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Event Horizon

Chapter Forty-Five: Writing on the Wall

Chapter WC: 7,647

Chapter Tags/Warnings: nothing too crazy yet, but don't hate me, this is a hard read

A/N: 🚨 Canon divergence ahead 🚨 One of the things that completely slipped past me until my recent rewatch of the Umbara arc was that Krell was originally with Obi-Wan during the conflict. It honestly didn't make a lot of sense to me why he would be there, so we’re ignoring that. We’re in my timeline now 🫵

This fic will be on a biweekly schedule for the foreseeable future so that I can have the space and mental fortitude to work on other projects (Good Graces? who said that) and keep things consistent with EH. Thank you all love you!

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Coruscant, 20 BBY

You don't see Rex tomorrow.

It all happened so quickly. You woke up to find your call already disconnected, a dozen notifications marked urgent waiting for you. Duro and Umbara’s secession is official. The Republic is sending troops to defend the planet and the surrounding systems. The Separatists are pushing their advantage.

Obi-Wan was gone before dawn.

Anakin and Rex departed at noon.

And now here you are, immersed in the silence of being left behind once again. The world is still spinning, but for now, you're motionless. Stuck. Waiting. Hoping. Wishing. Praying.

The war has already taken so much from you.

You can't lose Rex.

You know it’s paranoia that’s causing this feeling, the same fear that grips you whenever you think too long about the war and your place in it. You’d only just gotten used to the idea that the two of you were something more, and now he's being pulled away again. This time, to a war zone. A real war zone.

Umbara is a mess, and the news from the front isn't good. Booker’s been feeding you reports that you shouldn’t be reading, telling you things you shouldn’t know, and you’re grateful. But it also terrifies you.

Rex and Anakin are leading the charge. If anyone could get through this fight unscathed, it's them and the 501st. But if you've learned anything from the past year of fighting, it's that nothing is certain, especially the outcome of a battle.

Every minute seems to stretch longer than the last, the days blending together. It’s been four days since Rex sent his last message, five days since you heard his voice, six since you last saw him. There have been no new updates since then, and the lack of news is eating at you, fueling your anxiety. The Council is tight-lipped, the Senate is divided, and the public is restless.

And you’re just sitting here, pushing your half-eaten meal around your tray and trying not to think about the worst.

It's not working.

The thought is a constant hum of anxiety, and the Force is alive with the energy, buzzing and pulsing. You almost wish it would give you a vision. Something for you to work towards, or against. Anything would be better than the uncertainty of not knowing.

You’ve given up all pretense of rest and detachment at this point. Every moment of the day is spent at the 419th’s barracks, and that’s where you are now. The men don’t seem to mind. In fact, most of them seem relieved. Times are uncertain enough without the looming possibility of losing a comrade. The fact that you and Booker can give them even the smallest sense of normalcy is comforting to the entire brigade.

Booker walks into the common area and looks around, spotting you by the window. You glance over and manage a small smile, and he returns the expression, moving quickly across the half-empty mess.

"Still no word," he says softly as he slides into the seat across from you. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," you mutter, picking at the crust of your toast. "At least there's no news. Better than getting bad news."

"Right," he agrees. "That's what I always tell myself."

“Is it working?”

“No.” He snorts, looking around the room. "You should probably go."

"Why?"

"Because you've been here every night this week," he answers. "The boys are starting to talk."

"Let them talk," you mumble. You push your tray away and rest your elbows atop the table, rubbing a hand over the back of your neck. "What's the latest news from the front?"

“Same as yesterday," he says. "We lost our position at the landing zone. Rex and the 501st are regrouping with General Kenobi's forces. General Skywalker’s got a plan."

"A reckless one, no doubt," you sigh. You pick up a datapad, scanning the report, but it's a short, vague paragraph that offers no real information. "Anything else?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

"What?"

"Look," he sighs, reaching over and taking the datapad from your hand. "You need to stop worrying. You can't focus if you're distracted, and this kind of thing distracts you. It's not good for anyone."

"I'm not distracted," you grumble. You take the datapad back and scroll down the page, searching for the words you know aren't there. It’s just like Booker said. Nothing has changed. "I'm fine."

"You're worried," Booker insists. "And I get it. You love him. But the 501st can take care of itself. The Captain's gonna be fine. He's a smart man. And a lucky one."

"He's the most stubborn man I've ever met," you say quietly. You can feel a lump forming your throat, and your eyes start to burn. You swallow hard and shake your head. "I just need to know that he's okay."

"And you will," Booker replies. "But you need to trust him. Trust him to do his job."

"I know," you sigh, and you drop the datapad onto the table and rub a hand over your forehead. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize."

