No—I mean, I thought you were— I was checking if you were breathing—”

Her smile was small but real. “You’re terrible at lying, Sol.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks red. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

Zephir sighed, fading into the wall light.

“Next time, maybe don’t jump in front of a Sith Lord, little light.”

Jules’ eyelids fluttered. “Next time, maybe you warn me first.”

And despite everything—the pain, the fear, the weight of it all—Sol laughed quietly. The sound filled the sterile room with something that almost felt alive.

Chapter Text

The report was already filed.

Clinical. Exact. Devoid of warmth—just like every other one Crane had written.

But it sat open anyway.

The soft glow of the holoscreen lit the empty observation wing, pale blue light tracing the harsh line of the scar down Crane’s cheek. He stared at the data, jaw tight.

Subject: Commander Skywalker
Status: Stabilized.
Prognosis: Favorable.

He should’ve closed the file.

He should’ve returned to the surgical wing for sanitation review.

He should’ve started the next report already waiting in his queue.

Instead, he sat there.
Still.
Thinking.

That trooper—Sol—had clung to her hand long after he was told to back away. Crane had seen that look before in countless med bays: the desperation in someone terrified of losing the only person who kept them sane.

It wasn’t protocol.
It wasn’t weakness.
It was something else.

Something Crane had locked out of himself years ago.
Something he’d trained himself not to understand.

And yet…

He found himself scrolling back to her vitals anyway.
The steady pulse line she’d fought tooth and nail to hold onto.
The notes he’d written on the tissue regrowth, precisely measured.
The fractured bones still knitting back together.

He exhaled slowly.

For the first time in a long time, Crane didn’t just want her alive because it was his job.

He wanted her alive because—

He stopped himself there.
Shut the datapad.
Stood up too fast.

Whatever was happening inside him needed to be crushed before it grew teeth.

⸻

JULES — RECOVERY WING NIGHT

The lights were low. The medbay had gone quiet.

Zephir was gone—finally, mercifully gone—leaving the room feeling oddly empty without the hum of his celestial irritation.

Sol sat beside her bed, armor off, shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but still watching her like she might vanish if he blinked.

Jules shifted, sitting up straight despite the pain. “Sol.”

He snapped awake instantly. “Yeah—yeah? I’m here.”

She looked down, guilt twisting at her chest. “I’m sorry for how I treated you before. That was… wrong of me. I cut you off too harshly. You didn’t deserve that.”

Sol blinked, stunned. “Jules… you were hurt. And scared. Anyone would’ve snapped.”

“Not a Jedi.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“You’re not just a Jedi,” he said softly.

His hand brushed hers—hesitant, scared, wanting.

Her heart skipped.
Her breath caught.

He leaned in—just a little—just enough that she felt the warmth of him, the trembling hope. His forehead almost touched hers. His breath ghosted her lips.

Jules froze, eyes fluttering shut.

This was it.
The moment every part of Sol had been aching toward for months.

He whispered, “Tell me if you don’t want—”

“I do,” she breathed.

He moved in—

And Jules’ whole body flinched.
She pulled back fast, hand flying to her mouth.

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t.”

Sol froze, hurt flashing in his eyes. “Did I—did I do something wrong?”

Her chest tightened. She shook her head.

“I’ve worked too hard for this,” she said quietly. “I can’t lose everything I’ve fought for just because I—”

She couldn’t finish the sentence.

Sol’s jaw clenched—not angry, not frustrated—heartbroken but gentle.

He sat back slowly. “Okay.”
His voice was soft. “Okay, Jules. I hear you.”

But the look in his eyes said everything.

He would’ve kissed her like she hung the stars.

And she wanted him to.

But the galaxy would punish her for it.

Chapter Text

The medbay lights rose slowly with the simulated sunrise, soft and sterile.

Sol had fallen asleep in the chair beside her bed, chin to his chest, hand still on the edge of her blanket like he’d been afraid she’d disappear in the night.

Jules was awake before him.
Sitting straight.
Composed.
Mask locked firmly back in place.

Emotion?
Gone.

Just like she wanted.

The door hissed open quietly.

Crane stepped in, datapad in hand, coat still half-buttoned from moving between wings all night. He looked… tired. Exhausted. Maybe even human.

His eyes went immediately to her vitals—

Then to her.

“You’re awake.”

