#oc perdita halle

[legacygirlingreen]

"Now we are even" || The Introduction || Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita

Author's Note: I am so excited to drop the first installment of a story involving Commander Wolffe. This is my first time writing for him, and I won't lie, I cannot express how much I've enjoyed getting in his head. I want to thank my lovely and dear friend @leenathegreengirl for helping breathe life into not just Perdita through her art, but also this story at large. This was truly a whim in every fashion of the word, but as Bob Ross once said, there are no such things as mistakes, only happy little accidents. I am really proud of what bit's I've come up with this pair so far. I apologize for future works involving them, because while this is an introduction set after TBB, I plan to go back in time a bit (wouldn't be part of the Filoniverse if there wasn't chaos with the timing I suppose). Also I'm still racking my brain over a shipname so I'd love the suggestions... Any who, enjoy loves - M

Summary: A story as old as time itself. A Clone Commander. A Jedi. Two people bound by honor and duty. Lives defined by unwavering codes. But now, everything is shattered as the Empire orders the galactic execution of the once-peaceful warriors known as the Jedi. When Wolffe unexpectedly crosses paths with a fleeting figure from his past, he faces an agonizing choice. Will he obey the Empire’s command, or will he risk everything—his identity, his loyalty, and his future—in the desperate hope of rediscovering the man he once was?

Pairing: eventual Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita Halle

Warnings: Mentions of Order 66, Brief mentions of assisted suicide, angst with a hopeful ending

Word Count: 5k

Masterlist || Next Part (coming soon)

Wolffe often found the hum of space to be unnerving. Not that space itself had a hum—space was cold, dark, and empty. The hum came from the ship, a constant, low vibration that resonated through its walls, a reminder of its fragile protection against the infinite void outside. He hated this liminal space, this time spent outside planetary orbits, where nothing anchored him.

The vacuum had nearly claimed his life once. He could still feel it if he thought about it too long—the suffocating press of nothingness, the frozen tendrils of death creeping up his spine as his oxygen dwindled. The darkness had wrapped around him like a shroud, a cruel mockery of safety. Skywalker, his padawan and the Sentinel had pulled him back at the last moment, but something about him had stayed behind, left adrift in that endless void. He’d survived, but a part of him hadn’t.

He wondered, often, if death would feel the same. Cold. Empty. A silence so profound it swallowed everything. Or would it be something entirely different? Something warmer, like the faint memory of a sunrise on Kamino’s horizon or the strength of a brother’s arm slung across his shoulders after a battle well-fought?

Plo Koon had once told him that death was not the end but a transition—a merging with the living Force. The words had stayed with Wolffe, though he wasn’t sure if they brought comfort or dread. The concept was simple enough, but it opened too many questions. Would he still be himself in the Force? Would his memories, his regrets, his flaws follow him into that eternity?

And what of those he had lost? Would he see them again? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. The idea of facing the Jedi again, seeing their calm, unwavering gazes, filled him with an ache that felt too large to contain. He respected them deeply, but respect came with weight, and he often felt crushed beneath the burden of their trust. Undeserved, he thought. Always undeserved.

He stared out the viewport, watching stars streak by as the ship hurtled through hyperspace. The endless cascade of light reminded him of something—he wasn’t sure what. A memory tugged at the edges of his mind: Plo Koon standing beside him, hand on his shoulder, as they stared up at the night sky from a dusty outpost.

“There’s always light in the dark, Wolffe,” the Kel Dor had said, his voice steady, unshakable. “Even in the emptiest parts of space, the Force is alive.”

Wolffe had nodded then, silent as always. Even now, the words felt too far away. The darkness pressed in closer these days, even when he was surrounded by his squad, even when the hum of the ship reminded him he was still alive.

Maybe death was different for men like him—men who had taken orders, done what they had to, and carried the weight of it in silence. Maybe for him, death wouldn’t be a warm reunion with the Force but a cold, endless void, like the vacuum that had almost claimed him.

Maybe that was what he deserved.

He tightened his grip on the edge of the console, the familiar vibrations grounding him, even as the void outside seemed to call his name. The stars streaked on, indifferent to his musings, and he stayed where he was, caught between the hum of life and the silence of the dark.

Sure, right now he might be aboard an Imperial transport ship, tasked with carrying a highly dangerous prisoner marked for execution. But in his mind, he was still in the Abragado system, sitting in a pod, waiting. Waiting for the moment his life would be snuffed out in a war he neither fully understood nor had ever truly wanted to be part of.

He hadn’t believed Master Plo when the Jedi had reassured him, promising that someone would come looking for them. Wolffe had learned early on that he was expendable, a belief etched into him by the longnecks on Kamino. He was just another number, another body in an endless sea of soldiers bred for war.

Then came the Jedi. Their compassion, their respect, their quiet insistence on treating clones as individuals—it had shaken the very foundation of everything Wolffe thought he knew. In a world where duty and obedience were everything, where each clone was molded to fulfill a singular purpose, the Jedi had introduced something foreign—something that made him question the very core of his existence. 

Master Plo Koon, in particular, had made an inerasable impact. There was a quiet strength in the way he carried himself, an unspoken understanding that resonated with Wolffe on a level he hadn’t known was possible. Master Plo didn’t just command him; he listened—and more importantly, he understood. The way he treated Wolffe wasn’t like a subordinate or a mere tool of war, but as someone with thoughts, desires, and a sense of self. He spoke to him not as a soldier on the battlefield, but as a fellow being who had hopes, fears, and a need for connection.

When the order came, he didn't want to believe it. He hated how easily his finger had complied, how instinct had overridden thought. The words echoed in his mind, even now when he laid down for sleep: Good soldiers follow orders.

But in that moment, as Master Plo Koon’s starfighter plummeted from the sky, spiraling toward the ground in a fiery descent, Wolffe felt an emptiness unlike any he had ever known. It wasn’t just the shock of watching his commander, his ally, fall—it was the crushing realization that he was complicit in the destruction. The weight of betrayal was a heavy cloak around his shoulders, pressing down on him with unbearable force.

He had followed orders, as he always had, but this time, there was no duty, no justification that could soothe the gnawing ache in his chest. For so long, he had prided himself on his loyalty, on his ability to uphold the ideals of the Republic and the men he fought beside. But as the remnants of Plo Koon’s ship burned in the distance, Wolffe couldn’t help but feel that he had lost something far more vital than the life of a Jedi. He had lost the sense of himself as a man who stood for something honorable.

The world around him seemed to blur, the familiar sound of blaster fire and the chaos of war drowning out in the silence of his thoughts. For the first time, he saw the full, horrifying scope of what he had become—a tool of an Empire that had twisted everything he had once believed in. His identity, his purpose, had been shattered in that instant. As much as he wanted to believe he was still the same soldier, the same Commander, a part of him knew that he had crossed an irreparable line.

Wolffe had never felt further from the idea of being “good.” Not just because of the life he had taken, but because of the loss of the man he had been—the soldier who had once believed in the nobility of his cause.

The last time Wolffe truly felt in his heart that he had done the right thing was the night he learned Rex was still alive. He could still see Rex’s face—pleading, desperate, filled with a conviction that cut through Wolffe’s carefully constructed walls. Rex had begged him to see the truth, to understand that the Empire’s orders were wrong. That hunting a child wasn’t justice.

Wolffe had spent years trying—vainly, tirelessly—not to question his orders. He was a soldier. And good soldiers followed orders. 

But good soldiers didn’t hunt children or order their friends to be killed.

Good soldiers brought in criminal lowlifes, the kind of scum he now had locked in the brig, to justice. At least, that’s what Wolffe had assumed when the prisoner had been described to him as “highly dangerous.” But maybe it was his more recent desire to question his orders, or the way something about this mission didn’t sit right, that sparked the flicker of curiosity. Maybe it was the sentimentality he’d been battling since Rex’s reappearance, or the uneasy edge that always came with being in space.

Whatever the reason, he made a choice. He sent his men off for an early retreat, claiming he’d stand guard himself. He told himself it was for tactical reasons, but it wasn’t. It was personal.

Just like opening the cell door.

The door slid open with a low hiss, revealing a dimly lit chamber. Wolffe expected to see a hardened criminal, someone rough around the edges, beaten down by years of wrongdoing. Instead, his breath caught in his throat.