"Yeah, I do." You run a hand over your braid, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety that has made a home inside your stomach. "It's not fair to you or the men. I'll try harder. Promise."

"You're doing a good job," he reassures you. He stands and moves to stand beside you, placing a hand atop your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Now go back to the Temple and get some sleep. I'll send a message if I hear anything."

"Thanks," you mumble with a weak smile. You get up and wrap an arm around his waist, hugging him tight. "I'm sorry I've been so awful."

"You're not," he laughs, hugging you back. His chin settles atop your head, and his hand smooths over your hair, his tone teasing. "But I'm used to you being grumpy, so..."

"Ass," you tease, shoving him playfully, and Booker laughs, his hand dropping from your head to the small of your back, guiding you toward the door. "What would the boys think if they knew you were being a jerk to me?"

"That's what brothers do," he replies, and you roll your eyes, giving him a final hug before turning to leave.

"See you tomorrow," you say over your shoulder, and he gives you a wave.

"Get some sleep," he calls after you.

You raise a hand and wave, slipping through the doors and out into the hall. The men milling about glance at you and nod respectfully, and you smile back, waving and wishing them a good night as you pass. When you reach the outside, the air is cool and crisp, and you take a steadying breath, filling your lungs and letting it out slowly.

It's going to be okay. It has to be.

You take the scenic route back to the Temple, wandering through the city and losing yourself among the crowds. It helps to ground you, to distract your thoughts. Most people on Coruscant are removed from the war, and out here, there's an absence of the weighty energy that hangs over the clones and the Jedi. There's no expectation of sacrifice and death and suffering. Just normal people going about their lives, free of the burdens the galaxy has forced upon you.

That life is unthinkable to you now. A dream of another existence. One you might have lived had fate not brought you to the Order and the 419th and Rex. But it doesn't stop you from thinking about it as you walk, your hands tucked in your robes and your eyes on the sun setting on another day of worrying and waiting.

Golden fields, warmth, and the smell of flowers surround you as your vision shifts, revealing the idyllic scene that's followed you since the war began.

Rex is beside you, and you turn to look at him, his strong profile illuminated by the afternoon sun. You take his hand and smile, squeezing his fingers, and his gaze meets yours, a look of love and adoration clear as day. He stops walking and tugs at your hand, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your lips, his mouth warm and soft. You lean into him, resting a hand against his chest, and he pulls away with a grin, brushing his nose against yours before he starts walking again, pulling you along beside him.

"Cyar'ika," he begins, and you turn toward him, the words dying before they can form.

The vision fades as suddenly as it appeared, and the bustle of the city replaces the tranquil setting, bringing you back to the present as a speeder honks loudly.

You pull your foot back from the curb and step back onto the sidewalk, your heart pounding.

"Kriffing hell," you mutter under your breath, and you rub a hand over your eyes. Maybe Booker is right. Maybe you should go home and get some sleep.

You continue your walk, moving through the streets, the vision following you like a shadow. The memory is clear, the details vivid and lifelike, down to the feeling of Rex's hand wrapped around yours and the warmth of the sun. It's changed, shifted every time you've seen it, but the core is the same. You're happy. At peace.

Together.

You just wish you knew where. And more importantly, when.

By the time you make it back to the Temple, the sun has set, and the night sky is dark and cold, a light rain falling from the clouds above. A fitting end to a miserable week.

You nod at the guards on your way inside, trudging up the stairs and through the halls to the lift. But as soon as the doors close on you, you hesitate, your hand hovering over the button for your floor.

The Temple is quiet at this hour, quieter than usual. Even the Force feels still, like the silence between blaster shots.

Your thumb hovers over the button.

And then you press the one for the training salle.

If the men can train through their worries and fears, then so can you. You're not going to sit idly by while they're out there, fighting for the Republic and the galaxy. You're going to prepare. To be ready.

The lift doors slide open, and you step off, moving purposefully toward the training salle. Once inside, you find the room empty, the lights dimmed, the benches vacant. You let your outer robe fall from your shoulders and remove your boots, kicking them off underneath a bench and padding over to the sparring mats.

You move through your stretches and warm-up exercises slowly, deliberately, letting the movements flow through you and the Force fill your limbs. You lose yourself to the rhythm, letting go of the pain and fear and uncertainty that has been your constant companion, focusing instead of the steady rise and fall of your breath and the hum of the Force surrounding you.

When your muscles are loose and warm, you step onto the mat and settle into a defensive stance, letting out a slow breath. You begin moving through the familiar katas, your limbs responding instantly, and it feels good. Right. You need the distraction. The movement. The routine. The focus. The pain.