His voice wasn’t soft—but it wasn’t sharp either. Somewhere in the middle. Neutral with an unexpected edge of… something.

Concern?
No. Couldn’t be.

Jules nodded. “I’m functional.”

Sol’s eyes shot open like he’d been jolted by lightning.

“Jules?—Jules, are you—”

“I said I’m functional.”
Flat. Cold. Jedi-mode fully activated.

Sol swallowed hard, visibly hurt, but tried to hide it. “Right. Sorry.”

Crane watched the exchange with a subtle flicker in his expression—barely there, but unmistakable.

Recognition.
Assessment.
And yes—Sol saw it too—

Jealousy.

Not the wild emotional kind.
The restrained, surgical kind that simmers quietly beneath the skin.

Crane cleared his throat. “I need to check your incision.”

Jules nodded, unflinching.

Sol stood quickly. “Do you need me to—”

Crane didn’t even look at him. “No.”

Sol’s jaw clenched.

Jules sat still while Crane inspected her side, fingers precise and strangely gentle for someone with a reputation of being half-droid. He didn’t speak for a long moment.

Finally:

“You heal fast.”
He glanced up at her. “Good.”

She blinked. “Is that your professional opinion?”

Crane paused.
Then—so faint it barely existed—

“…Yes.”

Sol stared between them like: WHAT IS THIS?? WHAT IS THIS ENERGY?? WHO TAUGHT CRANE FEELINGS???

Jules didn’t notice.
Or pretended she didn’t.

⸻

Crane stepped back, made a note on his datapad.

“So long as you avoid unnecessary stress on the wound, you’ll recover as projected.”

Jules nodded. “Understood.”

“Jules,” Sol cut in, softer, “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.”

Her face sharpened instantly.

“I’m not pretending.”

“Right,” he said, defeated. “Right.”

Crane watched the two of them…
Something calculating sliding behind his eyes.

For someone who hated human behavior—he was studying this.

Deeply.

⸻

The lights flickered for half a second.

A ripple of gold sparkled through the air—unseen by anyone except Jules.

Jules went stiff.

Sol noticed. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she lied immediately.

And then—

WHOOSH—

Zephir materialized at Jules’ shoulder in a blaze of celestial irritation and folded arms.

Golden eyes narrowed.
Hair practically sparking with rage.
Jacket half-open like he just stormed out of heaven.

“Oh,” he said loudly, even though no one but Jules could hear him, “SO YOU ALMOST LET A CLONE BOY KISS YOU AND THEN NEARLY DIED. AMAZING PRIORITY MANAGEMENT.”

Jules’ eye twitched.

Sol blinked. “Uh… Jules?”

“I’m fine.”

Zephir made a strangled noise only she could hear.

“FINE? FINE? YOU BLED OUT IN A MAN’S ARMS WHILE HE MADE HEART EYES AT YOU—”

Jules clenched her jaw. “Stop.”

Sol startled. “I— I didn’t say anything?”

Crane looked up, eyes narrowing slightly at her sudden tone.
“Commander, elevated stress levels will strain your wound.”

“Really?” Zephir snapped. “MAYBE BECAUSE SHE WON’T LISTEN TO ME—”

Jules muttered under her breath, “Can you not do this right now?”

Zephir gasped.
“OH. OH SO I’M THE PROBLEM? NOT THE ALMOST-KISSING—”

Sol’s eyes widened. “Jules… who are you talking to?”

She snapped her gaze to him—cold, sharp, panicked.

“No one. It doesn’t concern you.”

Sol recoiled slightly, like he’d been slapped.

Crane simply stared at her longer than socially acceptable.

Studying.
Storing information.
Noticing the fractures.

Zephir rolled his eyes dramatically.
“YOU KNOW WHAT? I’M GOING TO TELL THE FATHER YOU’RE BEING DIFFICULT.”

“Zephir,” she hissed, “leave.”

Zephir vanished mid-scoff, throwing one last parting shot:

“THIS ISN’T OVER—”

Gone.

Jules pressed her fingers to her temple.

Sol and Crane exchanged a look.

For the first time in their lives—

they silently agreed on something:

Jules Skywalker was a mystery

Chapter Text

Sol waited until Crane finally left the room.

Jules shifted, trying to sit up straighter even though her side still hurt like fire. She didn’t want to show it. Not in front of anyone. Not after last night.