Seated on the floor, her back pressed against the cold wall, was a woman—young, though her posture bore the weight of someone who had seen more than her years should allow. She didn’t flinch or rise as the door opened, her bright green eyes snapping to him with an intensity that felt like a challenge. Even in the faint light, they glowed, piercing through him like a blade.

“Commander Wolffe,” she said, her voice quiet but steady, the hint of an edge betraying both recognition and caution.

He froze. His hand hovered near his blaster, not out of fear but reflex. “How do you know my name?” he asked, his tone sharp, though his heart hammered in his chest.

A faint, bitter smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You don’t remember me, do you?” She shifted slightly, the movement revealing the scar that ran across her pale face, a jagged line that seemed out of place on her otherwise delicate features. “Not surprising. It was a lifetime ago.”

Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing. Her appearance tugged at a distant memory—a mission gone wrong, the deafening silence of space, and a bright flash of light. Falling out of the escape pod into waiting arms. Bright Green eyes. The scar.  His breath hitched as it clicked into place.

“The rescue,” he murmured. “Abregado.”

She inclined her head, her expression softened ever so slightly. “I was,” she said simply. “And now, here we are. Funny how the force works, isn’t it?”

His grip on the blaster faltered. This wasn’t a hardened criminal. This was a Jedi—a Sentinel, at that. She had pulled him from the pod, her face masked with the exception of her eyes. But he didn’t forget the voice, nor could he forget her scar.

He also didn’t forget the way she’d accompanied him to Aleen, attempting to calm his frustrations at the locals after the earthquake. He was built for combat, not a mercy mission. But she’d been there, calming that raging storm in him with her soft spoken words and delicate place of a hand on his skin. General Halle. Perdita. 

As he studied her features for the first time, he realized the shroud she had always worn concealed far more than he had anticipated. She had once explained to him that part of her trials as a padawan had been overcoming her vanity. After that moment, she had either been encouraged—or perhaps felt the need—to keep herself covered. The distinction between the two was significant, though he now found himself unable to recall which version of the truth it had been. The Jedi’s appearance had never been something he had been allowed to fully see, and so witnessing her efforts to hold her shoulders and chin high under his gaze felt wrong. Not that he hadn't been curious—he had. But seeing more than just those bright eyes and that scar across her face felt intrusive, as though he were crossing an unseen boundary.

Seeing her now, with her ghostly pale skin, so light that it was as if it had never touched sunlight. Her hair, equally fair, was a tangled mess of long braids and matted strands, though the right side was sheared close to her scalp, hinting at the harshness of the life she had experienced. Bruises etched into her neck, a testament to her resilience, showing that she hadn’t been easily subdued.

She was far more delicate than he’d imagined for someone of her position. She didn’t match the mental image he had formed of the woman who had once saved his life with her luminous eyes and sharp voice. Yet, in her very features, there was a contradiction that unsettled him. Her soft, pale skin was marred by a jagged scar that seemed to tell a story of its own. Her long hair clashed with the shock of short strands that spoke of some past confrontation. Her gentle eyes, framed by dark kohl. Her delicate lips—so soft and inviting—contradicted the clipped, controlled tone of her voice.

There was a complexity to her, an unsettling blend of contradictions, and it was that stark difference between appearance and reality that made her all the more enigmatic.

Not to mention, she truly was much more beautiful than he could’ve imagined. Even after their brief conversation together. He’d wondered, but to see it in front of him now, he found words difficult on his tongue. 

She wasn’t like most Jedi. Distant. Quiet. She wasn’t one to preach or stand at the frontlines of politics. Instead, she focused on the people of the Republic, working directly with them in ways that often went unnoticed, or at the Council’s rare request. But she was no stranger to rebellion either. He remembered how she’d stormed away when General Skywalker's padawan had been placed on trial—angry, in a way that Wolffe found unexpected. He had always been told Jedi were supposed to rise above emotions, especially anger. Yet here she was, as human as anyone else.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the weight of his own disillusionment pressing down on him. “Why would the Empire want you dead?”

Her smile disappeared, replaced by a shadowed expression. “Because I am breathing,” she said, her tone defensive. “And because that’s enough to be a threat to the Empire,”

Wolffe’s stomach churned. He wanted to call her a liar, to draw his blaster and end the conversation, but something about her words rooted him in place. She didn’t move, didn’t press further, as if sensing the storm inside him.

However, her eyes flashed with realization, and Wolffe felt the rare tug in his mind. He wasn’t immune to it. The Jedi, though usually respectful of a clone’s privacy, occasionally breached that unspoken boundary—usually in moments of intense concern. His thoughts became muddled, a fog settling over his mind, and in that instant, he knew. She had used the Force to reach into his mind.

“They sent you to hunt a child,” she said, her voice softening, almost mournful. “And now they’ve sent you to deliver me for my execution. How much longer are you going to follow orders, Commander?”

The words struck him harder than he expected, the weight of her gaze pinning him where he stood. For a moment, he didn’t feel like the soldier standing guard. He felt like the man adrift in the pod, lost in the silence of space, waiting for someone to find him.

He exhaled sharply, the silence broken by the harshness of his words. “What do you expect me to do? Not following orders makes you a traitor,” he spat.

She stared at him for a moment, uncertainty flickering in her gaze. “You’ve already disobeyed more than one order, haven’t you?” Her tone shifted, probing deeper. “Tell me, Wolffe—or do you prefer your number now? Should I respect the identity the Empire has forced upon you? After all, you seem so eager to follow their commands, to remain obedient, even if it means abandoning everything else.”

Wolffe’s jaw clenched as her words hit home, each syllable sharp, cutting through the layers of his resolve. He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching at his side, but he refused to let her see the crack in his metaphorical armor.

"I follow orders," he said, his voice tight. "It's what I was made for. It's what we all were made for. You think I like this? You think I want to be this?" He gestured vaguely toward his armor, the cold, sterile shell that defined him as much as his number did. "The Empire... they gave us purpose. A place in this galaxy. A role. And what do you want me to do, General Halle? Turn my back on that? After everything?"

She took a slow step forward, her eyes unwavering, assessing him like she always had. He could feel the pull of the Force, a subtle pressure against his mind. She wasn’t pushing, but her presence lingered, and it was almost like she could see through him.

“I’m not asking you to abandon your past, Wolffe,” she said, her voice softer now, though the challenge remained. “I’m asking you to remember it. To remember who you were before the Empire twisted everything. You have never been just a number.”

Her words settled into the space between them, heavy with meaning, and Wolffe felt something shift deep inside him—a faint stirring he didn’t want to acknowledge. He had spent so long burying that part of himself, the part that still remembered loyalty to something more than orders. But now, in her presence, in the weight of her gaze, it felt like the walls he had built up around himself were starting to crack.

"You think I can just walk away?" he muttered, almost to himself. "That it’s that simple? The wars, the lies..." He paused, the words thick in his throat. "I don’t even know who I am anymore."

Perdita’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes. She took another step toward him, this time with less certainty. She didn’t reach out, but the gesture was enough.

“You can always start again, find a new purpose, and maybe along the way find who you once were. I know you Wolffe. You are a good man. You always have been,” she commented quietly.

Wolffe didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the transport ship’s engines. The weight of his own thoughts pressed on him like an anchor, dragging him deeper into the abyss of uncertainty. He didn’t know what the right choice was. But standing here, facing the Jedi, he felt something stir in him that hadn’t been there for a long time.

The man he had been—the man before the Empire—was still there. Somewhere.

But could he still find his way back? Or was he already too far gone?

The question lingered, unanswered, and it gnawed at him from the inside out. The conflict within him was too great, an overwhelming surge of doubt and guilt. He was lost between what he felt and what he knew. He knew the Jedi were kind, compassionate—humane in a way the Empire could never be. But there was another part of him, the part shaped by years of conditioning, of following orders without question. The part that told him Jedi were the enemy, that they had betrayed him, betrayed all of them.

Even if she was correct, he didn’t feel he deserved a second chance.

"Stop," he snapped, his voice low and harsh, barely containing the fury building within him. "You're twisting my mind. That's why all you Jedi were executed." He spat the words, stepping back as if to escape the heavy weight of his own thoughts.