Your muscles ache as you push yourself, sweat rolling down your spine and collecting under your tunic. Pain sparks through your limbs, and your lungs burn with every breath. You welcome the sensations, the physical discomfort grounding you and helping you to push back the thoughts that have been plaguing you all week.

You practice first with both your lightsaber and Yaddle's, then just yours, then none at all. Your time on Duro had taught you an important lesson. You can't rely on just one form, or even two. If you're going to be the Jedi you want to be, the one that Rex and the 419th believe you are, then you need to be flexible. To adapt.

You practice for hours, switching between forms and sparring with a training remote. Eventually, you end up against the wall, breathing hard, your arms shaking and your head pounding. The plaster is cold against your back as you slide down to the floor and stretch out your legs.

You stay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling and catching your breath. You close your eyes and tilt your head back, the exhaustion starting to take hold, and your mind drifts, the vision flashing before your eyes once more.

Rex's smile is warm and inviting, his expression open and full of love. His gaze is locked with yours, and he raises a hand, his fingertips skimming the edge of your cheekbone.

"Cyar'ika," he murmurs.

And then the image is gone, replaced with the harsh glow of the training salle, and your eyes snap open, a gasp catching in your throat. A shadow darkens the doorway, blocking the light spilling in from the hall.

"Master Krell," you say hoarsely, scrambling to stand up, your heart pounding. You bow your head and brush a hand over the front of your tunic. "Forgive me. I didn't see you there."

He gives you an appraising look, his four arms folded behind his back, and he takes a step toward you. The door whooshes shut behind him as his gaze moves about the room, lingering on the overturned equipment and scattered training remotes before coming to rest back at you.

"No," he agrees. "You did not."

"Did you need the room?" you ask. You gesture toward the door and try to take a step forward, but the room seems to sway, and you have to grab onto a nearby rack of training staffs to keep from falling. "I can leave."

"Stay," he orders, and you wince, bracing yourself against the wall and nodding.

"Alright," you reply, swallowing hard.

Krell continues his slow, measured pace around the salle, his footsteps echoing against the bare walls. You stay rooted to the spot, your fingers gripping the wooden staff, a sinking feeling settling over you.

"Your technique is impressive," he says, stopping across the room. He doesn't look at you, his gaze focused out the window. "Unrefined, but effective."

"Thank you," you answer automatically, though the words taste bitter and dry. "I've had good teachers."

"Yes," he replies simply, and his eyes meet yours. "You have."

There's a pregnant pause, the two of you regarding each other from across the room. This is the second time in as many weeks that you've spoken to him alone, and like the last time, there's a heaviness to his presence, a weight to his gaze that unsettles you.

But the war has made all of the Jedi uneasy. You can feel the effects even here, safe within the confines of the Temple. You're sure your Force signature is no less volatile.

You break the eye contact first and move away from the wall, picking up the discarded training remotes and setting them back onto the shelf. Once settled, you stalk over to the bench and pick up your discarded robe, securing it at the base of your throat with shaking hands.

"Well," you begin awkwardly, your gaze flitting toward the door. "I should probably be getting back to my quarters."

"You're not going to ask why I'm here?" Krell asks, and he quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head curiously. "Surely you're wondering."

"It's none of my business," you answer diplomatically, though you can't deny that you're curious.

"That is a very Jedi response," he replies, a note of amusement coloring his voice. He crosses his arms and takes a step toward you, his eyes searching yours. "But you've never been a typical Jedi."

You can't resist the urge to roll your eyes at the comment, and Krell smirks, his lip curling up as he watches you.

"Well, I like to stand out," you say dryly, and he chuckles.

"Indeed," Krell replies, his gaze roaming around the room again before settling back onto you. "You're looking well. Better than expected. I'm impressed."

"That's kind of you to say," you reply. "Thank you."

"Though, I'm not surprised," he continues. "I always did expect great things from you."

"Really?"

"Of course," he answers easily, and you frown, confused by his response.

"Forgive me, Master, but I'm not sure why," you admit. You cross your arms over your chest and shift your weight. "I'm hardly special. My abilities are average at best. I'm certainly not the strongest or most talented."

"You are humble," Krell observes, and you shrug, unsure of how to respond. He hums and rubs a hand over his chin. "But no, your humility isn't what's exceptional. You have a strength that is not visible to the eye."

Your eyebrows raise in surprise. A compliment from Master Krell is rare, and a sincere one, even more so. Your interactions have been few throughout the course of your lifetime, and he's never once given any indication that he had any opinion of you at all.

"Oh," you mumble, your cheeks heating. "Well, thank you, Master. That's...that's a kind thing to say."