Sol lingered by her bed, hands fidgeting—shoulders tense in that “I’m trying to be brave but I’m terrified” way he had.

She could feel it before he even spoke.

The worry.
The fear.
The aching confusion.

And she hated it.

“Jules… can we talk?”

Her jaw tightened. “About what.”

“You,” Sol said quietly. “And… what I saw.”

Her blood instantly ran cold.

“Sol,” she warned, “drop it.”

But he didn’t.

He stepped forward. “I’m not trying to upset you. But you were—talking. And reacting. To something I couldn’t see. Someone.”

Her eyes flared—sharp, dangerous.

Sol swallowed.
“Jules… I’m worried you’re seeing things.”

Everything inside her snapped.

The air—not the Force, not emotion—the air itself went tight around them.

“How,” she said, voice low and icy, “DARE you.”

Sol froze.

Jules pushed herself upright with one shaking hand, ignoring the stab of pain, eyes burning into him.

“Do you know,” she hissed, “who you are speaking to?”

Sol took a tiny step back.
Not from fear
—but from instinct.
From the raw pressure of her power tightening the room like a fist.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You think I’m losing my mind?”
Her voice was razor-sharp.
“You think I’m unstable? Delusional?”

“That’s not—Jules, that’s NOT what I said—”

“Yes,” she snapped, “it is.”

Sol’s throat bobbed. “I’m just— I care about you. I saw you talking to someone who wasn’t there. I heard you. I just—please—tell me what’s going on so I can help.”

Jules went deadly still.

Help.

That word always made her flinch.

Always.

Her eyes hardened into something unreadable.

“You don’t get to help me,” she said, cold as a blade. “You are a soldier. I am your Commander.”

Sol looked like she’d punched him.

“Jules…”
He reached toward her.
Stopped himself halfway.

“I’m not trying to disrespect you.”

“Then stop accusing me.”

“I’m not accusing— I’m worried. You almost died. I just need to know you’re okay.”

“I don’t owe you explanations.”

That one hurt. He felt it.

He actually took a breath like someone had stabbed him in the ribs.

“Do you really think that little of me?” he whispered.

Jules didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

If she did—everything she was trying to hold together would break.

Sol finally stepped back.
Shoulders shaking.
Eyes stinging red, but he swallowed it down like a soldier is trained to.

“I just don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”

Jules’ stare wavered for half a second.
Just a flicker.
Just enough for someone who knew her to see it.

And then—

she slammed the wall back up.

“You won’t,” she said flatly.
“A soldier like you is easy to replace.”

Sol flinched like she slapped him.

“…Right,” he whispered. “Understood.”

He turned away before she could see the pain in his face, jaw clenched so hard it trembled.

“Rest well, Commander.”

The door hissed shut behind him.

Silence.

Jules stared at her hands.

They were shaking.

And then—

A shimmer of gold bloomed at the foot of her bed.

Zephir materialized with the slow, disappointed look of an ancient being who just watched his favorite mortal ruin her love life in under three minutes.

“WOW,” Zephir said, crossing his arms.
“CONGRATULATIONS. YOU JUST BROKE THE GUY WHO LIKES YOU.”

“Zephir. Not now.”

“Oh no no no we are ABSOLUTELY doing this now.”

Chapter Text

Sol walked fast.

Too fast.

Head down, fists tight, lungs burning like he’d sprinted the whole length of the base. He didn’t even know where he was going—he just needed to get away before the shaking in his hands showed.

Jules’ words kept echoing in his head.

“A soldier like you is easy to replace.”
“You don’t get to help me.”
“Do you know who you’re speaking to?”

He felt sick.

Like something had been ripped out of him.

The hallway blurred for a second—and that’s when he collided with someone. Solid. Unmovable.

Sol stumbled back.

Crane didn’t.

Crane just blinked at him, scar catching the overhead lights. “Watch where—”
He paused.

Sol’s face.

The red eyes. The way he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. The barely contained shaking.

Crane stared at him long enough then tilted his head.

“…Sol?”

Sol swallowed hard. “Hey.”

Crane’s brows knit. “You look like you got punched in the soul.”

“It’s nothing,” Sol muttered.

“That usually means it’s something,” Crane said flatly.

Sol tried to keep walking.

Crane stepped in front of him.

“Sol.”