But Perdita’s gaze didn’t falter. Her eyes flashed with frustration—and something else. It was the same intensity that had pulled him from the wreckage of the Abregado system all those years ago. The depth her eyes had shown when he’d looked into them deeply under the glow of the setting sun on Aleen. The same ferocity that made her a Jedi in a way he could never fully understand.

“Did you pull the trigger yourself, Wolffe?” she demanded, her voice sharp and cutting through the haze in his mind.

His eyes widened. “What—?”

“Master Plo.” She took a step closer, her bound hands held out in front of her, as if she were trying to approach him without triggering some kind of defense mechanism. “Did you take the shot yourself?”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His mind flashed back to that day, to the moment when it all went wrong. The blast rang out, and Plo Koon had fallen, silent and still.

“I didn’t—” Wolffe started, his voice shaking. “I didn’t want to…”

But she was relentless, her voice a hiss, her anger barely contained. “Did you pull the trigger yourself, or did you let one of your men do it for you? Did you stand by while they carried out the order?”

Wolffe’s heart pounded in his chest. She was right. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, not directly. He hadn’t been the one to execute the order. But he had been there. He had stood by calling the order while his brothers did the work. His hands had been tied by duty, by obedience and the relentless weight of his training. 

Her words cut deeper than he expected, and for the first time in years, he felt a crack in the armor he had spent so long building. The Jedi saw through him in a way no one else had in a long time.

“No,” Wolffe said, his voice heavy with bitterness. “Boost did it. Shot down the starfighter,” he explained with a dramatic sigh, as though the memory still weighed on him like a stone in his chest.

Perdita’s gaze never left him, unyielding. “Why?” she pressed, her voice soft but insistent, searching for the truth behind his words.

Wolffe hesitated, his eyes darkening with the weight of the past. “Because I couldn’t. Because I was weak…” His voice trailed off, thick with shame. He had always prided himself on being strong, unwavering. But in that moment, when the world seemed to fall apart around him, he had faltered.

“To lay down arms is not weakness,” she replied, her tone calm but firm, as though she had spoken those words to herself a thousand times.

He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Says the woman marked for execution,” he muttered, a sharp edge in his voice. His gaze flickered toward her, searching for the woman who had once saved him, who had risked everything to pull him from the wreckage when all seemed lost. The memory stung.

“You saved my life once,” he reminded her, his voice quieter now, tinged with a mix of gratitude and regret.

“I did,” Perdita agreed, her eyes softening, but her expression remained steady. “And now, may I ask one favor of you? A simple one, so that we can finally be even?”

Wolffe raised an eyebrow, the weight of her words sinking in slowly. There was something in the way she said it, something that made him pause. 

“Kill me,” she whispered solemnly, her words cutting through the silence like a blade.

Wolffe froze, his breath hitching in his chest. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t even process what she had just said. Kill me? The weight of those words landed on him with a staggering force, and for the first time since they’d started this uneasy exchange, his mind went utterly blank.

“W-What?” he stammered, confusion and disbelief mixing with a knot of panic that twisted deep inside him.

Perdita’s gaze never wavered, though there was a deep sadness in her eyes, a quiet resignation that tugged at something buried within him. She didn’t look like someone who feared death. In fact, she looked like someone who had made peace with it long ago.

“Kill me, Wolffe,” she repeated, her voice soft, but heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken things. “Where you are taking me is a fate worse than death,”

The words hit Wolffe like a punch to the gut. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he absorbed the depth of what she was saying. She was asking him to end her life, to release her from the nightmare that had followed her since the purge, since the fall of the Jedi. He could hear the quiet despair in her voice, the resignation that she had already accepted that no other option was left.

"Stop," he snapped, stepping forward with a sharpness he hadn't meant. His hand clenched into a fist at his side. "Don't say that."

Perdita’s eyes flickered to his, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability breaking through her hard exterior. "It's the truth," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve lived through so much betrayal, Wolffe. I’ve seen what the Empire does to those it deems 'enemy’, it’s not a pretty sight I assure you"

Wolffe’s breath caught in his throat as he processed her words. He had heard whispers of the horrors of the Empire, the ruthless efficiency of its cruelty, but hearing it from her—someone who had once been who had fought beside the clones and now found herself hunted—made the reality of it all feel sharper.

“It’s not fair for you to ask that of me,” he demanded, his voice tightening with frustration. The very thought of it made him nauseous. To kill an unarmed woman—especially a prisoner—was not only unjust, it would be a betrayal of everything he had ever stood for. It could lead him to a court-martial, or worse.

“Why not,” she demanded.

Her words struck him harder than he expected. The Empire had already claimed so much from him—his autonomy, his sense of purpose, his very soul at times. But now, the reality of what she was saying pressed against him like a vise. Was he just another pawn? Would he become expendable too, the moment they had no more use for him?

“I’m not one of them,” he said, his voice a mixture of defiance and doubt. He wasn’t, was he?

But Perdita only stared at him, her expression unreadable. “You’re more like them than you think,” she whispered. “You’ve followed their orders. You’ve done their bidding. And now… now you want to pretend you don’t have a choice in what happens to me. Pretend I got free, tried to kill your men. I’m a threat am I not? Is that not what they told you? Please Wolffe. I do not wish to suffer needlessly. However if your resignation truly is with the Empire then I suppose you truly do not have a choice.”

Wolffe took a step back, his breath quickening. She was right in one sense—he had followed orders, too many times without question. But was that enough to define him? Was that all he was now? A soldier for an Empire that cared nothing for his humanity? Or worse, the humanity of others.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I still have a choice.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wavering just slightly. “Then make it.”

He stared at her for a long moment, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. Should he kill her? Should he let her go? Should he risk everything? How much more guilt would he carry in delivering her to whatever fate she had foreseen? She was asking him to do something impossible, something that could destroy him just as easily as it would destroy her.

But the longer he looked at her, the clearer it became. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It wasn’t just about doing what was expected or what was easy. This was about redemption—for her, for him, for them both.

“I won’t kill you,” he said, the words steady but heavy. His eyes darted around. The cybernetic one struggling to see in the dimly lit cell as he searched for the control panel on the wall. 

Perdita didn’t respond, assuming he was ready to leave and her last attempt at peace, foiled by a clone who truly owed her little loyalty. As she prepared for his departure she felt the chains around her hands unlock, before falling away. Flexing her fingers she looked up to see him much closer now as he tugged her forearm.

“But I won’t let them take you, either.” His voice was low, almost aggressive in nature, as if he was revolting against the very action he was taking.

Perdita didn’t smile. She didn’t thank him. She just nodded, the flicker of something like hope passing through her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give him the courage to take the next step—whatever that might be.

“Why?” she asked, her voice calm, though it carried the weight of disbelief. She paused for a moment, taking a breath to collect herself in the wake of his unexpected actions.

Wolffe met her gaze briefly, then dropped his eyes to the floor, his attention lingering on the mud caked on the tops of his boots. After a moment, he lifted his gaze to hers again, his eyes scanning hers as if unsure whether to reveal the truth. Yet, in this moment—after throwing caution to the wind—it seemed honesty was the only option.

The problem? He wasn’t entirely certain himself. Of course, he had theories. Wolffe had been searching for a way out of the Empire ever since that night he crossed paths with Rex. Having a Jedi by his side would significantly increase his chances of desertion. So, part of his reasoning, at least, was rooted in a tactical advantage.

But then, as his gaze fell on her face, resting on the scar that marked her eye, something else surfaced. He remembered how much he owed her—how she had been the one to help locate their damaged pod. Without her, he would have been lost to the cold expanse of space. A debt like that, a life saved, demanded more than mere gratitude—it demanded something deeper.

“You saved my life once, General,” he said, though internally he wanted to slam his head into the durasteel wall. He knew that she had done so more than once—countless times, in fact, for him and his brothers. “Consider us even,” he added, his words laced with a mixture of gratitude and frustration.

After a brief pause, he heard the soft sound of her approach. Her arm brushed against his unintentionally as she spoke, her voice steady but curious. “What’s your plan?”

Wolffe felt the faintest stir at the brush of her arm, but he quickly focused on her words. He turned slightly, his gaze meeting hers, but there was a momentary hesitation in his expression. The question hung in the air, heavy with more than just the immediate answer.