He gives you a nod and turns toward the door, gesturing for you to follow him, and you do so, matching his quick pace and staying a step behind him as you walk down the hall toward the lifts. His strides are wide and fast, his hands folded behind his back, and he looks at ease, though the air of seriousness remains, a cloud hanging over the two of you.

"I have some news for you," he announces, his gaze straight ahead.

"Good news?" you ask hopefully.

"For the Republic," he replies, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Progress is being made on Umbara."

"Oh," you murmur. You're not sure what to say. Part of you is relieved. The rest... "Well, that's...that's good. Right? Progress is always good."

"Indeed," Krell agrees, and the two of you step into the lift, the door sliding shut behind you. He presses the button for the top floor, and the lift begins moving, rising swiftly up the side of the Temple. "It will be an important victory for the Republic."

"How did you hear about the news?" you ask. "Has the Council approved the information for dissemination?"

"No. The Council summoned me for a briefing," Krell answers. He turns his head to look at you, eyes shining with pride. "I suppose they thought my insight would be beneficial. A good decision. There's been a...development."

"What development?" you press.

“Chancellor Palpatine has ordered Skywalker to return to Coruscant,” he announces as he waves a hand. "As you can imagine, it has created quite a stir."

"What? Can he do that?" you blurt out, and Krell's eyes narrow. "I'm sorry. I know he can. He's the Chancellor. But interfering with military operations like this is unheard of."

"Unheard of, and unwelcome," Krell agrees, and the doors open. He gestures for you to step out first, and you do so, waiting for him as he strides beside you down the corridor. "Career politicians seldom understand the intricacies of warfare. They think of wars as a game. One they can play from the comfort of their offices and chambers."

"I'm sure Chancellor Palpatine has his reasons," you begin carefully, unsure of what you're supposed to say. It's not like you disagree with the sentiment, but the situation is more complicated than that. "I mean, he's the leader of the Republic. Surely, there's some justification for him to call Anakin back."

"Justification?" Krell repeats, and he raises an eyebrow, stopping outside the doors to his quarters. "That's a bold statement."

"It's just...," you trail off, the words dying before they can be formed. You don't even know what you're trying to say. Your head is spinning, and your stomach is knotted, the anxiety from earlier returning full force. "This is all a bit much."

"The situation is...unfortunate," he admits, and his expression softens, the anger giving way to something akin to sympathy. He sighs and reaches out to rest a hand atop your shoulder, engulfing you from neck to bicep. "You have endured much these past weeks. Too much."

"I'll be fine," you say softly, and he gives your shoulder a squeeze before stepping away.

"I hope so," he replies. "The Council ordered me to relieve Skywalker of command and send him back. You will accompany me."

You freeze, the blood draining from your veins, and the floor drops out from underneath you.

"W-what?" you stammer. "You want me to go?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Now."

"Now?" you repeat, aghast, and he nods. You shake your head and take a step back, a million thoughts running through your head. "I...I can't. I don't...I can't leave. My men—"

"Will be escorting us to the rendezvous point," Krell cuts you off. He steps closer, his voice lowering as he leans forward. "This is a direct order, Anathorn. You will report to the landing platform and prepare the transport. We can't afford to waste any more time."

"Of course," you reply automatically. Your stomach twists with nausea, and you swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay calm. "I'll go inform Commander Booker of the change of plans."

"There's no need," he dismisses. "The men are already preparing the transport. All you need to do is get ready."

"Right," you mutter, rubbing a hand over your forehead, trying to process what's happening. "When do we leave?"

"As soon as the transport is prepared."

"Okay," you sigh, and you glance down the hall toward the lift and give him a final bow. "I should...go pack."

"Yes, you should," he agrees, and his eyes are heavy as he watches you, a strange look passing behind his gaze. "Be quick."

"Of course," you repeat, turning quickly on your heel and walking down the corridor. You can feel his eyes following you, heavy with same kind of intensity from the sparring salle. When you turn around, Krell is already inside his quarters with the door shut, and you sigh, running a hand over your hair and continuing your walk back to your quarters, trying to ignore the anxiety gnawing at your insides.

Kriff.

This is not what you wanted.

In fact, this is the opposite of what you wanted. You're not sure if Rex would even want you there, and the idea of having to leave the 419th right now, after everything that's happened, is not a pleasant one.

But orders are orders. You're on thin ice with the Council after Duro, and defying a direct order from the members of the High Council, not to mention a member of the Jedi High Command, is not something that will be taken lightly. You can't afford any more slip-ups or missteps. Not with the threat of being separated from your men permanently hanging over your head. And the last thing you want is for Rex or the men to get hurt because you weren't where you were supposed to be.

It's too late now, anyway.

You're going.

And the sooner you're ready, the sooner you'll be able to see him. To make sure he's okay.

