"Cad Bane," Fives growled, his voice coiled tight with recognition and fury.
Without hesitation, Fives opened fire, sending a stream of precise blaster bolts toward the infamous bounty hunter.
Bane dove behind cover, returning fire with calm precision before a low rumble drew his eyes downward.
A grenade clinked to a stop at his boots.
—BOOM!
Smoke and shrapnel filled the air. Coughing, Bane swept the dust off his coat, his crimson eyes narrowing as he scanned the smoke-choked room.
"You're not walkin' away from this, Bane," Fives' voice echoed through the haze, disembodied, hard to pin down.
"I don't care who hired you… you should've known better."
Suddenly, Fives burst through the smoke like a specter, moving with unnatural speed, blaster blazing. Bane's eyes widened—just for a second—before his thruster boots ignited, launching him backward out the shattered entrance and into the open.
Hovering above the ground, Bane steadied himself midair, eyes narrowed, muttering,
"That ain't no ordinary clone…"
A blinding light erupted from the shop's second floor, flooding his vision. "Tch—damn tricks," he hissed, shielding his face.
—PEW! PEW! PEW!
A storm of blaster fire tore into him. One bolt punched into his shoulder.
"Argh!" he snarled, pain flaring like fire under his skin. His concentration broke, and he spiraled down, crashing into the durasteel with a heavy thud, air exploding from his lungs.
Then—pressure. A boot slammed against his chest. He looked up to see Fives towering over him, tattered brown cloak flaring, blaster aimed straight at his head.
"It's over, Bane. This is where you die."
But Cad Bane just chuckled, low and gravelly.
"Heh... no, clone. This? This is just the openin' act."
His thrusters flared again—just enough. In a flash, he fired a grapple line from his wrist gauntlet, snagging Fives' leg and yanking him off balance, dragging him along the ground as Bane slid sideways, blaster already turning for another shot.
Blaster bolts screamed through the air as Bane fired again, his shots met by Fives' own in a vicious crossfire.
Both warrior and hunter gritted their teeth, armor plates scorched and rattling with every hit, the raw force of the blasts testing their endurance.
Fives, seizing an opening, slashed through the grapple line with a vibroblade—snap—severing the tether that bound them.
The momentum broke. Both men hit the ground hard, rolling away in opposite directions.
Gasping, they rose to their feet, staggered but unyielding. Scratches cut across their faces, their armor blackened, dented, smeared with smoke and blood.
Cad Bane smirked through the pain, wiping crimson from his gloved hand.
"You're good, clone. I'll give you that," he rasped, his voice low and laced with gravel, eyes burning like twin suns beneath the brim of his scorched hat.
"But don't think for a second this ends here."
Without warning, Bane hurled a smoke bomb to the ground—hissss—a thick cloud erupting between them.
Blaster fire cracked through the fog, each bolt slicing the air like lightning. Fives dropped into a roll, returning fire in the chaos, but the barrage stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
Silence.
As the smoke thinned and the haze cleared… nothing.
Fives narrowed his eyes, switching his visor to thermal mode—scanning through walls, floor, shadows. But the space read cold. Empty.
"Damn it," he muttered, blood trailing down his cheek as he wiped it away with the back of his glove. He tapped his comlink.
"Commander Thorn, the base has been compromised. Cad Bane was here—he got away."
---
Level 5000, Galactic Opera House.
"Understood. Erase everything—leave no trace of the shop. Collapse the tunnel," Commander Thorn whispered, standing sentinel outside a private viewing box, the hum of the performance faint behind velvet-draped walls.
"But without the tunnel, how do we proceed with the plan?" Fives' voice crackled through the comm.
"Don't worry," Thorn replied calmly. "There are older passages predating even the Old Republic. For now, all units go dark. Tomorrow… we move."
"Copy that," Fives said. The line went dead just as the door behind Thorn hissed open.
Two silhouettes emerged.
"Is something wrong, Commander?" came the measured voice.
Thorn turned sharply—eyes locking with Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, the shadow of Anakin Skywalker looming just behind.
"No, Chancellor," Thorn responded, his tone clipped and steady. A beat of silence followed.
"Did you enjoy the performance, sir?" Thorn asked, breaking the tension with professional ease.
Palpatine's lips curled into a pleasant smile, yet to Thorn it felt more like the baring of fangs. "Yes. Quite enjoyable. It's a rare pleasure… to escape the chaos of politics, if only for a moment."
"Indeed," Thorn replied coolly.
Palpatine gave a slow nod, his voice silk-wrapped steel. "It's getting late. Let us return."
"As you wish," Thorn said, activating his comm. "All units, prepare for the Chancellor's departure."
---
Senate Building — Chancellor's Office
"The most amusing thing happened today, Sly Moore," Palpatine murmured, his voice a cold thread of silk as he stood before the towering viewport.
Beyond the duraglass, Coruscant's night stretched endless, lit by the soft hum of traffic lanes and a departing LAAT gunship—its silhouette shrinking into the stars, a lone clone aboard.
Moore stood still, silent as ever, the shadows clinging to her pale features.
Palpatine's gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "A clone…" he said slowly, his tone dipping into something darker. "A clone dared to lie to me." The words coiled with quiet fury, venom beneath velvet.
He turned, the red-gold gleam of city light casting hollows across his face. "Curious little soldier, wouldn't you say?" he asked, though it was more of a threat than a question.
Moore did not respond. She knew better.
Palpatine's smirk widened—ice over flame. He moved to his chair, the hem of his robes whispering across the floor as he sat, throne-like in his perch of power.
"Post him somewhere... distant. Remote. I've no use for clones who forget their place."
