#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

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!)

[legacygirlingreen]

"Lessons in Intimacy" || Wolffe x OFC Perdita || Clone x Clone OC Week 2025

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x OFC Perdita Halle (Bio HERE)

Word Count: 7.7k+

Rating: SFW with MILD NSFW for kissing

Warnings: some smooching (but def more on the PG/PG 13 side, illusions to Wolffe being a horny boy

Author's Note: Day 4 of @clonexocweek! Keeping the Wolffe and Perdita train rolling! I always just imagined they would have little/no reservations regarding how they feel given the gravity of their situation. As always, this story exists within @leenathegreengirl 's AU and she is responsible for helping bring Perdita to life!

Previous Work || Masterlist

Since that day in the swamp, an undeniable shift had occurred between the two of them. It wasn’t just the lingering tension of being a clone deserter and a Jedi survivor—though that alone created its own weight. The sleepless nights, the scarce meals, and the constant danger served as grim reminders of how unstable everything had become. Yet, amidst the chaos, they had somehow found more moments of reprieve. They weren't grand gestures, nor were they marked by any overwhelming event. Rather, these were small, quiet instances of connection that neither had expected.

Perdita might have lost the Jedi Order, but the teachings, the discipline, and the inner strength they had instilled in her remained firmly etched in her being. The same could be said for Wolffe, whose identity had long been intertwined with military regulation and the unwavering sense of purpose it provided. Without the army, though, a quiet isolation tugged at him—a feeling that didn't go away even when he was in close proximity to her. And not just any woman, but someone who had become undeniably alluring in ways he hadn’t anticipated. The tension between them was palpable, a silent understanding that neither knew how to navigate fully.

Wolffe thought he knew what intimacy was. He'd learned it in the dim-lit corners of the 79s, where his brothers often treated him to a drink or arranged for an entertainer to spend time with him just to lift his spirits before another deployment. To him, intimacy was simple—something physical, a way to fulfill one’s primal needs. He saw it as nothing more than a release of built-up tension, a temporary escape from the demands of war.

But soon, he discovered that intimacy could be far more than that.

Intimacy, he learned, could take on a softness he had never anticipated. It wasn’t always the loud, demanding force he once thought it to be. Sometimes, it was the gentle stroke of a hand on his shoulder, a quiet gesture that pulled him from sleep without the harsh jolt of a brother’s shake, warning him of impending danger. It was a tender invitation to wake, a peaceful pull toward the world of the living, rather than the constant tension of war.

It was in the quiet words exchanged in moments when the world outside seemed too loud to bear. Simple, soft-spoken affirmations that settled deep in his chest, offering comfort when it was most needed. It wasn’t about grand declarations, but the small, deliberate acts of care—like passing him something he needed without having to ask, an understanding shared in the absence of conversation. These actions didn’t demand recognition, but they carried with them a sense of being seen, of being valued without expectation.

Intimacy was also found in the unspoken—those fleeting moments when their eyes met, and everything he needed to understand was written in the depths of her gaze. Her green eyes, always so full of life, seemed to flicker with every emotion under the sun, each spark and flash a silent conversation between them. And in those brief exchanges, he found himself captivated—not just by the fire in her eyes, but by the way her very presence made him feel as if he were staring at the stars themselves, their brilliant glow far more radiant than anything he’d ever seen on a battlefield. In those moments, everything else faded, and the world, for just a heartbeat, felt right.

Perdita had grown more comfortable touching him, just as he had with her. But even as the distance between them shrank, there remained a certain innocence in her actions that he couldn’t ignore. Her hands always hovered just out of reach of anything that could be construed as inappropriate, lingering in spaces that could easily be mistaken for friendly affection. But to Wolffe, it felt like an unspoken tease, a maddening restraint that never allowed him the release he desperately craved.

Occasionally, she would rise onto her toes, pressing an uncertain kiss to his cheek, or let her hands rest just a breath away from his, their fingers touching but never quite connecting for more than a few seconds. That small, simple proximity was enough to send a wave of heat flooding through him, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t the kind of touch he was used to—the hurried, frantic brushes of a soldier’s world, or the fleeting, almost empty encounters that filled his past. No, this was something else entirely. It was slower, more deliberate, and infinitely more frustrating.

With every innocent gesture, Wolffe found himself tightening. His body responded instinctively, a flare of desire mixed with tension, but it was a hunger he couldn’t fully satiate. He longed to pull her closer, to deepen the contact between them, but he couldn't bring himself to cross the invisible line that she had unknowingly set between them. Her hesitation, her sweetness, only made his need more unbearable. It felt as if she didn’t fully understand the effect her closeness had on him—the way his breath would catch when her fingers brushed against his, or how his pulse would race when her lips hovered so close to his skin. 

He was becoming painfully aware of every inch of space between them, of the unfulfilled longing simmering just beneath the surface. Every moment her touch lingered near his skin, yet not on it, was like a cruel tease—an agonizing reminder of what he couldn’t have. He could feel his muscles tightening, his hands twitching with the urge to reach for her, to close the gap that seemed so small yet felt like an impossible chasm. Her innocence in these moments only heightened the tension within him, pushing him to the edge of something he didn’t know how to express.

If Wolffe had to make a guess, he was almost certain that Perdita had no clue just how much her seemingly innocent, friendly touches were affecting him. It wasn’t as if he could blame her for it—after all, her gestures were so natural, so effortless. She was kind, affectionate even, but completely unaware of the undercurrent they stirred in him. Wolffe doubted the Jedi Order ever went into detail about physical relationships—hell, he was certain they actively discouraged them. The notion that Perdita might be entirely oblivious to the effect her proximity had on him gnawed at him. But it wasn’t just her casual touches that kept him awake at night, it was the creeping realization that if she ever became aware of how close she was to unraveling him, it might be too late.

She had a way of drawing him in with her subtle presence—when they found those rare, quiet moments of peace amidst the chaos of war. Lately, she had taken to meditating with him, her calm voice guiding him to stillness as they sat together on the cold durasteel floor. The simple act of her hand gently tugging at his wrist, encouraging him to join her on the floor, had become a ritual that hypnotized him, a pull that made him feel anchored even as the chaos raged on around them. And in those moments, the space between them felt like more than just physical distance—it felt charged.