It takes you mere minutes to throw together a bag of the necessities. Jedi pack light, and there's nothing you could possibly need that isn't already on the Oracle. Once that's done, you take a quick shower, and then you're back into robes, a small backpack slung over your shoulder.

You give yourself a long look in the cracked mirror in your bathroom as you finish braiding your hair. Your eyes are dark, and there are bags underneath them, but there's a new sense of resolve reflected back at you. The feeling that had settled over you the day you'd returned to the Temple after the battle at Duro has faded, the doubt and fear giving way to a steely determination. You're ready for this.

At least, you hope so.

After a moment, you look away, reaching into your pocket and withdrawing your comm. You scroll past your previous messages with Rex and open a new one, typing a message quickly and hitting send.

Coming to you. You better be alive, or I'll kill you.

The walk to the landing platform is quick, and you spot your men loading supplies onto the ship as you approach, the troopers glancing over their shoulders and giving you respectful nods as they continue working. Your steps slow as you take in the freshly-scrubbed hull and refinished paint. It's almost like nothing ever happened.

Almost.

Booker is standing off to the side with Krell, his helmet tucked under his arm. When he spots you, he waves and excuses himself, jogging over to meet you halfway.

"What is going on?" he whispers, glancing behind him at Krell, who's still engrossed with his datapad, a scowl etched into his features.

"I don't know," you reply truthfully, and he huffs as he turns around and matches your stride, his hands clasped behind his back.

"He's not a talker," Booker grumbles. "Tried to talk strategy. He just told me to load the ship and be quiet."

"Sounds like him," you chuckle, and he snorts, bumping his elbow against yours.

"So what are you doing here?"

"Master Krell is relieving Anakin of command and taking over the operation," you explain, and he gives a low whistle, his eyebrows raising. "He asked me to assist."

"What did General Skywalker do?"

"No idea," you answer. You shrug and give him a sideways look. "Maybe it was just too much for him."

"Yeah," he says slowly. "Maybe."

"Anathorn," Krell calls as you approach the ramp, and the two of you stop and turn toward him. He looks between the two of you and frowns. "Is there a problem?"

"No, sir," Booker answers immediately, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. "All the supplies are loaded, and the ship is ready for takeoff."

"Then prepare for departure," Krell orders.

Booker’s mouth twists as he looks to you, his hand tightening around his helmet. His eyes flick to Krell and back. You give him a curt nod and a wave of your hand, and he sighs, turning toward his men.

"Alright, men. Prepare for departure. Get to your stations," he calls, and the men fall into line, jogging up the ramp and into the hold. Booker glances over his shoulder at you one last time and disappears inside the ship.

Krell lets out a grunt as he watches the procession, his gaze narrowing as the men hurry past.

"Loyalty,” he says, almost to himself, and he glances at you from the corner of his eye. "Such a powerful motivator."

"Yes," you agree, shifting the weight of your bag over your shoulder and swallowing hard.

“A rare commodity these days."

"The loyalty of the clones is unmatched," you reply diplomatically, and he hums, his eyes moving over the lines of clones boarding the ship, a curious look crossing his features. "They're a fine example of the Republic's military might."

"Indeed," he murmurs. His gaze returns to the ship, his expression thoughtful. He's silent for a second before turning to look at you. "Come."

You follow him up the ramp, your steps heavy. The men stand at attention as you enter and salute, and you return the gesture with a small smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes. You can't blame them for staring. You're just as confused as they are.

By the time you arrive on the bridge, the engines are running, and the ship is ready for departure. You watch as the landing platform extends and the hangar doors open, revealing the glittering expanse of Coruscant stretching out below you.

Your heart aches as the ship lifts off, the platform shrinking behind you as the cityscape rises up to greet you.

Coruscant is a beautiful planet. It's been your home for your entire life, and there's a sense of belonging, a familiarity, that settles over you whenever you're here. But as the ship breaks through the atmosphere and the blackness of space opens before you, it feels cold and distant, like an old friend who's suddenly turned their back.

Krell doesn't seem affected by the sight. In fact, he hardly seems to notice. He's engrossed with his datapad, a grimace etched into his features. He barely acknowledges the trooper reporting for navigation duties and gives the coordinates without looking up from his datapad.

“General Anathorn.”

You tear your gaze away from Krell's back to see Lieutenant Price approaching quickly, a datapad tucked under his arm. The brown paint on his armor has been scrubbed away, his armor freshly cleaned and polished. Gold concentric hexagons adorning his chest plate, marking him as an official member of the 419th.

You offer him a tired smile as he comes to a stop beside you, the rest of the bridge crew moving about their tasks, leaving the two of you alone. He casts a nervous glance toward Krell and holds out the datapad.