He knew she wasn’t just asking about the details or the strategy—she was asking what came next, what he planned to do with everything that had led them to this moment. He could feel the weight of her question, the uncertainty that hung heavily in the air between them.

For a moment, he stayed silent, his mind racing through countless possibilities, each one more uncertain than the last. Finally, he spoke, his voice steady but tinged with the weight of the decision. "It’s a long shot, but I think it might work. You’ll have to trust me on this." He met her gaze, a quiet resolve in his eyes. "As for everything else, we’ll improvise—if we make it out of here."

"Alright. After you, Commander—"

"Wolffe," he interjected, his voice flat, almost terse. The weight of the moment pressed down on him—the knowledge that he was about to turn his back on everything he had ever known, to abandon the man he had been for so long. It felt like an impossible choice, and yet it was the only one left. In the face of such a drastic break, being addressed by his rank felt distant, cold, and impersonal. It was as though the uniform, the title, had become a mask for something that no longer fit him.

She paused for a moment, as if sensing the shift in the air between them. Her gaze met his, a flicker of understanding in her eyes before she nodded slightly, her voice equally dry, yet carrying a certain weight of its own. "Lead the way, Wolffe."

Her words, though simple, held a quiet acknowledgment—an acceptance of the change that had already begun. Neither of them needed to say more. The decision had been made, and whatever path lay ahead, it would be walked side by side.

To be continued...

(Also if you made it this far thank you so much! Below is the unedited image of Perdita courtesy of my lovely friend… you can find her bio HERE, on her page! Additionally, I may start a tag list soon so if anyone's interested just drop a comment or shoot me a DM <3!)

[poetyca]

Neil Young – The Needle & The Damage Done

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyRwde95sfE&list=PL76C4C09DDAFF76C8]

Neil Percival Young (Toronto, 12 novembre 1945) è un cantautore e chitarrista canadese.

Dopo aver debuttato giovanissimo con la storica formazione dei Buffalo Springfield e aver raggiunto il successo nel supergruppo Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young,[1] Neil si è imposto come uno dei più carismatici e influenti cantautori degli anni settanta,[2] contribuendo a ridefinire la figura del songwriter con album come After the Gold Rush e il vendutissimo Harvest.[3]

Artista solitario e tormentato,[3] capace di passare con disinvoltura dalla quiete della ballata acustica alla brutalità della cavalcata rock, per l’approccio spesso volutamente “grezzo” che contraddistingue tanto i suoi dischi quanto i suoi concerti è stato considerato da alcuni un precursore del punk,[3] mentre la ruvida passione delle sue performance ha spinto tanto la critica quanto gli appassionati e gli stessi musicisti ad acclamarlo negli anni novanta padrino del grunge.[3][4] È stato inoltre un personaggio determinante per l’evoluzione di generi come l’alternative country[5] e l’alternative rock in generale.[6]

Tratti inconfondibili del suo stile sono la voce acuta e nasale, la chitarra “sporca” e cacofonica, i testi introspettivi e malinconici (specie nella cosiddetta Trilogia del dolore,[7] culminata nell’album Tonight’s the Night,[8] da molti ritenuto il primo concept album della storia del rock a misurarsi con temi quali il dolore e la perdita) nonché l’immancabile camicia di flanella, divenuta negli anni un autentico status symbol alternativo.

http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neil_Young

Neil Percival Young, OC OM[4][5] (born November 12, 1945) is a Canadian singer-songwriter and musician. He began performing in a group covering Shadowsinstrumentals in Canada in 1960, before moving to California in 1966, where he co-founded the band Buffalo Springfield together with Stephen Stills and Richie Furay, and later joined Crosby, Stills & Nash in 1969. He released his first album in 1968 and has since forged a successful and acclaimed solo career, spanning over 45 years and 35 studio albums, with a continuous and uncompromising exploration of musical styles.[6] The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame website describes Young as “one of rock and roll’s greatest songwriters and performers”.[7] He was inducted into the Hall of Fame twice, first as a solo artist in 1995, and second as a member of Buffalo Springfield in 1997.[8]

Young’s music is characterized by his distinctive guitar work, deeply personal lyrics[9][10][11] and characteristic alto or high tenor singing voice.[12][13] Although he accompanies himself on several different instruments, including piano and harmonica, his idiosyncratic electric and clawhammer acoustic guitar playing are the defining characteristics of a varyingly ragged and melodic sound.

While Young has experimented with differing music styles throughout a varied career, including swing and electronic music, most of his best known work is either acousticfolk-rock and country rock or electric, amplified hard rock (most often in collaboration with the band Crazy Horse). Musical styles such as alternative rock and grunge also adopted elements from Young. His influence has caused some to dub him the “Godfather of Grunge“.[14]

Young has directed (or co-directed) a number of films using the pseudonym Bernard Shakey, including Journey Through the Past (1973), Rust Never Sleeps (1979),Human Highway (1982), Greendale (2003), and CSNY/Déjà Vu (2008). He has also contributed to the soundtracks of films including Philadelphia (1993) and Dead Man(1995).

Young is an environmentalist[15] and outspoken advocate for the welfare of small farmers, having co-founded in 1985 the benefit concert Farm Aid. He is currently working on a documentary about electric car technology, tentatively titled LincVolt. The project involves his 1959 Lincoln Continental converted to hybrid technology as an environmentalist statement.[16][17] In 1986, Young helped found The Bridge School,[18] an educational organization for children with severe verbal and physical disabilities, and its annual supporting Bridge School Benefit concerts, together with his ex-wife Pegi Young (née Morton). Young has three children: sons Zeke (born during his relationship with actress Carrie Snodgress) and Ben, who were diagnosed with cerebral palsy, and daughter Amber Jean who, like Young, has epilepsy. Young lives on his ranch in La Honda, California.[19] Although he has lived in northern California since the 1970s and sings as frequently about U.S. themes and subjects as he does about his native country, he has retained his Canadian citizenship.[20] On July 14, 2006, Young was awarded the Order of Manitoba,[5] and on December 30, 2009, was made an Officer of the Order of Canada.[4]

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neil_Young

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[poetyca]

Neil Young – The Needle & The Damage Done

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyRwde95sfE&list=PL76C4C09DDAFF76C8]

Neil Percival Young (Toronto, 12 novembre 1945) è un cantautore e chitarrista canadese.

Dopo aver debuttato giovanissimo con la storica formazione dei Buffalo Springfield e aver raggiunto il successo nel supergruppo Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young,[1] Neil si è imposto come uno dei più carismatici e influenti cantautori degli anni settanta,[2] contribuendo a ridefinire la figura del songwriter con album come After the Gold Rush e il vendutissimo Harvest.[3]

Artista solitario e tormentato,[3] capace di passare con disinvoltura dalla quiete della ballata acustica alla brutalità della cavalcata rock, per l’approccio spesso volutamente “grezzo” che contraddistingue tanto i suoi dischi quanto i suoi concerti è stato considerato da alcuni un precursore del punk,[3] mentre la ruvida passione delle sue performance ha spinto tanto la critica quanto gli appassionati e gli stessi musicisti ad acclamarlo negli anni novanta padrino del grunge.[3][4] È stato inoltre un personaggio determinante per l’evoluzione di generi come l’alternative country[5] e l’alternative rock in generale.[6]

Tratti inconfondibili del suo stile sono la voce acuta e nasale, la chitarra “sporca” e cacofonica, i testi introspettivi e malinconici (specie nella cosiddetta Trilogia del dolore,[7] culminata nell’album Tonight’s the Night,[8] da molti ritenuto il primo concept album della storia del rock a misurarsi con temi quali il dolore e la perdita) nonché l’immancabile camicia di flanella, divenuta negli anni un autentico status symbol alternativo.

http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neil_Young

Neil Percival Young, OC OM[4][5] (born November 12, 1945) is a Canadian singer-songwriter and musician. He began performing in a group covering Shadowsinstrumentals in Canada in 1960, before moving to California in 1966, where he co-founded the band Buffalo Springfield together with Stephen Stills and Richie Furay, and later joined Crosby, Stills & Nash in 1969. He released his first album in 1968 and has since forged a successful and acclaimed solo career, spanning over 45 years and 35 studio albums, with a continuous and uncompromising exploration of musical styles.[6] The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame website describes Young as “one of rock and roll’s greatest songwriters and performers”.[7] He was inducted into the Hall of Fame twice, first as a solo artist in 1995, and second as a member of Buffalo Springfield in 1997.[8]

Young’s music is characterized by his distinctive guitar work, deeply personal lyrics[9][10][11] and characteristic alto or high tenor singing voice.[12][13] Although he accompanies himself on several different instruments, including piano and harmonica, his idiosyncratic electric and clawhammer acoustic guitar playing are the defining characteristics of a varyingly ragged and melodic sound.