The voice was steady. Controlled. The way Crane always was—even when the world was on fire.

Sol’s breath broke. “…I said it’s nothing.”

Crane didn’t blink. “Was it the Jedi girl?”

Sol froze.

That was answer enough.

Crane sighed. A long, tired exhale that made him look older than any clone had a right to.

“Sol. She’s a Jedi,” he said bluntly. “She follows the rules to the letter. Attachment. Emotions. All of that—they beat it out of them.”

Sol’s jaw clenched. “I know the rules.”

“You don’t act like you know them.”

Sol glared at him—eyes stinging again. “I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Crane scratched at his jaw, looking painfully awkward. “I’m just saying—don’t destroy yourself over someone who can’t give you what you want.”

Sol felt dizzy.

“…I wasn’t asking for anything,” he whispered. “I just—wanted her to trust me.”

Crane shrugged. “Trust isn’t in their curriculum.”

Something inside Sol cracked.

He pressed his palms to his eyes, shoulders shaking.

Crane stiffened. Emotions—he had no idea what to do with that.

He stood there, rigid as durasteel, then slowly lowered himself to sit beside Sol against the wall.

Both silent.

Both broken in different ways.

After a long moment, Sol swallowed. “…What happened to you?”

Crane blinked. “What?”

“The scar,” Sol said quietly. “Your face. And… everything. You look different. Stronger. And tired.”

Crane stared down the hallway, jaw shifting.

“It was Guard work.”

Sol nodded slowly. “Dangerous?”

Crane didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

His silence was the answer.

Sol finally looked at him—really looked.
The scar.
The sharper edges to his frame.
The way he sat like someone who hadn’t rested in months.

“What happened to you?” Sol asked again, softer this time.

Crane breathed out through his nose. “A clone was infected. Lost control. He attacked me.” He traced the scar absently. “But he was scared. And alone. Everyone wanted to put him down. I tried to help him. He… didn’t make it.”

Sol’s chest tightened. “Crane…”

Crane looked away—jaw clenched. “The Guard changes you. And not for the better.”

They sat in silence, two broken boys pretending to be men.

Finally, Crane nudged Sol’s boot with his own, barely perceptible.

“You’re not replaceable,” Crane muttered. “Even if she thinks so.”

Sol let out a shaking breath—half laugh, half sob.

“…Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. I hate emotions.”
A beat.
“…But I hate seeing you like this more.”

Sol smiled through the exhaustion.

Then—

A medic sprinted past them toward the recovery wing.

Crane stood instantly.

Sol’s stomach dropped. “That’s Jules’ section.”

Crane grabbed his wrist and pulled him up. “Let’s go.”

The two of them ran.

Side by side.

Just like when they were cadets.

Chapter Text

The recovery wing was quiet when Sol and Crane reached Jules’s room. Too quiet.

The door was open.
The bed was empty.

Sol froze in the doorway, breath catching. “She’s not here—she’s not—”

Crane didn’t answer. His expression didn’t change, but something sharp flickered behind his eyes—fear, anger, or both. He stepped past Sol and scanned the room with quick, clinical precision.

“She was supposed to be sedated,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Then a voice carried down the corridor—sharp, clipped, unmistakably Jules.

Crane didn’t wait. He was already moving.

Sol sprinted after him.

⸻

They found her several corridors down, marching stiffly despite the evident strain in her body. Bandages wrapped her arm and shoulder; her skin was pale; she swayed slightly with every step.

A clone medic trailed helplessly behind her, voice cracking with panic.

“Commander—please—Chief Medic Crane said you’ve reached your limit—”

Jules stopped so abruptly the medic nearly ran into her.

“I hate that word,” she said without turning.

The medic swallowed hard.

“My progress is far from over. I will not improve through idleness. I have a schedule to maintain. And tardiness is unacceptable.”

She stepped forward again, stubbornly determined despite the faint tremor in her legs.

Crane reached her first.

“Commander Skywalker.”

His voice was calm—too calm. The kind of calm that made the entire hallway hold its breath.

Jules turned her head, cold-eyed and unimpressed.
“Chief Medic.”

Sol caught up a moment later, chest heaving, eyes wide with worry. He opened his mouth, panicked and unfiltered:

“Jules—you’re little—I mean—no, you look—Force, you—just—SIT DOWN—”

Jules whipped her head toward him like she was about to disintegrate him on the spot.