His worry that she might one day sense the depth of his longing never fully left him. That ever-present fear lurked in the back of his mind, a constant reminder of how fragile everything was. But at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel a certain indifference toward it. After all, they could both die at any moment. The weight of the Empire was always with him, heavy and undeniable, and that gnawing fear of regret—of never fully living—pushed him forward. It was why, despite his internal conflict, he allowed himself to feel the warmth of her presence without pulling away.

So there he was, eyes closed, sitting against the cold durasteel floor, breathing in time with her. A former soldier, hardened by years of battle, now beside a Jedi, breathing in the calm of the Force, as though it was enough to quiet the turmoil inside him—enough to hold off the flood of emotions that threatened to overtake him. In that shared silence, in the simple act of sitting together, there was a connection that spoke volumes, even if they never dared to acknowledge it aloud.

"You seem troubled," she spoke calmly, her voice a soft murmur that floated through the stillness between them. Her eyes remained closed, her posture serene and unbothered by the tension that had crept into his own. Wolffe could feel her awareness like a weight on his chest, a quiet pressure that knew him better than he knew himself. The very moment he tried to suppress the thoughts racing through his mind, tried to push them back into the recesses of his mind, they exploded to the forefront, impossible to ignore. And as if on cue, Perdita’s words landed with surgical precision, cutting through the fragile defenses he'd tried to erect around himself.

He hadn’t expected her to notice. No, he had hoped she wouldn’t. But that calm voice of hers—so attuned to the smallest shifts in energy—had felt his unrest. The realization was jarring. He had never been good at hiding things, but he had hoped he could at least keep the weight of his emotions buried, just for a little while longer.

"Nothing to report, Princess," Wolffe muttered, offering the lie with the same practiced ease he'd used countless times. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew how hollow they sounded. Lying to a Jedi was a fool’s errand—a truth he'd learned long ago. They could feel it, sense it, and even without reading his mind, Perdita could likely see the cracks in his facade. It was frustrating, infuriating even, but beneath it all, there was an undeniable pull he couldn't ignore, a desire to be seen, even in his weakest moments.

Perdita’s brow barely twitched, and her lips curled into the faintest of smiles, the kind that always seemed to dance just beyond the reach of his understanding. She wasn’t fooled. She knew better, and her unwavering patience was the only thing keeping him from crumbling completely under the weight of his own silence.

“Wanna try again?” she asked, her voice gentle but insistent, a quiet challenge hidden within her calm words. There was no judgment in her tone, no forceful pressure, only a gentle invitation to speak, to open up—to stop hiding from the inevitable.

Wolffe’s chest tightened as the walls he had built around himself slowly began to crack. He sighed, a low, resigned sound that echoed in the emptiness around them. The soft hum of the ship’s engines was the only other sound in the room, a constant reminder of their vagabond existence. He could feel the familiar, bitter taste of frustration rising in his throat, but beneath that, there was something else—something raw and unspoken. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to say it, whatever it was, until this very moment.

His eyes, which had been cast downward, now rose to meet hers. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t look away. There was no mask, no hardened soldier in this moment—just a man on the edge of something far more complicated than he had ever been willing to admit.

"I..." His voice faltered, unsure of how to even begin. How did you explain this, this deep, unshakable pull, the frustration that was gnawing away at him? How could he put into words the need that thrummed through his every vein, the longing that tightened in his chest every time she was near? But there were no easy words for that, no neat explanations for the mess of emotions tangled inside him.

She waited in silence, her presence warm and steady beside him. Her gaze never wavered, always patient, always understanding. Perdita didn’t push. She simply waited—and that, in itself, made him feel like he might be able to breathe again.

"I don’t know what to say," Wolffe finally admitted, his voice a strained whisper, almost drowned out by the stillness around them. The words hung between them, fragile and uncertain, as if speaking them aloud made the tension in the room more real, more undeniable. His gaze dropped to the floor, unwilling to meet hers for fear of what she might see in his eyes. "I don’t know how to make sense of any of this," he continued, the weight of his own admission pressing on his chest.

He let out a slow breath, trying to steady himself, but the frustration was still there, swirling in the pit of his stomach. This—whatever this was, this feeling that refused to be ignored—was something he hadn’t been prepared for. It wasn’t just the endless longing that tugged at him when she was near. It wasn’t just the moments of closeness that left him craving more. No, it was everything about her, about the way she made him feel, something he couldn’t fully comprehend, let alone explain.

His mind raced, searching for a way to push it all back, to bury it under the guise of duty and professionalism. He cleared his throat, trying to force the words out as if they would somehow make the entire mess easier to understand. “It’s... certainly not appropriate, if you understand what I’m referring to—” he trailed off, hoping that by keeping his words vague enough, by steering the conversation into safer waters, she might not catch on. Perhaps her innocence, her unawareness of the deeper implications of his feelings, would give him a way out. If he could only keep it distant, keep it impersonal, maybe she wouldn’t realize the depth of his struggle.

But even as the words left his lips, he knew it was futile. Perdita wasn’t the type to let things go unsaid, to let him retreat behind a wall of half-truths. He could see it in her eyes, that quiet patience, the way she studied him as if she already knew what he was trying to hide, what he was afraid to confront. The more he tried to distance himself from his emotions, the more she seemed to close the gap between them, her presence an unspoken invitation for him to be honest.

And yet, Wolffe couldn’t quite bring himself to say it—couldn’t bring himself to fully face what this was, what she was making him feel. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them, thick and uncomfortable, hoping that she would either let it go or perhaps misunderstand, so he wouldn’t have to say the words he feared would change everything.

“You just seem… frustrated. Is there something I have done, or...?” Perdita asked, her voice soft, careful, as if she were stepping around something fragile, afraid of shattering whatever quiet peace they had managed to maintain between them.

Wolffe exhaled a deep, frustrated groan, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “It’s more about what you haven’t done, Princess,” he muttered, unable to keep the edge of irritation from his tone. His words felt heavier than he wanted them to, as if they were a burden he’d been carrying for too long, and now it was spilling out uncontrollably.

Perdita’s brow furrowed, her lips parting slightly in confusion. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice still measured but filled with a hint of concern. It was clear she didn’t fully understand what he was getting at, and the uncertainty in her eyes only deepened his frustration.