While Young has experimented with differing music styles throughout a varied career, including swing and electronic music, most of his best known work is either acousticfolk-rock and country rock or electric, amplified hard rock (most often in collaboration with the band Crazy Horse). Musical styles such as alternative rock and grunge also adopted elements from Young. His influence has caused some to dub him the “Godfather of Grunge“.[14]

Young has directed (or co-directed) a number of films using the pseudonym Bernard Shakey, including Journey Through the Past (1973), Rust Never Sleeps (1979),Human Highway (1982), Greendale (2003), and CSNY/Déjà Vu (2008). He has also contributed to the soundtracks of films including Philadelphia (1993) and Dead Man(1995).

Young is an environmentalist[15] and outspoken advocate for the welfare of small farmers, having co-founded in 1985 the benefit concert Farm Aid. He is currently working on a documentary about electric car technology, tentatively titled LincVolt. The project involves his 1959 Lincoln Continental converted to hybrid technology as an environmentalist statement.[16][17] In 1986, Young helped found The Bridge School,[18] an educational organization for children with severe verbal and physical disabilities, and its annual supporting Bridge School Benefit concerts, together with his ex-wife Pegi Young (née Morton). Young has three children: sons Zeke (born during his relationship with actress Carrie Snodgress) and Ben, who were diagnosed with cerebral palsy, and daughter Amber Jean who, like Young, has epilepsy. Young lives on his ranch in La Honda, California.[19] Although he has lived in northern California since the 1970s and sings as frequently about U.S. themes and subjects as he does about his native country, he has retained his Canadian citizenship.[20] On July 14, 2006, Young was awarded the Order of Manitoba,[5] and on December 30, 2009, was made an Officer of the Order of Canada.[4]

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neil_Young

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[poetyca]

Neil Young – The Needle & The Damage Done

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyRwde95sfE&list=PL76C4C09DDAFF76C8]

Neil Percival Young (Toronto, 12 novembre 1945) è un cantautore e chitarrista canadese.

Dopo aver debuttato giovanissimo con la storica formazione dei Buffalo Springfield e aver raggiunto il successo nel supergruppo Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young,[1] Neil si è imposto come uno dei più carismatici e influenti cantautori degli anni settanta,[2] contribuendo a ridefinire la figura del songwriter con album come After the Gold Rush e il vendutissimo Harvest.[3]

Artista solitario e tormentato,[3] capace di passare con disinvoltura dalla quiete della ballata acustica alla brutalità della cavalcata rock, per l’approccio spesso volutamente “grezzo” che contraddistingue tanto i suoi dischi quanto i suoi concerti è stato considerato da alcuni un precursore del punk,[3] mentre la ruvida passione delle sue performance ha spinto tanto la critica quanto gli appassionati e gli stessi musicisti ad acclamarlo negli anni novanta padrino del grunge.[3][4] È stato inoltre un personaggio determinante per l’evoluzione di generi come l’alternative country[5] e l’alternative rock in generale.[6]

Tratti inconfondibili del suo stile sono la voce acuta e nasale, la chitarra “sporca” e cacofonica, i testi introspettivi e malinconici (specie nella cosiddetta Trilogia del dolore,[7] culminata nell’album Tonight’s the Night,[8] da molti ritenuto il primo concept album della storia del rock a misurarsi con temi quali il dolore e la perdita) nonché l’immancabile camicia di flanella, divenuta negli anni un autentico status symbol alternativo.

http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neil_Young

Neil Percival Young, OC OM[4][5] (born November 12, 1945) is a Canadian singer-songwriter and musician. He began performing in a group covering Shadowsinstrumentals in Canada in 1960, before moving to California in 1966, where he co-founded the band Buffalo Springfield together with Stephen Stills and Richie Furay, and later joined Crosby, Stills & Nash in 1969. He released his first album in 1968 and has since forged a successful and acclaimed solo career, spanning over 45 years and 35 studio albums, with a continuous and uncompromising exploration of musical styles.[6] The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame website describes Young as “one of rock and roll’s greatest songwriters and performers”.[7] He was inducted into the Hall of Fame twice, first as a solo artist in 1995, and second as a member of Buffalo Springfield in 1997.[8]

Young’s music is characterized by his distinctive guitar work, deeply personal lyrics[9][10][11] and characteristic alto or high tenor singing voice.[12][13] Although he accompanies himself on several different instruments, including piano and harmonica, his idiosyncratic electric and clawhammer acoustic guitar playing are the defining characteristics of a varyingly ragged and melodic sound.

While Young has experimented with differing music styles throughout a varied career, including swing and electronic music, most of his best known work is either acousticfolk-rock and country rock or electric, amplified hard rock (most often in collaboration with the band Crazy Horse). Musical styles such as alternative rock and grunge also adopted elements from Young. His influence has caused some to dub him the “Godfather of Grunge“.[14]

Young has directed (or co-directed) a number of films using the pseudonym Bernard Shakey, including Journey Through the Past (1973), Rust Never Sleeps (1979),Human Highway (1982), Greendale (2003), and CSNY/Déjà Vu (2008). He has also contributed to the soundtracks of films including Philadelphia (1993) and Dead Man(1995).

Young is an environmentalist[15] and outspoken advocate for the welfare of small farmers, having co-founded in 1985 the benefit concert Farm Aid. He is currently working on a documentary about electric car technology, tentatively titled LincVolt. The project involves his 1959 Lincoln Continental converted to hybrid technology as an environmentalist statement.[16][17] In 1986, Young helped found The Bridge School,[18] an educational organization for children with severe verbal and physical disabilities, and its annual supporting Bridge School Benefit concerts, together with his ex-wife Pegi Young (née Morton). Young has three children: sons Zeke (born during his relationship with actress Carrie Snodgress) and Ben, who were diagnosed with cerebral palsy, and daughter Amber Jean who, like Young, has epilepsy. Young lives on his ranch in La Honda, California.[19] Although he has lived in northern California since the 1970s and sings as frequently about U.S. themes and subjects as he does about his native country, he has retained his Canadian citizenship.[20] On July 14, 2006, Young was awarded the Order of Manitoba,[5] and on December 30, 2009, was made an Officer of the Order of Canada.[4]

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neil_Young

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[legacygirlingreen]

simply reblogging because i jumped the gun on Wolffe Moon 2025 lol

"Now we are even" || The Introduction || Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita

Author's Note: I am so excited to drop the first installment of a story involving Commander Wolffe. This is my first time writing for him, and I won't lie, I cannot express how much I've enjoyed getting in his head. I want to thank my lovely and dear friend @leenathegreengirl for helping breathe life into not just Perdita through her art, but also this story at large. This was truly a whim in every fashion of the word, but as Bob Ross once said, there are no such things as mistakes, only happy little accidents. I am really proud of what bit's I've come up with this pair so far. I apologize for future works involving them, because while this is an introduction set after TBB, I plan to go back in time a bit (wouldn't be part of the Filoniverse if there wasn't chaos with the timing I suppose). Also I'm still racking my brain over a shipname so I'd love the suggestions... Any who, enjoy loves - M

Summary: A story as old as time itself. A Clone Commander. A Jedi. Two people bound by honor and duty. Lives defined by unwavering codes. But now, everything is shattered as the Empire orders the galactic execution of the once-peaceful warriors known as the Jedi. When Wolffe unexpectedly crosses paths with a fleeting figure from his past, he faces an agonizing choice. Will he obey the Empire’s command, or will he risk everything—his identity, his loyalty, and his future—in the desperate hope of rediscovering the man he once was?

Pairing: eventual Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita Halle

Warnings: Mentions of Order 66, Brief mentions of assisted suicide, angst with a hopeful ending

Word Count: 5k

Masterlist || Next Part (coming soon)

Wolffe often found the hum of space to be unnerving. Not that space itself had a hum—space was cold, dark, and empty. The hum came from the ship, a constant, low vibration that resonated through its walls, a reminder of its fragile protection against the infinite void outside. He hated this liminal space, this time spent outside planetary orbits, where nothing anchored him.