“I, uh...here's the latest status report, General. Thought you might want to look it over," he explains, and you take the datapad, giving him a nod. "The supply requisitions and inventory logs. Also a copy of the 212th's and 501st’s casualty reports as of Benduday."

"Thank you," you murmur. You flip through the logs and frown. "How are the numbers?"

"Not as high as they could be," he answers quietly. He runs his fingers through his hair and gives you a half-smile. "All things considered."

"That's good," you sigh, and you skim through the report, noting the casualties and the medical evacuations. It could have been much worse, and the fact that it isn't is a relief. "Did you hear anything from the 501st? Any word from Rex?"

"No, sir," Price answers. His eyes flick to Krell and back, his voice dropping even lower. "Nothing since their last communication with General Kenobi."

"Damn," you curse, and the two of you look at Krell, his arms folded behind his back and his expression serious. Price looks at you expectantly, his eyebrows raised, and you shake your head, letting out a frustrated sigh. "I don't know why we're here. He hasn't told me anything."

Price shares a look with Booker across the bridge, and he looks back at you, his eyes shining with the same curiosity and confusion that's been eating at you since Krell had first approached you.

"Sir," he begins hesitantly, his tone questioning. "What's going to happen with us? Are we going to stay under your command?"

"I'm not sure," you admit, and the words are like ash as they leave your mouth. "I guess that depends. Do you still want me to be your commander?"

"Of course," Price replies instantly. He clears his throat and adjusts his helmet, his gaze drifting toward Krell again. "But, um...do we have a choice? About our command?"

"There's always a choice," you say softly. You look at Booker, who's watching the two of you from the helm, a grim expression behind his eyes. You glance back at Price and shrug, rubbing a hand over the back of your neck. "I can't promise that things will work out, but I can promise that I'll do everything I can to keep the 419th together."

"Thanks, sir. I'd hate to have to request another transfer so soon," he quips, and you roll your eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

"Very funny."

"Just trying to lighten the mood, sir."

"I appreciate the effort," you mumble, and you flip through the pages of the datapad, trying not to think about the possibility of being separated from the 419th once again. Price was thorough, and you can see his own notes scribbled alongside the data, a map and a list of objectives. "Have you heard from your batchmate? What was his name? Orc?"

"Ori," Price corrects you. He nods. "I haven't heard from him. Last I heard, the 212th was getting hammered. But once we're—"

"Lieutenant," Krell barks, interrupting him mid-sentence, and Price stiffens, his mouth snapping shut as he turns around to look at the Jedi. "Return to your station."

"Yes, sir," Price mutters, and he shoots you a final look. He gives you a small nod before heading back across the bridge and taking his place beside Booker as his adjutant.

Krell's gaze follows him the whole way, his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. You can't stop yourself from staring back, and after a minute, Krell's attention moves to you.

"You didn't have to do that," you say before you can stop yourself, and he raises an eyebrow, a glint of amusement flashing behind his gaze.

"Do what?"

"Order him back to his post," you clarify as you move closer, lowering your voice so the crew can't hear. "Be rude. He's just doing his job."

"As are we all," Krell muses. He glances at your datapad and shakes his head. "A pointless endeavor, I assure you."

"How do you know?" you ask.

"Because there's nothing of value to be found," he replies simply. He takes the datapad from your hand and scrolls through the information, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Besides, I will not be sending them out into battle. That is for the 501st and 212th alone."

"They're not useless," you snap. You cross your arms over your chest and stare up at him, a fire burning inside you. "They've proved their worth. We have a chance to take the planet back. With their support, we'll be able to—"

"Do you honestly think that this rabble is capable of anything but getting themselves killed?" Krell scoffs. He tosses the datapad onto a nearby chair and fixes you with a hard look. "Don't be so naive. This is a battle that must be fought. A test of wills and resolve. And you and I are the ones who must fight it."

"A test of wills?"

"Umbara is a proving ground," he says darkly. He looks down at the planet through the viewport, his gaze fixed. "For our forces and their generals."

Your eyes find Booker's across the bridge, his shoulders tense and his jaw clenched, a storm of emotions swirling behind his eyes.

"We will succeed," you reply.

"I'm sure we will," Krell agrees.

You fall silent, unable to form the right words. It's hard not to take the digs and jabs personally. Not after all the years of struggle and sacrifice, and not after all the pain and suffering the men have endured, both during the war and before.

"Sir," the pilot calls, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "Ready to engage hyperdrive."

"Proceed," Krell orders.

The officer looks to you for confirmation, and you give him a sharp nod, your hands curling into fists at your sides. You're not going to give Krell any reason to doubt your commitment or loyalty. He may not respect the 419th, but you do, and you're not going to fail them. Not again.