Wolffe ran his fingers over his face, trying to find the right way to explain it, to put into words the twisted mess of longing and restraint that had been consuming him. “I mean...” He hesitated, unsure how to continue without making himself sound even more ridiculous. He gestured vaguely to himself, hoping the meaning would be clear without him needing to spell it out. “Well, I’m a...” He motioned to his chest and arms, hoping she would understand what he meant, that he was referring to being a man, to the physical nature of who he was. But the words felt clumsy, incomplete, a poor substitute for the weight he was carrying.

He looked at her—at Perdita—and then gestured toward her, his hand sweeping in the air as if to illustrate the undeniable truth of her beauty. She was graceful, radiant, every movement filled with a quiet strength that was impossible to ignore. He didn’t need to say the words; he hoped she could read the message in his body language. “And you are…” he trailed off, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to finish the sentence. He motioned toward her as if to say, You’re everything I’ve been craving in the most basic, physical regard—but of course, the words wouldn’t come.

Perdita blinked at him, her expression still unreadable. She tilted her head slightly, the confusion only deepening. It was clear that his cryptic, roundabout attempt to explain himself had only made things murkier, not clearer. The more he tried to simplify it, the more complicated it seemed to become.

Wolffe cursed under his breath, frustrated by his own inability to make sense of the chaos inside him. He had hoped that by being vague, he could avoid truly confronting the tangled mess of desire, attraction, and hesitation. But now, standing there with her, so close and yet so far, he couldn’t hide from it any longer.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he muttered, running his hand over his face again. “I’m trying to tell you that... you don’t see it, how hard it is for me to just be around you. How much I have to hold back every damn second, because—because you’re you, and I’m... I’m me. And everything between us feels like this endless pull, and I don’t know what to do with it.” His voice dropped to a near whisper by the end, as if he were confessing a secret he had never meant to share.

For a moment, there was a silence—an almost suffocating pause where Wolffe wasn’t sure if he had said too much, or not enough. He could feel his pulse quicken as he waited for her response, the air thick with unspoken words and feelings neither of them could quite wrap their hands around. He had expected her to recoil, to pull away, to be confused or even annoyed. But instead, all he could do was hope that, somehow, she would understand.

Perdita’s eyes softened as she watched him, the confusion slowly clearing from her expression. For a long moment, she said nothing, but her gaze didn’t waver from him. There was something in the way she looked at him—something that told him she wasn’t judging, wasn’t dismissing his words as incoherent ramblings. She was processing, trying to understand, trying to hear him despite not fully understanding.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost as if she were carefully weighing each word before she let it slip into the space between them. “Wolffe,” she said, her tone gentle, “I never meant to make things... complicated. I know that with proximity and attraction, the effect it can have.” She paused for a breath, meeting his eyes with an intensity that made him feel like she was seeing straight through him. “But I didn’t choose to make this difficult for you. I just… I don’t know how to navigate this either.” Her hands folded neatly in her lap, betraying the calm exterior she was trying to maintain.

Wolffe opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. He hadn’t expected that—he hadn’t expected her to admit that she, too, was feeling the strain of this unspoken tension between them. It was a relief of sorts, but it also left him feeling exposed, as if the very thing he’d been trying to keep buried had finally been laid bare between them.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he muttered, the words laced with frustration. He didn’t want to hear her apologize. He didn’t want to hear her backpedal and reassure him. He just wanted her to understand what he was struggling with. “It’s not your fault, it’s just…” His voice trailed off as his hands dropped to his sides in defeat. “Everything feels like it’s always hanging on the edge of something—like the line between what’s acceptable and what isn’t keeps shifting. One moment, you’re here, and the next, it’s like I can’t breathe, because I can’t touch you, can’t—” He broke off, frustrated, not sure what he was trying to say anymore.

Perdita’s face softened even more, her expression turning contemplative. “Wolffe…” she began again, more slowly this time. “You don’t have to hold back everything. We don’t have to pretend we don’t feel the tension, the pull between us.” She leaned closer to him, her gaze steady, as though she was trying to show him that there was no need to be afraid of the things that had been left unsaid for so long. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t figure this out without rushing. Because you’re not the only one. I feel it too. But this—whatever this is—doesn’t have to be something that’s defined by a single moment of impulse.”

Wolffe’s chest tightened, and he found himself struggling to form words. Her words were exactly what he had been afraid to admit to himself, but there was something different in the way she said it. There was no judgment, no rejection, just an understanding. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t feel like the weight of his feelings was something he had to carry alone. But it didn’t make the tension between them disappear. It didn’t make the gnawing hunger go away, either.

"But it still doesn’t make sense," Wolffe muttered, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The words felt heavy, the frustration mixing with a deeper, more aching confusion that gnawed at him. "It’s like I’m caught in two places at once. The soldier part of me tells me to fight it, to ignore it, to keep everything in line, to control myself. But the man inside me—" He paused, swallowing hard before lifting his eyes to meet hers, a raw honesty in them now. "The man inside me says... a lot of things I probably shouldn’t say out loud."

Perdita didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She stood there, still and steady, her gaze focused on him with a quiet intensity, like she was taking in every word he spoke, every emotion that colored his tone. Her eyes softened, the corners of her lips twitching upward slightly, but not in mockery. There was no judgment, no hesitation—just a kind of understanding that left Wolffe wondering if she already knew what was hidden beneath his words.

"I honestly do not think I understand what you mean," she said gently, her voice barely a whisper now, carrying a calmness that was almost too much for him to handle at this point. She stepped closer, her presence a gentle force, one that both anchored and unnerved him. "But... I am open to you enlightening me."

The invitation hung in the air, heavy with possibility. For a moment, Wolffe felt the room close in around him, the walls pressing against him from all sides. Her proximity only seemed to amplify the turmoil inside him, the confusion, the heat that had been simmering beneath his skin. And, despite himself, he felt his words spilling out before he could rein them back in.

"I need you to tell me," Wolffe said, his voice growing more strained, "if that is some really roundabout way of telling me I can kiss you properly. And if it’s not, and you still have some sort of boundary from the Jedi code—well, that’s one thing. But…" He paused, almost breathless, the vulnerability of it all pressing down on him like a weight. "I just need you to tell me, Perdita, what I’m supposed to do here. Because I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it. I can’t keep fighting this—this thing that’s growing between us."