The vacuum had nearly claimed his life once. He could still feel it if he thought about it too long—the suffocating press of nothingness, the frozen tendrils of death creeping up his spine as his oxygen dwindled. The darkness had wrapped around him like a shroud, a cruel mockery of safety. Skywalker, his padawan and the Sentinel had pulled him back at the last moment, but something about him had stayed behind, left adrift in that endless void. He’d survived, but a part of him hadn’t.

He wondered, often, if death would feel the same. Cold. Empty. A silence so profound it swallowed everything. Or would it be something entirely different? Something warmer, like the faint memory of a sunrise on Kamino’s horizon or the strength of a brother’s arm slung across his shoulders after a battle well-fought?

Plo Koon had once told him that death was not the end but a transition—a merging with the living Force. The words had stayed with Wolffe, though he wasn’t sure if they brought comfort or dread. The concept was simple enough, but it opened too many questions. Would he still be himself in the Force? Would his memories, his regrets, his flaws follow him into that eternity?

And what of those he had lost? Would he see them again? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. The idea of facing the Jedi again, seeing their calm, unwavering gazes, filled him with an ache that felt too large to contain. He respected them deeply, but respect came with weight, and he often felt crushed beneath the burden of their trust. Undeserved, he thought. Always undeserved.

He stared out the viewport, watching stars streak by as the ship hurtled through hyperspace. The endless cascade of light reminded him of something—he wasn’t sure what. A memory tugged at the edges of his mind: Plo Koon standing beside him, hand on his shoulder, as they stared up at the night sky from a dusty outpost.

“There’s always light in the dark, Wolffe,” the Kel Dor had said, his voice steady, unshakable. “Even in the emptiest parts of space, the Force is alive.”

Wolffe had nodded then, silent as always. Even now, the words felt too far away. The darkness pressed in closer these days, even when he was surrounded by his squad, even when the hum of the ship reminded him he was still alive.

Maybe death was different for men like him—men who had taken orders, done what they had to, and carried the weight of it in silence. Maybe for him, death wouldn’t be a warm reunion with the Force but a cold, endless void, like the vacuum that had almost claimed him.

Maybe that was what he deserved.

He tightened his grip on the edge of the console, the familiar vibrations grounding him, even as the void outside seemed to call his name. The stars streaked on, indifferent to his musings, and he stayed where he was, caught between the hum of life and the silence of the dark.

Sure, right now he might be aboard an Imperial transport ship, tasked with carrying a highly dangerous prisoner marked for execution. But in his mind, he was still in the Abragado system, sitting in a pod, waiting. Waiting for the moment his life would be snuffed out in a war he neither fully understood nor had ever truly wanted to be part of.

He hadn’t believed Master Plo when the Jedi had reassured him, promising that someone would come looking for them. Wolffe had learned early on that he was expendable, a belief etched into him by the longnecks on Kamino. He was just another number, another body in an endless sea of soldiers bred for war.

Then came the Jedi. Their compassion, their respect, their quiet insistence on treating clones as individuals—it had shaken the very foundation of everything Wolffe thought he knew. In a world where duty and obedience were everything, where each clone was molded to fulfill a singular purpose, the Jedi had introduced something foreign—something that made him question the very core of his existence. 

Master Plo Koon, in particular, had made an inerasable impact. There was a quiet strength in the way he carried himself, an unspoken understanding that resonated with Wolffe on a level he hadn’t known was possible. Master Plo didn’t just command him; he listened—and more importantly, he understood. The way he treated Wolffe wasn’t like a subordinate or a mere tool of war, but as someone with thoughts, desires, and a sense of self. He spoke to him not as a soldier on the battlefield, but as a fellow being who had hopes, fears, and a need for connection.

When the order came, he didn't want to believe it. He hated how easily his finger had complied, how instinct had overridden thought. The words echoed in his mind, even now when he laid down for sleep: Good soldiers follow orders.

But in that moment, as Master Plo Koon’s starfighter plummeted from the sky, spiraling toward the ground in a fiery descent, Wolffe felt an emptiness unlike any he had ever known. It wasn’t just the shock of watching his commander, his ally, fall—it was the crushing realization that he was complicit in the destruction. The weight of betrayal was a heavy cloak around his shoulders, pressing down on him with unbearable force.

He had followed orders, as he always had, but this time, there was no duty, no justification that could soothe the gnawing ache in his chest. For so long, he had prided himself on his loyalty, on his ability to uphold the ideals of the Republic and the men he fought beside. But as the remnants of Plo Koon’s ship burned in the distance, Wolffe couldn’t help but feel that he had lost something far more vital than the life of a Jedi. He had lost the sense of himself as a man who stood for something honorable.

The world around him seemed to blur, the familiar sound of blaster fire and the chaos of war drowning out in the silence of his thoughts. For the first time, he saw the full, horrifying scope of what he had become—a tool of an Empire that had twisted everything he had once believed in. His identity, his purpose, had been shattered in that instant. As much as he wanted to believe he was still the same soldier, the same Commander, a part of him knew that he had crossed an irreparable line.

Wolffe had never felt further from the idea of being “good.” Not just because of the life he had taken, but because of the loss of the man he had been—the soldier who had once believed in the nobility of his cause.

The last time Wolffe truly felt in his heart that he had done the right thing was the night he learned Rex was still alive. He could still see Rex’s face—pleading, desperate, filled with a conviction that cut through Wolffe’s carefully constructed walls. Rex had begged him to see the truth, to understand that the Empire’s orders were wrong. That hunting a child wasn’t justice.

Wolffe had spent years trying—vainly, tirelessly—not to question his orders. He was a soldier. And good soldiers followed orders. 

But good soldiers didn’t hunt children or order their friends to be killed.

Good soldiers brought in criminal lowlifes, the kind of scum he now had locked in the brig, to justice. At least, that’s what Wolffe had assumed when the prisoner had been described to him as “highly dangerous.” But maybe it was his more recent desire to question his orders, or the way something about this mission didn’t sit right, that sparked the flicker of curiosity. Maybe it was the sentimentality he’d been battling since Rex’s reappearance, or the uneasy edge that always came with being in space.

Whatever the reason, he made a choice. He sent his men off for an early retreat, claiming he’d stand guard himself. He told himself it was for tactical reasons, but it wasn’t. It was personal.

Just like opening the cell door.

The door slid open with a low hiss, revealing a dimly lit chamber. Wolffe expected to see a hardened criminal, someone rough around the edges, beaten down by years of wrongdoing. Instead, his breath caught in his throat.

Seated on the floor, her back pressed against the cold wall, was a woman—young, though her posture bore the weight of someone who had seen more than her years should allow. She didn’t flinch or rise as the door opened, her bright green eyes snapping to him with an intensity that felt like a challenge. Even in the faint light, they glowed, piercing through him like a blade.

“Commander Wolffe,” she said, her voice quiet but steady, the hint of an edge betraying both recognition and caution.

He froze. His hand hovered near his blaster, not out of fear but reflex. “How do you know my name?” he asked, his tone sharp, though his heart hammered in his chest.

A faint, bitter smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You don’t remember me, do you?” She shifted slightly, the movement revealing the scar that ran across her pale face, a jagged line that seemed out of place on her otherwise delicate features. “Not surprising. It was a lifetime ago.”

Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing. Her appearance tugged at a distant memory—a mission gone wrong, the deafening silence of space, and a bright flash of light. Falling out of the escape pod into waiting arms. Bright Green eyes. The scar.  His breath hitched as it clicked into place.

“The rescue,” he murmured. “Abregado.”

She inclined her head, her expression softened ever so slightly. “I was,” she said simply. “And now, here we are. Funny how the force works, isn’t it?”

His grip on the blaster faltered. This wasn’t a hardened criminal. This was a Jedi—a Sentinel, at that. She had pulled him from the pod, her face masked with the exception of her eyes. But he didn’t forget the voice, nor could he forget her scar.