"Understood, Chancellor," Moore replied at last, bowing slightly before gliding from the room.
Behind her, the Chancellor steepled his fingers, the faintest echo of amusement lingering—like the calm before a storm.
---
District Seabass Command Center — Coruscant
Morning on Coruscant was always a lie. The sunlight that filtered through the blinds of the command dormitory was artificial warmth, bleeding gold across a city that never truly slept.
In that sterile, minimalistic room, Commander Thorn adjusted the final clasps of his crimson armor.
The hiss of his helmet sealing in place marked the start of another day—routine, calculated… until it wasn't.
He entered the command room just as a priority transmission lit the console. A flickering blue hologram sprang to life atop the holotable—Commander Fox, straight-backed and stern as ever.
"Fox," Thorn greeted, offering a nod.
"Commander Thorn, you're being redeployed," Fox stated flatly, wasting no time on pleasantries.
Thorn's posture tensed. "Redeployed? Where?"
"Lotho Minor. You're to investigate suspected droid trafficking and illegal Separatist salvage operations. Orders are effective immediately."
Lotho Minor. The words hit like a cold punch to the gut. Thorn felt the air thicken, his mind grinding behind the visor.
Was I found out?
A moment of silence. No—if the Chancellor truly knew…
I'd be dead already.
Still, suspicion had a scent—and it reeked. Palpatine was probing, testing... or playing a longer game. Thorn's thoughts spun, calculating every angle, every shadow beneath this sudden reassignment.
"Understood," Thorn replied coolly, masking the unease twisting in his gut. For now, he'd play along—ride the current until it turned.
"Good. I'll transmit the intel," Fox said before the hologram flickered and vanished.
A second later, a sharp beep cut through the silence of the command room. Thorn turned to the holotable, the file already waiting. With a tap, the data unfolded before him.
He scanned it—and frowned.
"So much for intel," he muttered. The file was sparse. No maps. No numbers. No tactical assessments. Just a destination and vague mission parameters: "Investigate illicit activity. Report findings."
He exhaled, slow and measured. There was no slipping out of this—not yet. Whatever this was, it was already in motion.
Grimly resolved, Thorn moved through the barracks, gathering his equipment with practiced precision—weapons calibrated, tech modules checked, rations secured.
By the time he stepped onto the landing platform, the morning light had turned colder, the city below humming like a beast.
Awaiting him, a gunship idled—its engines purring low, he climbed aboard without a word.
---
Grand Army of the Republic Headquarters
The moment Commander Thorn stepped off the gunship, the sharp clang of armored boots on durasteel was met with a crisp salute. A clone sergeant in red-and-white Phase II armor awaited him at the platform's edge.
"Commander," the sergeant said, posture rigid, tone clipped.
Thorn returned the nod, falling in beside him without a word. They moved through the base's wind-swept landing zone, past rows of idling ships and patrolling troopers, until they reached a modest-looking shuttle resting at the edge of the pad.
Thorn stopped, brow furrowing slightly. "This is it?"
The Aratech Z-47 Patrol Shuttle stood compact and unremarkable—more fit for border patrol than covert deployments. Thorn's tone wasn't anger, but unmistakably edged with disbelief.
The sergeant cleared his throat, awkwardly shifting his weight. "Due to the... sudden nature of the deployment, we weren't able to allocate another ship."
"Right," Thorn muttered, more to himself than anyone else—when the crisp, unmistakable sound of boots on metal echoed from the corridor.
Two clone commandos emerged, clad in pristine white Katarn-class armor, their visors catching the light like cold mirrors.
"Commander Thorn," one of them spoke with mechanical precision, "Reporting for duty."
Thorn tilted his head slightly. "You are?"
"RC-3112," the first responded.
"RC-4105," followed the second.
Thorn's frown deepened behind his visor. They're using designations... not names? Odd.
Nearly every clone by now had shed their serial numbers, adopting names that made them feel something more than manufactured.
"We were assigned to this operation," RC-3112 continued. "Under your command."
Thorn studied them a beat longer, their stillness almost too perfect. No fidgeting, no idle chatter—just discipline honed to a razor's edge.
"No names?" he asked.
The two commandos shook their heads in silent unison.
"Fine then," Thorn said at last. "You'll go by Twelve—and you, O-Five."
"Understood," they replied in a single, emotionless breath.
Thorn gave a slow nod, unease threading through his gut like a quiet warning. Something about these two... didn't sit right.
"All right then. Let's get moving," Thorn said, stepping into the cramped interior of the Z-47. The two commandos followed wordlessly, sliding into the pilot and co-pilot seats with eerie efficiency.
"Take us out," Thorn ordered.
"Yes, sir," O-Five replied without pause, flipping a series of switches as the aging ship hummed to life, engines groaning like a creature roused from uneasy sleep.
Thorn eased into a seat, arms crossed over his chest, mind anything but still. This whole mission reeked of something deeper—something wrong.
The lack of intel, the ancient, unreliable Aratech Z-47 shuttle—an outdated model known for its poor atmospheric sealing and infamous engine overheating—didn't inspire confidence. It had been phased out years ago for a reason.
Then there were the commandos: Twelve and O-Five. Clones, yes, but they moved like shadows. No names. No banter. Just quiet, clinical obedience. Too quiet.
They're not here to support me, Thorn thought grimly. They're here to watch me.
Even the gear they'd been issued was suspect—worn, outdated, malfunctioning on inspection. Nothing about this assignment felt routine.
Did he sense the lie? Thorn's mind spiraled. Palpatine... did he feel it through the Force?
"I need to get out of here," Thorn muttered under his breath, his gaze fixed on the silent silhouettes of Twelve and O-Five.