His words tumbled out faster than he intended, the raw, desperate edge to them unmistakable. His pulse quickened, and a small part of him wanted to shrink back, to disappear from the weight of his own confession. As the last syllable left his lips, he felt a deep flush rise to his face, a hot wave of embarrassment flooding him. His heart raced, and he wanted to bury his face in his hands, to run and hide from the vulnerability that now lay between them like an exposed nerve. The realization that he had just begged, in his own broken way, for clarity was almost more than he could bear. Yet, he couldn’t take it back. He couldn’t reel in the need that had burst from his chest, the burning desire for her to just—say it.

Perdita’s eyes widened slightly at Wolffe’s admission, her face flushing a deep pink. She blinked, clearly caught off guard by his openness, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. She opened her mouth to speak but quickly shut it, her gaze falling to the floor between them, as though the weight of the moment had suddenly become too much for her to bear.

“I...” Her voice trembled slightly, betraying the nerves that were starting to bubble up inside her. She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, unable to meet his eyes. “I’ve never been kissed, Wolffe.”

The words came out in a rush, almost like she was apologizing for them. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, the vulnerability of the confession weighing heavily on her. She couldn’t believe she had just said that—couldn’t believe she had admitted it out loud, especially after everything they had been through. The idea of someone as experienced as Wolffe, a soldier with his likely scandalous shoreleaves, teaching her how to kiss seemed absurd, even more so when she realized how much she wanted to be closer to him, to feel that connection.

Wolffe blinked, his mouth slightly open as he tried to process her words. For a split second, he thought he had misheard her. “Wait... you’ve never?” he stammered, his mind momentarily short-circuiting.

Perdita quickly nodded, biting her lip, her eyes avoiding his as if the admission alone was too much to face. “I know, it’s... it’s probably ridiculous, given everything, but I’ve never had the chance,” she said softly, her voice almost drowned by the beating of her own heart. “I mean, with the Jedi way and everything, we—well, it’s complicated.”

“I didn’t think it would be like this,” he muttered under his breath, his nerves suddenly bubbling up like a boiling pot. “I don’t know what I’m doing either, Perdita. I’m... I’m not some expert. I’ve messed around on occasion but, not this.” The uncertainty in his voice was clear, and he couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him—a nervous, self-deprecating sound.

Perdita’s blush deepened at the idea of him being the one to guide her in something so personal. It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about it, even fantasized about it, but the reality of it suddenly felt so overwhelming. She looked up at him, and for the first time, there was something in her eyes—something more than just curiosity. There was a spark of hope, of wanting, despite the embarrassment tightening her chest.

“I don’t expect you to teach me,” she said quietly, almost too softly. “I mean, I... I want to try. If... if that’s okay with you.” She let the words trail off, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure if she should even continue. She wasn’t sure if she was making a huge mistake, or if she was somehow pushing them both too far too quickly. But she couldn’t take back what she had said. The desire, the tension between them, was undeniable now.

Wolffe swallowed hard, unsure of what to say, the realization of the situation sinking in. He had always been a leader, someone who was expected to take charge, to make decisions without hesitation. But this—this—was different. He was no expert in tenderness, in softness. He had no clue how to navigate this delicate, fragile moment with her, especially when it was so loaded with expectations that he wasn’t sure he was ready to handle it.

“I don’t want to... make you uncomfortable,” Wolffe finally admitted, his voice low, betraying his uncertainty. “I mean, I don’t want to mess this up for you, or make it feel wrong.”

His eyes met hers then, and for the first time, he saw the flicker of something shared between them. A longing, yes, but also a kind of raw need to connect—to figure out what this all meant. They were both walking blind into this, but neither of them was willing to pull back.

Perdita stood still for a moment, her hand subtly reaching out, fingers brushing his wrist as if to reassure him, to show him that she wasn’t afraid. The touch sent a shock of warmth through his body, and suddenly everything seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them standing there, suspended in time.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’m nervous too. But maybe that’s... okay.”

Wolffe’s heart hammered in his chest, his breath shallow. He never thought he’d be in this position. The soldier, the battle-hardened warrior, unsure of how to make this moment right. But as he looked at her—so vulnerable, so open, yet still holding that quiet strength—he realized that maybe, just maybe, this was something worth figuring out. Together.

Taking a deep breath, Wolffe finally nodded, the weight of his own nerves pushing him to make a decision. He stepped closer, his hand trembling slightly as it reached out, just brushing her cheek. “We take it slow,” he murmured. Perdita nodded, her eyes shining with something that was half hope, half uncertainty. But she trusted him, and somehow, in that moment, Wolffe felt as if he might actually have the courage to trust himself, too.

Wolffe took a deep breath, his hand still hovering near her cheek, fingers trembling ever so slightly. The tension between them was palpable, the unspoken weight of what they were about to do hanging in the air like a delicate thread that could snap at any moment. He felt the world around them fall away, the sounds of the ship’s engine fading into nothingness as he focused solely on her—the softness of her skin, the warmth of her presence.

Perdita’s eyes locked with his, her gaze steady, her lips parted slightly, waiting. Waiting for him to take the next step, to close the gap between them. She wasn’t pulling away. She wasn’t retreating. She was there, right in front of him, trusting him. And that trust, as simple and as complex as it was, made his heart race.

For a long moment, Wolffe stood there, his thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty, and yet, beneath the chaos, there was a sense of clarity—something that told him this was right. He didn’t need to have all the answers. He didn’t need to be perfect. He just needed to be here, to be present with her.

His fingers brushed her cheek again, this time lingering just a little longer, his touch gentler than he ever thought possible. Perdita’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and Wolffe took it as a silent permission, as a quiet acknowledgement that she was ready, too.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Wolffe leaned in, his breath warm against her face. He could feel the pulse at her throat, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, and it grounded him. This was no battlefield. This wasn’t a mission with clear orders and sharp objectives. This was just him and her. Two people, unsure but willing to take the plunge.

And then, just before his lips met hers, he paused—just for a heartbeat. A brief moment of hesitation, a final flicker of doubt, but it quickly passed as he saw the same uncertainty mirrored in her eyes as they reopened for a moment. She was nervous, too. They both were.

Finally, with a soft exhale, Wolffe closed the distance, pressing his lips to hers in a gentle, tentative kiss. It wasn’t a kiss born of desperation or need. It was simply a kiss, quiet and careful, a tender connection shared between two people who had no idea what tomorrow would bring but knew that this—this moment—was worth every ounce of vulnerability it took to get here.