He also didn’t forget the way she’d accompanied him to Aleen, attempting to calm his frustrations at the locals after the earthquake. He was built for combat, not a mercy mission. But she’d been there, calming that raging storm in him with her soft spoken words and delicate place of a hand on his skin. General Halle. Perdita. 

As he studied her features for the first time, he realized the shroud she had always worn concealed far more than he had anticipated. She had once explained to him that part of her trials as a padawan had been overcoming her vanity. After that moment, she had either been encouraged—or perhaps felt the need—to keep herself covered. The distinction between the two was significant, though he now found himself unable to recall which version of the truth it had been. The Jedi’s appearance had never been something he had been allowed to fully see, and so witnessing her efforts to hold her shoulders and chin high under his gaze felt wrong. Not that he hadn't been curious—he had. But seeing more than just those bright eyes and that scar across her face felt intrusive, as though he were crossing an unseen boundary.

Seeing her now, with her ghostly pale skin, so light that it was as if it had never touched sunlight. Her hair, equally fair, was a tangled mess of long braids and matted strands, though the right side was sheared close to her scalp, hinting at the harshness of the life she had experienced. Bruises etched into her neck, a testament to her resilience, showing that she hadn’t been easily subdued.

She was far more delicate than he’d imagined for someone of her position. She didn’t match the mental image he had formed of the woman who had once saved his life with her luminous eyes and sharp voice. Yet, in her very features, there was a contradiction that unsettled him. Her soft, pale skin was marred by a jagged scar that seemed to tell a story of its own. Her long hair clashed with the shock of short strands that spoke of some past confrontation. Her gentle eyes, framed by dark kohl. Her delicate lips—so soft and inviting—contradicted the clipped, controlled tone of her voice.

There was a complexity to her, an unsettling blend of contradictions, and it was that stark difference between appearance and reality that made her all the more enigmatic.

Not to mention, she truly was much more beautiful than he could’ve imagined. Even after their brief conversation together. He’d wondered, but to see it in front of him now, he found words difficult on his tongue. 

She wasn’t like most Jedi. Distant. Quiet. She wasn’t one to preach or stand at the frontlines of politics. Instead, she focused on the people of the Republic, working directly with them in ways that often went unnoticed, or at the Council’s rare request. But she was no stranger to rebellion either. He remembered how she’d stormed away when General Skywalker's padawan had been placed on trial—angry, in a way that Wolffe found unexpected. He had always been told Jedi were supposed to rise above emotions, especially anger. Yet here she was, as human as anyone else.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the weight of his own disillusionment pressing down on him. “Why would the Empire want you dead?”

Her smile disappeared, replaced by a shadowed expression. “Because I am breathing,” she said, her tone defensive. “And because that’s enough to be a threat to the Empire,”

Wolffe’s stomach churned. He wanted to call her a liar, to draw his blaster and end the conversation, but something about her words rooted him in place. She didn’t move, didn’t press further, as if sensing the storm inside him.

However, her eyes flashed with realization, and Wolffe felt the rare tug in his mind. He wasn’t immune to it. The Jedi, though usually respectful of a clone’s privacy, occasionally breached that unspoken boundary—usually in moments of intense concern. His thoughts became muddled, a fog settling over his mind, and in that instant, he knew. She had used the Force to reach into his mind.

“They sent you to hunt a child,” she said, her voice softening, almost mournful. “And now they’ve sent you to deliver me for my execution. How much longer are you going to follow orders, Commander?”

The words struck him harder than he expected, the weight of her gaze pinning him where he stood. For a moment, he didn’t feel like the soldier standing guard. He felt like the man adrift in the pod, lost in the silence of space, waiting for someone to find him.

He exhaled sharply, the silence broken by the harshness of his words. “What do you expect me to do? Not following orders makes you a traitor,” he spat.

She stared at him for a moment, uncertainty flickering in her gaze. “You’ve already disobeyed more than one order, haven’t you?” Her tone shifted, probing deeper. “Tell me, Wolffe—or do you prefer your number now? Should I respect the identity the Empire has forced upon you? After all, you seem so eager to follow their commands, to remain obedient, even if it means abandoning everything else.”

Wolffe’s jaw clenched as her words hit home, each syllable sharp, cutting through the layers of his resolve. He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching at his side, but he refused to let her see the crack in his metaphorical armor.

"I follow orders," he said, his voice tight. "It's what I was made for. It's what we all were made for. You think I like this? You think I want to be this?" He gestured vaguely toward his armor, the cold, sterile shell that defined him as much as his number did. "The Empire... they gave us purpose. A place in this galaxy. A role. And what do you want me to do, General Halle? Turn my back on that? After everything?"

She took a slow step forward, her eyes unwavering, assessing him like she always had. He could feel the pull of the Force, a subtle pressure against his mind. She wasn’t pushing, but her presence lingered, and it was almost like she could see through him.

“I’m not asking you to abandon your past, Wolffe,” she said, her voice softer now, though the challenge remained. “I’m asking you to remember it. To remember who you were before the Empire twisted everything. You have never been just a number.”

Her words settled into the space between them, heavy with meaning, and Wolffe felt something shift deep inside him—a faint stirring he didn’t want to acknowledge. He had spent so long burying that part of himself, the part that still remembered loyalty to something more than orders. But now, in her presence, in the weight of her gaze, it felt like the walls he had built up around himself were starting to crack.

"You think I can just walk away?" he muttered, almost to himself. "That it’s that simple? The wars, the lies..." He paused, the words thick in his throat. "I don’t even know who I am anymore."

Perdita’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes. She took another step toward him, this time with less certainty. She didn’t reach out, but the gesture was enough.

“You can always start again, find a new purpose, and maybe along the way find who you once were. I know you Wolffe. You are a good man. You always have been,” she commented quietly.

Wolffe didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the transport ship’s engines. The weight of his own thoughts pressed on him like an anchor, dragging him deeper into the abyss of uncertainty. He didn’t know what the right choice was. But standing here, facing the Jedi, he felt something stir in him that hadn’t been there for a long time.

The man he had been—the man before the Empire—was still there. Somewhere.

But could he still find his way back? Or was he already too far gone?

The question lingered, unanswered, and it gnawed at him from the inside out. The conflict within him was too great, an overwhelming surge of doubt and guilt. He was lost between what he felt and what he knew. He knew the Jedi were kind, compassionate—humane in a way the Empire could never be. But there was another part of him, the part shaped by years of conditioning, of following orders without question. The part that told him Jedi were the enemy, that they had betrayed him, betrayed all of them.

Even if she was correct, he didn’t feel he deserved a second chance.

"Stop," he snapped, his voice low and harsh, barely containing the fury building within him. "You're twisting my mind. That's why all you Jedi were executed." He spat the words, stepping back as if to escape the heavy weight of his own thoughts.

But Perdita’s gaze didn’t falter. Her eyes flashed with frustration—and something else. It was the same intensity that had pulled him from the wreckage of the Abregado system all those years ago. The depth her eyes had shown when he’d looked into them deeply under the glow of the setting sun on Aleen. The same ferocity that made her a Jedi in a way he could never fully understand.

“Did you pull the trigger yourself, Wolffe?” she demanded, her voice sharp and cutting through the haze in his mind.

His eyes widened. “What—?”

“Master Plo.” She took a step closer, her bound hands held out in front of her, as if she were trying to approach him without triggering some kind of defense mechanism. “Did you take the shot yourself?”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His mind flashed back to that day, to the moment when it all went wrong. The blast rang out, and Plo Koon had fallen, silent and still.

“I didn’t—” Wolffe started, his voice shaking. “I didn’t want to…”

But she was relentless, her voice a hiss, her anger barely contained. “Did you pull the trigger yourself, or did you let one of your men do it for you? Did you stand by while they carried out the order?”

Wolffe’s heart pounded in his chest. She was right. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, not directly. He hadn’t been the one to execute the order. But he had been there. He had stood by calling the order while his brothers did the work. His hands had been tied by duty, by obedience and the relentless weight of his training. 

Her words cut deeper than he expected, and for the first time in years, he felt a crack in the armor he had spent so long building. The Jedi saw through him in a way no one else had in a long time.

“No,” Wolffe said, his voice heavy with bitterness. “Boost did it. Shot down the starfighter,” he explained with a dramatic sigh, as though the memory still weighed on him like a stone in his chest.