“Finish that sentence, Sol.”
A deadly pause.
“Finish it. I dare you.”

Sol immediately shut his mouth.

Crane exhaled once through his nose.

Crane stepped into her path, blocking the hallway with the immovable authority of a blast door.

“You are overworking,” he said. “Your injuries are significant. Sit down before you fall down.”

“My duty—” Jules began.

“Is to recover.”

“My routine—”

“Is suspended.”

Her jaw locked. Crane didn’t flinch.

She stepped right to go around him.
He mirrored instantly.

She stepped left.
He followed.

“Stop doing that,” she snapped.

“Then stop trying to leave.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “I am not a child.”

“No,” Crane said simply. “But you are short and injured.”

The hallway went silent.

The young medic took a step back. Even Sol winced.

Jules stared at Crane with pure, stunned fury.
“Repeat that.”

“You heard me, Commander,” he said, completely unfazed.

She opened her mouth to argue—and her knees buckled.

Crane caught her before she hit the floor. His hand gripped her arm firmly, steadying her with a gentleness that lasted only a moment before it hid itself again.

“Please,” he said quietly.
“Sit. Down.”

And finally—reluctantly, breathing hard—Jules allowed herself to lower to the floor, leaning back against the wall.

Sol dropped beside her at once, eyes full of frantic concern.

“You scared us,” he whispered. “You scared me.”

Jules didn’t look at him. She stared rigidly at the floor, jaw tight, pride visibly wounded.

Crane gives the new medic a look that translates to:
If she gets up again, stun her.
Crane crouched in front of her as well, his expression unreadable.

“You’re disciplined,” he said. “I know that. But discipline is not endurance. And perfection is not survival.”

Jules lifted her eyes to him—still burning, still stubborn—but a flicker of vulnerability slipped through.

“I don’t like resting.”

“I know,” Crane replied. “And I don’t like losing patients.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Sol looked from one to the other, suddenly aware that something was shifting—dangerous, complicated, and impossible for him to stop.

Chapter Text

Crane didn’t waste time.

He slipped one arm beneath Jules’s shoulders and the other under her knees, lifting her as though she weighed nothing at all. She stiffened instantly, hands shoving weakly at his uniform.

“Put me—down—Crane—”
Her voice wavered, slurred with exhaustion, but the command in it was unmistakable.

“No.”
Blunt, flat, immovable.

“I can walk,” she snapped.

“You can barely sit upright.”

“That is offensive.”

“It’s also accurate.”

Jules’s glare could have ignited durasteel. She crossed her arms as best she could while being carried, chin high despite her paling face.

“Chief Medic,” she said icily, “I am perfectly capable of—”

“You are half-conscious,” Crane interrupted. “And irritating.”

Sol, jogging anxiously beside them, winced. “Crane—maybe try being a little gentler—”

“I am being gentle,” Crane said, utterly serious.
“This is me being gentle.”

Jules scoffed, indignant. “Your bedside manner is atrocious.”

“And your decision-making is worse.”

She gasped—offended that anyone would dare suggest such a thing—and began to sit up in his arms.

Crane glared down at her.
“Commander, if you try to stand again, I will sedate you.”

She froze, eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

⸻

A sudden pressure rippled through the corridor—like a shift in air, a vibration in the Force—and then Zephir was there.

Appearing out of nowhere.
Hovering upside-down for dramatic effect.
Golden eyes blazing with fury.

“JULES. SKY. WALKER.”
He pointed at her like he was scolding a toddler.
“Wow and here I thought i could leave you unsupervised but noooooo! I leave for ONE hour—ONE—”

Crane did not react. Not outwardly.

But his eyes flicked briefly to the empty air where Zephir hovered, then back to Jules.

“Commander,” he said slowly, “are you… arguing with the wall?”

Jules bristled. “I am not arguing with the wall.”

Sol stared at her, horrified and exhausted and so, so worried.

“Jules,” he whispered, “please. Tell me why you’re talking to yourself.”

She whipped her head toward him, eyes blazing.

“I AM NOT TALKING TO MYSELF—”

Zephir, floating behind Crane, threw his hands up. “HELLO? I AM RIGHT HERE. JUST INVISIBLE. MOSTLY. SORT OF. YOU KNOW HOW IT IS.”