The kiss was soft, almost shy, as if they were both learning what it meant to be this close, this open. Wolffe felt the warmth of her lips against his, the sweet pressure of her mouth, and in that small, simple exchange, something inside him shifted. The nervousness faded, replaced by a quiet sense of peace, a feeling that maybe they were both exactly where they needed to be.

When they finally pulled apart, it was just as slow and tender, neither of them in a rush. Wolffe’s forehead rested gently against hers, their breaths mingling as they shared a quiet moment, letting the world around them come back into focus. His nose nudged hers playfully as he looked down.

Perdita smiled, a shy, soft curve of her lips that made Wolffe’s heartbeat a little faster, though he didn’t quite understand why. There was no pressure, no expectations. Just two people who had stepped into uncharted territory together, uncertain but trusting.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she whispered, her voice a little breathless, her eyes still closed as she kept the tender closeness between them.

Wolffe chuckled softly, his thumb gently tracing the line of her jaw. It was almost endearing that she felt the need to confirm there was nothing off putting about the experience on his end. “No,” he agreed, his voice low, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It wasn’t bad at all.”

Wolffe’s heart was still racing, but it felt different now—lighter, softer. The tension that had been there, coiled tight in his chest, had unwound, leaving him with a warmth he couldn’t quite place. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so... present. So attuned to the moment. The world around them felt distant now, the noise of their lives faded into nothingness as they stood there, tangled in the quiet intimacy they had just shared.

Her lips parted just slightly, and Wolffe couldn’t resist brushing his thumb over them, as if imprinting the feeling of them on his skin, wanting to hold onto that tender connection. He didn’t speak immediately, just drank in the quiet beauty of her face, the delicate curve of her jaw, the way her hair fell softly around her face. It was all so new, so uncharted, but it was also so undeniable.

“I didn’t expect this,” Wolffe finally murmured, his voice low and hushed, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the delicate moment. “I never thought...”

Perdita’s fingers gently cupped his face, bringing him back to her. Her touch was a balm, soothing him even more. “Neither did I,” she whispered, her voice soft, but her eyes were full of that same tenderness. “But I’m glad it happened.”

Wolffe let out a quiet laugh, the sound rich with relief, and maybe even a little wonder. “Me too.” His thumb traced the curve of her cheek again, slower this time, as if he was savoring every inch of her, committing the sensation to memory. Meanwhile he could feel the slight friction caused by her fingernails carding through his short facial hair.

The space between them had grown warmer, their bodies subconsciously inching closer. Wolffe’s heart, still beating a little faster than normal, was now attuned to the way her breath had slowed, in sync with his. There was no rush. No urgency. Just the rhythm of two people learning the quiet, tender dance of being close.

Perdita’s eyes lingered on Wolffe’s face, drawn to the intensity in his gaze, the way his expression softened with each passing moment. Her fingers traced the lines of his jaw, feeling the strength there, the firmness that had always been a part of him. There was a calmness in his presence that she had never fully noticed before—how steady he was, how rooted. She could see the soldier in him, the leader, the man who had faced countless battles, but in this moment, he was something else entirely.

His features were a captivating blend of rugged charm, etched with the marks of a life lived in battle. One eye, a striking bionic replacement, stood in stark contrast to the warmth of his natural one. A scar traced along his face, a silent testament to his bravery, while the slight crookedness of his nose hinted at an injury that had never fully healed. Yet, it was the softness of his lips and the flush of his skin that reminded her that these traces of struggle were merely fragments of the beautiful man he had always been. Perdita couldn’t ignore the way she’d frequently acknowledged it, even back then. But time had been wonderful to him, and the lack of regulation haircuts and their nomad lifestyle made him seem so much more handsome than she could’ve imagined.

Her breath caught as she slowly moved closer, her body instinctively seeking more of him. She rose onto the balls of her feet, but still, the difference in their height struck her. She had always known he was taller, but now, in the quiet intimacy of the moment, the disparity seemed more pronounced. Even on her toes, she was still a few inches below his chin, her forehead grazing the solid wall of his chest.

It was strange, how she had never realized just how much he towered over her until now. She could feel the heat of his body radiating, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his presence seemed to fill the space around them. The realization was both grounding and disorienting. He was a soldier, a protector, a force of nature. And here she was, the Jedi, with lithe build.

Perdita’s breath was shallow, but she didn’t shy away from the distance. She moved even closer, leaning up just a little further to close the space between them. Her hand rested gently on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath the fabric of his shirt. She was drawn to him in ways she couldn’t explain, needing to bridge the physical gap between them, needing to feel more of him, to share more of herself with him.

Wolffe shifted slightly, moving down a fraction, bending just enough to meet her halfway, though it was a delicate maneuver, given their difference in height. He could feel the warmth of her hand on his chest, and it made something inside him soften, some instinct pulling him to protect, to care for her, even in this quiet moment. He wasn’t sure what was happening between them, but he knew one thing—he didn’t want to pull away.

With a quiet exhale, Wolffe placed his hand on her back, gently drawing her closer. She fit against him in a way that seemed natural, her small form nestled against the width of his chest. He could feel her warmth, the delicate way she leaned into him, and despite everything—despite the uncertainty and the weight of his role—there was a calmness in the way they stood together.

"You're so small Princess," he murmured, his voice softer than he intended. 

Perdita smiled faintly, her face tilting slightly up to meet his eyes. "I’m not sure that matters, Wolffe," she whispered, her fingers curling into his shirt as if to anchor herself to the moment. 

Wolffe couldn’t help the way his heart skipped a beat at the playful energy between them, the way she kept inching closer, her presence so disarming. He had never quite expected this—this feeling, this subtle warmth that kept growing every time they were near each other. It was new, unfamiliar, but so very... right.

"You’re small but still dangerous, you know that?" he murmured, voice low and teasing.

She smirked, her lips just inches from his. "Only when I want to be."

Wolffe’s pulse quickened, the playful tension between them growing palpable. "Well," he said, his lips curling into a grin, "I guess I’ll just have to keep an eye on you, then. Wouldn’t want you causing any trouble." He leaned in just slightly, his lips brushing against the top of her head, lingering there a moment longer than necessary.