"Entering hyperspace," the officer announces.

You turn your attention back to the datapad, the information blurring as you continue reading. There's nothing useful here. Nothing that will give you a clue as to why you're here or what will happen once the battle begins. A headache throbs at the base of your skull, a persistent ache, and you sigh, rubbing a hand over your eyes.

"Sir?"

"Yes?" you answer distractedly, not looking up.

"Can we speak to you for a minute?"

You glance up to see Booker and Price standing beside you, their expressions solemn, and you nod, waving them over. Booker stalks past you toward the double doors leading to the corridor beyond, and Price follows close behind, his gaze darting to the men working around the bridge before the doors slide shut behind him.

"Excuse me, Master Krell," you say, and the Besalisk doesn't reply, his gaze fixed ahead. You fight the urge to roll your eyes and turn to follow the men, the doors sliding shut behind you.

Booker leans against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a frown. Price's hand is tapping against his thigh, his shoulders squared. They're both quiet, and the silence is deafening.

"What is it?" you press after a minute, and they share a look.

“Question for you,” Booker says quietly, and he tilts his head, his gaze meeting yours. "Do you trust General Krell?"

"Yes," you answer automatically. You don't have to think about it. After all the times you've seen him save lives and win battles, it's an easy response. Krell is a well-respected Jedi, and an even better fighter and strategist. Why wouldn't you trust him? "Why?"

"No reason," he grumbles. He glances down the hall and presses his lips together. "I've got a bad feeling about this. We all do. I just want to know if you're feeling the same way."

"What kind of feeling?"

"This mission," he says. "I don't know. Something doesn't feel right."

“Well, it’s certainly unexpected,” you say carefully. You rub the back of your neck and shrug. "I don't know what to tell you, Book. I wish I did. But we're going to have to make the best of it."

"I don't trust him," Booker mutters, and Price nods his agreement. "He's got a bad vibe."

"He's a Jedi," you insist, a note of irritation slipping into your voice. "He's not here to hurt anyone. We're on the same side. Our enemy is the Separatists. We need to trust each other."

"I thought that too," he snaps, and his expression darkens, his gaze boring into yours. "And look how that turned out."

The words are like a slap in the chest, and you flinch, your hand moving reflexively to your lightsaber, the memory of Duro flashing before your eyes. Price's eyes go wide, and he reaches out to grab Booker's shoulder, shaking his head as he pulls him back.

"Hey," he warns, his voice low. "That's not what we're talking about."

"No, it's not," Booker replies. His gaze shifts back to you, and he swallows hard, a flash of regret crossing his features. He steps forward, his fingers curling around your elbow, and his eyes search yours. "I'm sorry. That's not...I didn't mean..."

"It's okay," you mumble, your stomach twisting with guilt.

"No, it's not," he sighs. He releases his hold and runs a hand over his hair. "I didn't mean you. I meant the Jedi. The ones who are trying to keep us apart."

"I know," you whisper. "I'm sorry. This is...this is all messed up."

"Yeah," Booker chuckles dryly, and he leans back against the wall, his arms folded over his chest again. "No kidding."

"I don't think he's the one pulling the strings," Price offers, his voice cautious. He gestures back toward the bridge. "General Krell, I mean. He seems pretty straight-laced to me. Just a little prickly."

"Agreed," you sigh. You pinch the bridge of your nose and close your eyes, letting out a slow breath. "Look, I'm just as frustrated as the two of you. This isn't how I expected things to turn out. But we have to play along. Prove to the Council that we can handle ourselves. If we make it through this, we'll be home free."

"I guess," Booker grunts.

"We've done more with less," you remind him, and he snorts, shaking his head.

"True," he admits. He glances down the hall again and nods. "Alright. You're probably right. It's probably nothing. I just...I can't stop thinking about Duro. And now they’re sending us back, and I don’t—“

“They’re what?” you blurt out, and Booker and Price exchange a confused look.

"The Council," Booker explains, and he narrows his eyes. "General Krell said they'd ordered the 419th to Duro."

"What?" you repeat, and Booker's brow furrows as he watches you, trying to gauge your reaction.

"Wait," he says slowly. He looks around and takes a step closer, lowering his voice. "They didn't tell you? You didn't know?"

"I was told we're meeting with the 501st," you say weakly, and he grimaces. You swallow hard and shake your head. "Are we not?"

“You are,” Price says. He shifts from foot to foot and sighs. "But we're not."

"What?"

"It's fine," Booker interjects, waving a hand dismissively. He tries to give you a reassuring smile. "Really. It's just some clean-up duty. Command wants us to hit the flotillas, flush out droid command and get a read on their movements."