Crane’s eyebrow twitched—very slightly. “She’s delirious.”

“I AM NOT DELIRIOUS,” Jules barked.

“You’re yelling at empty space,” Crane replied.

Sol reached out, gently touching her arm.
“Jules… we’re worried. Please just tell me what’s going on.”

Jules stared at him—hurt, furious, defensive, proud.
The perfect storm inside her.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” she said quietly.
Her voice was steady, even as her head drooped against Crane’s hard chest.

Zephir’s expression softened—just a bit.
Sol’s heart cracked.
Crane simply adjusted his grip and kept walking.

Chapter Text

She is twelve years old.

The Temple halls are too wide for her stride, the ceilings too high, the silence too heavy. Her boots echo as she walks three paces behind her First Master—never two, never four.

Three is correct.

“Posture,” her Master says without looking back.

Jules straightens instantly, shoulders pulled back, chin lifted. Her spine aches, but she does not allow herself to flinch.

Good Padawans do not flinch.

They stop in the training wing. Sunlight spills across polished stone, illuminating dust motes that drift lazily through the air. Jules watches them for half a second too long.

Her Master turns.

“You were distracted.”

“I’m sorry, Master,” Jules says at once.

Sorry comes easily. It always has.

⸻

Her Master circles her like a measuring tool, eyes sharp, assessing. Always assessing.

“You ate fruit this morning,” they say.

Jules blinks. “Yes, Master.”

“I instructed you to reduce sugars. They dull focus.”

“I thought—”

Her Master raises a hand.

Jules stops thinking.

“Thought is not required when you are given instruction,” they say coolly. “Discipline is.”

Jules nods. “Yes, Master.”

Her robes are adjusted next—tugged straighter at the sleeves, smoothed at the hem.

“These are too loose. They give the impression of carelessness.”

“They’re the standard issue—”

“Standards are for the average.”

The word lands like a blade.

Average.

Jules swallows.

“You are not average,” her Master continues. “You are capable of more. Which means you must be more.”

⸻

The Force training session lasts four hours.

When Jules stumbles on the last form—just once—her Master stops the exercise entirely.

Again.

She repeats the sequence. Again. And again. And again.

Her muscles shake. Her breath comes shallow. Sweat drips down her back beneath her robes.

“Focus,” her Master snaps.

“I am focusing.”

“Not enough.”

By the end, Jules can barely lift her arms.

“Perfection is not a gift,” her Master says. “It is earned.”

Jules nods, vision swimming. “Yes, Master.”

Her Master studies her—finally satisfied.

“Good,” they say. “You may eat.”

⸻

The dining hall smells warm and comforting, but Jules does not relax.

Her plate is chosen for her.

Protein portions measured. Greens selected. No sweets. No seconds.

“Mindful eating fosters mindful Force control,” her Master reminds her.

Jules eats slowly, carefully, afraid of chewing too loudly.

She watches other Padawans laugh. Whisper. Trade bites of food.

She does not join them.

Attachment breeds weakness.

Her Master told her that once—softly, almost kindly.

Jules had believed it.

⸻

That night, long after lights-out, Jules is still awake.

Holobooks hover around her bed in neat stacks. She reads until the words blur together, until her eyes burn and her head throbs.

When she yawns, she slaps her own cheek—quietly.

Weakness is unacceptable.

She memorizes star maps. Ancient Force doctrines. Combat theory far beyond her level.

When she finally sleeps, she dreams of failing.

⸻

Weeks later—months, maybe—she hesitates during a sparring match.

Just a fraction of a second.

Her Master ends the bout with a sharp motion of the Force, sending her skidding across the mat.

Jules scrambles to her knees, breath knocked from her lungs.

“Why did you hesitate?” her Master asks.

“I didn’t want to hurt them,” Jules admits.

Silence.

Then—

“That,” her Master says, “is why you must work harder than everyone else.”

They kneel in front of her, voice low, precise.

“Your kindness will be your greatest flaw if you do not control it.”

Jules nods, throat tight.

“I will fix it,” she promises.

Her Master smiles.

⸻

(Present)

The memory fractures.

Jules stirs in the medbay, breath hitching in her sleep.

Her fingers curl into the sheets.

No limits, her mind whispers.
No softness. No mistakes.

Perfection is survival.

And somewhere, far away, a girl is still trying to earn the right to rest.