Perdita smiled softly at the gesture, her breath warm against his chest as she tilted her head to look up at him again. "I might keep causing trouble if you keep looking at me like that when I do," she whispered, her voice low and full of meaning.

Wolffe felt a shiver run through him at her words, his heart thundering in his chest. He was so close to crossing the line between playful banter and something deeper, but he didn’t want to pull back. Instead, he pressed a little closer, his hand moving from her back to gently tilt her chin up. "And how exactly am I looking at you?" he murmured, his voice thick with a mixture of amusement and something else—something far more intense.

Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at him, lips just a hair’s breadth from his. "Like you might kiss me."

The words hung in the air between them, the playful edge gone now, replaced with something softer, warmer. Wolffe’s heart skipped a beat, and without thinking, he leaned in just enough to brush his lips against hers, a soft, slow press. It wasn’t deep, but it was enough to send a jolt of heat through his body, enough to make him wish the moment would never end.

When they finally pulled apart, there was a brief but palpable silence between them, the air thick with the shared warmth of their closeness. Their breaths were just a little quicker, as if the lingering connection still had its hold on them, a soft pulse that refused to fade. Wolffe’s hand remained at the back of her neck, tender and steady, grounding both of them in the moment they’d just shared. His smile, slow and soft, tugged at the corners of his lips. There was something in his eyes—a quiet knowing, as though he’d found a piece of truth in her gaze that hadn’t been there before.

"I guess I might have been looking at you like that," he murmured, his voice lower, hushed by the weight of the moment. It was more than an admission—it was a quiet promise, a subtle invitation, as if he were daring the silence to speak more than words ever could.

Perdita’s eyes sparkled, and she let out a breathless laugh that sent a ripple of warmth through him. She didn’t look away from him, her gaze steady and full of a knowing playfulness. “I had a feeling,” she replied, her voice soft but tinged with the same quiet confidence that matched the depth of the moment.

Wolffe’s smile deepened, an edge of teasing in his voice as he hummed with amusement. "Can’t blame me," he said with a smirk, his thumb gently brushing the edge of her jaw, as if he was still tracing the contours of their shared connection.

Perdita raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a playful grin. "Oh yeah? And why’s that?" she asked, a mischievous note lacing her words.

Wolffe tilted his head slightly, as if considering her question. "Because you were looking at me like you wanted me to kiss you," he said, his voice steady, though there was something in it that was a little more raw, more honest than he'd intended.

Perdita's eyes widened slightly, the air between them thick with a tension that neither of them had fully realized was building. She felt a flutter in her chest, half-surprised by his bluntness, half-thrilled by how easily he was able to read her in return. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, and she took a small step closer, letting the warmth between them swell again.

“Well,” she said softly, her voice teasing but with an undercurrent of something much softer, “I guess you’re not entirely wrong.”

Wolffe chuckled, the sound warm and rich, tinged with both relief and a touch of nervousness, as though they were both teetering on the edge of something much bigger than either of them had expected. The air between them hummed with a quiet tension, a mixture of lighthearted teasing and an undeniable pull that neither of them could ignore.

"Well, if that’s the case," he said, his voice deepening just a little, taking on a hint of seriousness, though his lips still quirked with the faintest smile, "I guess I’d better be careful how I look at you next time."

Perdita raised an eyebrow, her gaze playful but still soft, like she was savoring the moment. "Next time?" she asked, her voice teasing, yet with an underlying warmth that made Wolffe’s chest tighten just slightly. "When might that be?"

Wolffe’s eyes sparkled with the challenge, the desire for more hanging in the air between them. He took a small step closer, his presence surrounding her, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade. "Hm," he mused, a mock-serious glint in his eyes. "Now?"

Perdita tilted her head, her lips curling into a slow, knowing smile. She took in a breath, her heart racing just a little faster now, the quiet confidence she wore in that moment a contrast to the vulnerability they had both shared earlier. "Right now?" she asked softly, her fingers brushing against the front of his shirt again, lingering just a little longer than necessary.

Wolffe didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he simply stared at her, as if taking in everything—the way her lips parted just slightly, the gentle curve of her neck, the warmth in her eyes that mirrored his own. The world around them, the expectations, the pressure—it all seemed distant. All that mattered was the quiet pull between them, the unspoken understanding that what they shared here, in this moment, was something worth exploring.

After what felt like a long pause, Wolffe spoke again, his voice softer now, a hint of tenderness coloring his words. "Yeah, right now,"

Tag List: @leenathegreengirl @asgre @badbatch-bitch @cw80831 @heidnspeak

[legacygirlingreen]

I: "The Rescue"|| Commander Wolffe x OC Perdita Halle

Author's Note: Finally got around to editing this part... I am excited to kick things off with a beefy flashback. Unfortunately the early stages of their story will be a bit disjointed. Eventually time will catch back up to their life after the prologue, but I wanted to lay some ground work for Wolffe and Perdita. Thanks again to @leenathegreengirl for the lovely cover art for this chapter, showing Wolffe with his two natural eyes and Perdita's! I hope you all enjoy, I'll link the prologue to this if you missed it, and let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. ~ M

Pairing: Wolffe x OC Perdita Halle

Word Count: 13.5k+

Warnings: mentions of nearly dying, illusions to religious trauma (the jedi suck tbh), mentions of loss/grief

Summary: When all hope is lost, a mysterious figure comes to Wolffe's rescue...

Masterlist || Previous Section || Next Section (Coming Soon!)

Perdita had been doomed from the start when it came to the Jedi Order. It was a miracle they had ever accepted her at all. The Jedi were a people bound by their strict code, where attachments were seen as a dangerous weakness, and only the young children—those with little to no memories of their families—were chosen for training. They had long been wary of the emotional baggage that came with deep bonds to others, believing that such attachments would cloud judgment and lead to the dark side.

But Perdita’s species, the Kage, presented an unfair conflict—a unique struggle that she had carried with her her entire life. Unlike most beings, the Kage were born sentient, with complex and fully formed minds from the moment of their birth. Their memories were sharp, vivid, and long-lasting, capable of recalling even the smallest details from infancy.

Though Perdita had been brought to the Jedi Temple at only three years of age, she was not the blank slate the Jedi were accustomed to. She carried with her three full years of memories of her home world. She could still see the lush, rich purple landscape of her birthplace, the towering spires that punctuated the horizon, and the deep violet horizon that stretched endlessly above. She could feel the heavy weight of the planet’s atmosphere pressing down on the tunnels where her people lived—an ever-present force, almost comforting, like a warm embrace.