"It's a good assignment," Price agrees, though he doesn't seem convinced by his own words. "Easy work."

"Easy," you echo, your voice sounding far away.

You're not sure how to respond. You should be happy. Glad that the men will be safe. But the sinking feeling is back, a cold sense of dread seeping into your bones.

For the first time, they'll be going into battle without you.

And there's nothing you can do about it.

You clear your throat and force a smile onto your lips.

"Good. I'm glad," you say. "You guys are more than capable of handling this."

"Hell yeah, we are," Booker grins, and he claps a hand on Price's shoulder. "Right, Price?"

"Right," Price agrees, though the smile doesn't reach his eyes. He shoves Booker's hand off his shoulder and rubs the back of his neck. "Um...do you think we could...get a minute? To talk?"

"Oh," you murmur. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Just...don't be gone too—"

"We'll be quick," Price promises, and he nods at Booker, jerking his head toward the end of the hall. "C'mon."

"Yeah," Booker mumbles, and he pushes away from the wall, giving you a strained smile.

"Okay," you reply.

You watch as the two men walk down the corridor, their heads bowed together and their voices hushed. When they disappear around the corner, you slump back against the wall and bury your head in your hands, taking a shaky breath.

You're not sure how much more of this you can take.

The men's loyalty is a double-edged sword. Their love and devotion is a source of strength, but their pain is yours as well.

And this is a blow you never saw coming.

Duro was hard on the men. It was the first time you'd seen so many of them die, and the aftermath had been rough. You knew there would be a reckoning, a need for reassurance and a space for the trauma to heal.

You'd never thought that the Council would rip the wound open again.

You can't blame the Council for sending the men away. You'd assumed it would happen eventually. They were a good team, and it would be a shame to waste them in limbo, waiting for you to be allowed back into the fray.

But the timing couldn't have been worse.

There's an uneasy feeling settling in your stomach. You can't place the source of it. But the feeling is there, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. Something is wrong.

Or maybe you're just paranoid.

You run a hand over your eyes and sigh. This is what you wanted, right? To be with Rex again? To see him and feel his arms around you and hear his voice?

Then why do you feel so sick?

A heavy hand falls on your shoulder, and you jump, your hand flying to your lightsaber as you whip around. Krell stands before you, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Sorry," you stammer, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. You lower your hand and drop your gaze, rubbing the back of your neck. "I'm...um, sorry. I didn't hear you."

"Clearly," Krell muses, and he gives a small chuckle. He glances down the hall and cocks his head. "I was going to ask if there was a problem. But I believe I have my answer."

"Problem?" you repeat, and you shake your head, waving a hand dismissively. "No, no. Nothing's wrong. It's just...I didn't expect the 419th to be going anywhere else. It's a surprise, is all."

"A surprise?"

"Yes," you explain. "I didn't know the Council was sending the men away."

"Of course they are," he replies simply. He hums and studies you for a second. "I'm surprised at your surprise. Surely, you've been expecting this."

"Expecting what?"

"Their reassignment," Krell answers, and he raises an eyebrow, his tone mocking. "It's the logical choice. Why keep a brigade of clones in stasis on Coruscant? There's a war to fight."

"Right," you mumble. Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, and you bite back the urge to snap at him. You're tired of everyone reminding you that the war is a priority, and that the clones are a commodity to be used and discarded, moved about the board at the Council's will.

"Do you not agree?" Krell presses.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

"My feelings aren't important," you say quickly. You take a step back and bow, giving him a forced smile. "Forgive me, Master. I'm still recovering from my injuries. My focus is off. I should probably get some rest."

"Anathorn," Krell says, and you glance up, your hands curling into fists at your sides. His gaze softens, his eyes searching yours, and he rests a hand on your shoulder, a gesture of comfort. "If you need someone to speak to, I am always available. You can trust me."

"I know," you mumble, and your shoulders sag, the fight draining out of you. He's just trying to be kind. Even if his words sting. "Thank you. I appreciate the offer. I just...need a minute. That's all."

"As you wish," Krell says, and he squeezes your shoulder. “Get some rest. You’ll need it for what’s to come.”

He walks past you toward the bridge, the doors sliding shut behind him, and you watch him go. When he's gone, you slump against the wall, rubbing a hand over your eyes, the pressure building behind your temples.

This is a disaster.

Your head is spinning with everything that's happened. The 419th's reassignment. Krell's strange behavior. Anakin's mysterious orders. The upcoming battle on Umbara.

There's too much to think about, too many moving parts, and none of it is adding up.

You need to speak to Rex.

He'll know what to do. He always does.

For now, all you can do is wait, prepare, and hope that the pieces fall into place.

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