Perdita’s gaze never left him, unyielding. “Why?” she pressed, her voice soft but insistent, searching for the truth behind his words.

Wolffe hesitated, his eyes darkening with the weight of the past. “Because I couldn’t. Because I was weak…” His voice trailed off, thick with shame. He had always prided himself on being strong, unwavering. But in that moment, when the world seemed to fall apart around him, he had faltered.

“To lay down arms is not weakness,” she replied, her tone calm but firm, as though she had spoken those words to herself a thousand times.

He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Says the woman marked for execution,” he muttered, a sharp edge in his voice. His gaze flickered toward her, searching for the woman who had once saved him, who had risked everything to pull him from the wreckage when all seemed lost. The memory stung.

“You saved my life once,” he reminded her, his voice quieter now, tinged with a mix of gratitude and regret.

“I did,” Perdita agreed, her eyes softening, but her expression remained steady. “And now, may I ask one favor of you? A simple one, so that we can finally be even?”

Wolffe raised an eyebrow, the weight of her words sinking in slowly. There was something in the way she said it, something that made him pause. 

“Kill me,” she whispered solemnly, her words cutting through the silence like a blade.

Wolffe froze, his breath hitching in his chest. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t even process what she had just said. Kill me? The weight of those words landed on him with a staggering force, and for the first time since they’d started this uneasy exchange, his mind went utterly blank.

“W-What?” he stammered, confusion and disbelief mixing with a knot of panic that twisted deep inside him.

Perdita’s gaze never wavered, though there was a deep sadness in her eyes, a quiet resignation that tugged at something buried within him. She didn’t look like someone who feared death. In fact, she looked like someone who had made peace with it long ago.

“Kill me, Wolffe,” she repeated, her voice soft, but heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken things. “Where you are taking me is a fate worse than death,”

The words hit Wolffe like a punch to the gut. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he absorbed the depth of what she was saying. She was asking him to end her life, to release her from the nightmare that had followed her since the purge, since the fall of the Jedi. He could hear the quiet despair in her voice, the resignation that she had already accepted that no other option was left.

"Stop," he snapped, stepping forward with a sharpness he hadn't meant. His hand clenched into a fist at his side. "Don't say that."

Perdita’s eyes flickered to his, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability breaking through her hard exterior. "It's the truth," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve lived through so much betrayal, Wolffe. I’ve seen what the Empire does to those it deems 'enemy’, it’s not a pretty sight I assure you"

Wolffe’s breath caught in his throat as he processed her words. He had heard whispers of the horrors of the Empire, the ruthless efficiency of its cruelty, but hearing it from her—someone who had once been who had fought beside the clones and now found herself hunted—made the reality of it all feel sharper.

“It’s not fair for you to ask that of me,” he demanded, his voice tightening with frustration. The very thought of it made him nauseous. To kill an unarmed woman—especially a prisoner—was not only unjust, it would be a betrayal of everything he had ever stood for. It could lead him to a court-martial, or worse.

“Why not,” she demanded.

Her words struck him harder than he expected. The Empire had already claimed so much from him—his autonomy, his sense of purpose, his very soul at times. But now, the reality of what she was saying pressed against him like a vise. Was he just another pawn? Would he become expendable too, the moment they had no more use for him?

“I’m not one of them,” he said, his voice a mixture of defiance and doubt. He wasn’t, was he?

But Perdita only stared at him, her expression unreadable. “You’re more like them than you think,” she whispered. “You’ve followed their orders. You’ve done their bidding. And now… now you want to pretend you don’t have a choice in what happens to me. Pretend I got free, tried to kill your men. I’m a threat am I not? Is that not what they told you? Please Wolffe. I do not wish to suffer needlessly. However if your resignation truly is with the Empire then I suppose you truly do not have a choice.”

Wolffe took a step back, his breath quickening. She was right in one sense—he had followed orders, too many times without question. But was that enough to define him? Was that all he was now? A soldier for an Empire that cared nothing for his humanity? Or worse, the humanity of others.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I still have a choice.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wavering just slightly. “Then make it.”

He stared at her for a long moment, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. Should he kill her? Should he let her go? Should he risk everything? How much more guilt would he carry in delivering her to whatever fate she had foreseen? She was asking him to do something impossible, something that could destroy him just as easily as it would destroy her.

But the longer he looked at her, the clearer it became. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It wasn’t just about doing what was expected or what was easy. This was about redemption—for her, for him, for them both.

“I won’t kill you,” he said, the words steady but heavy. His eyes darted around. The cybernetic one struggling to see in the dimly lit cell as he searched for the control panel on the wall. 

Perdita didn’t respond, assuming he was ready to leave and her last attempt at peace, foiled by a clone who truly owed her little loyalty. As she prepared for his departure she felt the chains around her hands unlock, before falling away. Flexing her fingers she looked up to see him much closer now as he tugged her forearm.

“But I won’t let them take you, either.” His voice was low, almost aggressive in nature, as if he was revolting against the very action he was taking.

Perdita didn’t smile. She didn’t thank him. She just nodded, the flicker of something like hope passing through her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give him the courage to take the next step—whatever that might be.

“Why?” she asked, her voice calm, though it carried the weight of disbelief. She paused for a moment, taking a breath to collect herself in the wake of his unexpected actions.

Wolffe met her gaze briefly, then dropped his eyes to the floor, his attention lingering on the mud caked on the tops of his boots. After a moment, he lifted his gaze to hers again, his eyes scanning hers as if unsure whether to reveal the truth. Yet, in this moment—after throwing caution to the wind—it seemed honesty was the only option.

The problem? He wasn’t entirely certain himself. Of course, he had theories. Wolffe had been searching for a way out of the Empire ever since that night he crossed paths with Rex. Having a Jedi by his side would significantly increase his chances of desertion. So, part of his reasoning, at least, was rooted in a tactical advantage.

But then, as his gaze fell on her face, resting on the scar that marked her eye, something else surfaced. He remembered how much he owed her—how she had been the one to help locate their damaged pod. Without her, he would have been lost to the cold expanse of space. A debt like that, a life saved, demanded more than mere gratitude—it demanded something deeper.

“You saved my life once, General,” he said, though internally he wanted to slam his head into the durasteel wall. He knew that she had done so more than once—countless times, in fact, for him and his brothers. “Consider us even,” he added, his words laced with a mixture of gratitude and frustration.

After a brief pause, he heard the soft sound of her approach. Her arm brushed against his unintentionally as she spoke, her voice steady but curious. “What’s your plan?”

Wolffe felt the faintest stir at the brush of her arm, but he quickly focused on her words. He turned slightly, his gaze meeting hers, but there was a momentary hesitation in his expression. The question hung in the air, heavy with more than just the immediate answer.

He knew she wasn’t just asking about the details or the strategy—she was asking what came next, what he planned to do with everything that had led them to this moment. He could feel the weight of her question, the uncertainty that hung heavily in the air between them.

For a moment, he stayed silent, his mind racing through countless possibilities, each one more uncertain than the last. Finally, he spoke, his voice steady but tinged with the weight of the decision. "It’s a long shot, but I think it might work. You’ll have to trust me on this." He met her gaze, a quiet resolve in his eyes. "As for everything else, we’ll improvise—if we make it out of here."

"Alright. After you, Commander—"

"Wolffe," he interjected, his voice flat, almost terse. The weight of the moment pressed down on him—the knowledge that he was about to turn his back on everything he had ever known, to abandon the man he had been for so long. It felt like an impossible choice, and yet it was the only one left. In the face of such a drastic break, being addressed by his rank felt distant, cold, and impersonal. It was as though the uniform, the title, had become a mask for something that no longer fit him.

She paused for a moment, as if sensing the shift in the air between them. Her gaze met his, a flicker of understanding in her eyes before she nodded slightly, her voice equally dry, yet carrying a certain weight of its own. "Lead the way, Wolffe."

Her words, though simple, held a quiet acknowledgment—an acceptance of the change that had already begun. Neither of them needed to say more. The decision had been made, and whatever path lay ahead, it would be walked side by side.

To be continued...

(Also if you made it this far thank you so much! Below is the unedited image of Perdita courtesy of my lovely friend… you can find her bio HERE, on her page! Additionally, I may start a tag list soon so if anyone's interested just drop a comment or shoot me a DM <3!)