She remembered her mother, with her soft hands stroking her brow as she tucked her in at night, whispering gentle words that still echoed in the recesses of her mind. And her older brother, agile and wild, climbing the towering spires with an ease that Perdita had always admired. 

It was these memories, these emotions, that the Jedi Order had never fully understood. To them, Perdita’s past was a burden, something that could jeopardize her ability to serve the Order without the distractions of personal attachments. They had taken her in regardless, but the struggle between her nature and the Jedi code had always been an internal battle, one that never truly ceased. And though she had grown up learning to suppress those memories, to bury them beneath layers of training and discipline, they lingered—persistent and undeniable.

Perdita’s mind wasn’t just uniquely capable of recalling complex memories—her gift extended far beyond what most would expect. Not only could she vividly recall her own experiences with remarkable clarity, but she also had the ability to reach out through the Force and pull in memories that were not her own. By extending her consciousness, she could tap into the echoes of others' pasts, drawing out their hidden knowledge and experiences. It was a rare and extraordinary gift, one that allowed her to uncover information that most others couldn’t even fathom.

This skill proved invaluable in the field of tracking. Unlike traditional methods of pursuit, Perdita could search for clues not only in the physical world but in the very fabric of the Force itself. By reaching out and connecting to the impressions left behind, she could see traces of someone’s movements, their intentions, their very essence—memories lingering like faint whispers in the ether. It was a method that allowed her to find those who had lost their way, those who had vanished without a trace.

This very ability had been the reason she was called upon to assist in the hunt for General Grievous’s latest secret weapon. The stakes were higher than ever, and the Jedi had learned quickly that Perdita’s unique talents were a tool they could not afford to overlook. With her ability to track through the Force, there was hope that they might locate the weapon before it could be unleashed upon the galaxy. Yet, as she prepared to dive into the mission, a familiar unease stirred within her—a reminder that even the most useful abilities could come at a personal cost, especially when they forced her to confront the very attachments she had worked so hard to suppress.

Stationed alongside General Skywalker and his new Padawan, Perdita had been a silent observer, watching as Master Plo Koon’s transmission had gone dark with the fleet after briefly making contact about tracking the secret weapon. The transmission had been short, but enough for them to glean its location before the connection abruptly severed. It was a moment that had sent ripples of uncertainty through the ranks, and in the quiet that followed, Perdita had found herself reflecting on the situation, her thoughts drifting back to the Jedi she knew and admired.

Master Plo had been more than just a wise Jedi; he had been a dear friend to her own Master, a bond forged through years of shared experiences and mutual respect. It was a relationship that had endured even after her Master’s untimely death—a loss that had left an undeniable void in her heart, a piece of her spirit fractured by the absence of one she had trusted so deeply. The grief from that loss had never fully faded, though time had done its best to smooth the sharp edges of her sorrow. In his own quiet way, Master Plo had been a source of comfort during those dark times. He had never shied away from acknowledging the struggles that came with being a Jedi, particularly in a war that demanded so much.

Master Plo had always shown her kindness in ways that others in the Order could not—or would not. In the privacy of shared moments, he had confided in her, admitting that he too had struggled with the very things she faced. The tension between compassion and attachment was something he understood all too well, perhaps more than any of his peers. It was a duality he had learned to live with, the lines between them so fine and blurred that they often became indistinguishable. He had spoken of the weight of that knowledge, of the difficulty of reconciling the Jedi Code with the innate need to connect, to care for others.

"Compassion is not the same as attachment," he had told her once, his voice soft, yet firm. "But in the depths of our hearts, the difference can feel almost impossible to discern."

Those words had stuck with her through the years, particularly in moments when the conflict within her became unbearable. In Master Plo’s aura, she had seen a reflection of her own struggles—a recognition that she was not alone, even in her darkest guarded secrets. And yet, despite the comfort of his words, there was always a lingering question in Perdita's mind: could the Jedi truly ever understand the complexities of the heart, or were they forever destined to struggle with the boundaries between duty and the natural need for connection? It was a question that gnawed at her, especially as the war raged on, and as she watched the galaxy slowly unravel around her.

Now, with Master Plo's fate uncertain and the pressure mounting to locate the weapon before it could wreak havoc, Perdita was forced to confront the very thing that had always haunted her: could she truly let go of the people she had cared about, the bonds she had formed, in the name of duty? Or would the compassionate side of her, the one that had been nurtured by the memory of her Master and by Jedi like Plo Koon, ultimately lead her down a path that defied the very code she had sworn to uphold?

She supposed that, as with most things, time would be the deciding factor.

As Anakin tried to slip away quietly, Perdita followed closely behind, her instincts telling her he was on his way to defy the Council’s orders. She knew him too well. Despite his tendency to act on impulse, she couldn’t fully fault him. He was the Chosen One, the one who would fulfill the Jedi prophecy, and because of that, he was afforded privileges that the rest of them—herself included—could only dream of. No matter how many times he bent the rules, Anakin would always be given a pass, his actions excused by his destiny.

Perdita, on the other hand, had never been so fortunate. No matter how hard she tried, she was frequently reprimanded for the way she navigated the complex teachings of the Jedi Code. She had always struggled with the balance between duty and attachment, between compassion and detachment, and her methods were often seen as unorthodox. Yet, despite the Council’s judgment and her own doubts, one thing remained clear: she wasn’t about to let Anakin go off to search for Master Plo. Not without her.

“I’m coming with you,” she stated bluntly, her voice firm, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Anakin’s sudden movement—his body lifting skyward in surprise—was all the answer she needed. She’d caught him off guard, just as she’d intended. His expression shifted, one of frustration mixed with a trace of reluctance. She could see the conflict in his eyes; he knew he wasn’t supposed to be acting on his own. But the same fire that drove him to defy the Council also made him appreciate the rare few who were willing to stand by him when the path ahead seemed too treacherous to walk alone.

“Why?” he asked, his voice laced with surprise but also a hint of amusement.

“Because,” she said, her gaze steady, “you’ll need all the help you can get—and it’s been a while since I got a reprimand from the council. Figured it’s long overdue, don't you agree?”

Anakin paused, his eyes scanning her, reading the resolve in her stance, and for a moment, it was as if the tension between them dissolved. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared an understanding, though they rarely acknowledged it aloud. She wasn’t just another Jedi. She was someone who knew the burden of walking a path fraught with difficult choices, someone who understood the weight of the Order’s expectations. One of the few with memories of her childhood as he too struggled. 

"Welcome aboard," Anakin said with a smirk, his tone laced with mischief. "Ahsoka's already called dibs on co-pilot."

She raised an eyebrow, scoffing as she stepped onto the ship platform beside him. "The fact that the Council even gave you a Padawan is a miracle unto itself," she retorted, her voice dripping with incredulity.

Anakin chuckled, his smirk widening as he adjusted the controls, clearly unfazed by her jab. "You’re not the first to say that, and you won’t be the last," he replied, though there was a hint of pride in his voice. 

Perdita was quiet for a moment. Watching Anakin with Ahsoka—how effortlessly they seemed to work together, how there was an unspoken understanding between them—reminded her of the emotional distance she often felt, even with her closest allies. She had never been given the privilege of a Padawan, nor had she ever considered taking one. There was something inherently personal about the bond between master and student, and she wasn’t sure if she could form that connection without compromising her own sense of self.

"Where was Master Plo’s fleet stationed again?" Perdita asked, stepping aside to give the younger Togruta a clear path to the seat next to Anakin.

"Abragado system," Anakin replied quietly, just as the door slid open. Ahsoka appeared in the doorway, her expression a mixture of annoyance and impatience as she flopped into the seat with little ceremony.

"Alright, I’m ready to scout ahead," Ahsoka declared, her tone laced with both determination and a hint of frustration. It seemed Anakin had conveniently forgotten to inform his Padawan about the mischievous true nature of their mission. Perdita couldn't help but smile at the thought. The pair was certainly... unorthodox. The kind of team that thrived on spontaneity and defied the conventional rules of the Jedi Order. It was both endearing and dangerous.

"I'll be meditating. Let me know if anything comes up," she said, her voice calm but firm as she turned toward the wall panel. She stepped away from the group, heading toward the hull, giving them the space they needed to process the reality of their actions without her interference. Sitting on the floor, Perdita folded her legs, recalling the details of Master Plo in an effort to locate him within the force… 

•—⟪=====> 

Storms were a rare occurrence on Coruscant. The bustling city-planet, with its endless lights and thick smog, didn’t foster the kind of atmosphere that would produce precipitation—or the howling winds that now swept through the streets. Yet, as the ship touched down after their harrowing return from Geonosis, it felt as though the planet itself was mourning. The violent winds seemed to echo the grief that hung heavy in the air, as if Coruscant, too, was grieving the loss of so many Jedi.

Perdita had been swiftly escorted to the Council upon their arrival at the Temple, the weight of the battle still heavy on her shoulders. “Congratulations,” they had said, their voices steady but distant. They told her the battle had been her trial, that she had passed, and that she was no longer a Padawan. The words felt almost hollow in the aftermath of so much loss, but she stood there, unblinking, as Master Fisto stepped forward to sever the braid that had marked her as a learner. It was a rite of passage that should have been performed by her own Master, but he was gone—fallen in the arena, like so many others, reduced to ash and blood. The ceremony, once a symbol of growth and achievement, now felt like a bitter reminder of the life she had lost.

In that same arena, when hope seemed all but extinguished, they had arrived. The roar of gunships filled the air as they descended, and Perdita had watched as squads of men, armored from head to toe, emerged ready for battle. No one questioned their arrival, no one questioned their purpose. In the chaos of the moment, there was only survival—and she had been thrust into their ranks, quickly learning that these men were not just soldiers; they were clones. Created for war. Created to fight. They didn’t have the luxury of choice. They followed orders, without question, without hesitation.

But now, with the literal dust settling, and her promotion complete, the questions began to creep in. Questions about duty, about what came next, about where she fit in a galaxy that seemed to be falling apart. The weight of it all pressed heavily on her chest, and the ceremony—though a mark of her achievement—felt like a formality, a reminder of all that had been sacrificed. She needed space. She needed silence.

And so, when the opportunity presented itself, Perdita slipped away, her emotions swirling like the storm outside. The courtyard was empty, save for the relentless fury of the rain and wind. She didn’t mind the storm. The storm outside matched the storm in her mind—chaotic, violent, and full of unresolved anger, sorrow, and fear.

Her gaze lifted to the sky, the sheets of rain blurring her vision as she sought some kind of solace in the tumultuous weather. But all she felt was an overwhelming sense of loss—the loss of her Master, the loss of so many others, and the loss of her own sense of purpose in the wake of it all. Jedi were meant to be peacekeepers. What would happen if they now were forced to lead men into battle? The Jedi Code had taught her to suppress emotions, to detach. But in this moment, as the wind howled around her, Perdita couldn’t help but feel every single one of them.

"I knew I'd find you here," came the calm, familiar timber of a voice behind her. Perdita didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. She recognized the voice instantly, as well as the steady presence it carried. It was Master Plo, and the words he spoke were laden with the kind of understanding that could only come from shared grief.

His student, like her own master, had been struck down in the arena. The thought of it still twisted her insides. The four of them had often trained together, or traveled on specific assignments during her time as a Padawan—Moments of camaraderie and mutual respect, forming a bond forged in the fires of battle. She had known his student nearly as well as she had known her own master, their relationships built not just on duty, but on trust. Now both were gone.

It felt like a cruel twist of fate—two warriors, once so sure of their purpose, now left to navigate a galaxy that no longer made sense. She, without a master, and he, without his student. Both left behind to pick up the shattered pieces of what had once been, each holding together their own fractured pieces of humanity under the heavy scrutiny of the Jedi Council. To grieve was to show weakness, and that was something neither of them could afford, not now.

She felt his presence beside her, a quiet understanding that seemed to hang between them like an unspoken bond. They were two sides of the same coin, each carrying the weight of their loss in silence, never allowing it to fully surface in the light of day. The Jedi Code demanded it. Their mission demanded it. But in the solitude of the storm, far from the eyes of their peers, they didn’t need to speak. They both understood too well the painful burden of sacrifice.

Perdita closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment to breathe before speaking, her voice soft but firm. “I didn’t expect anyone to follow me.”

“You should not isolate yourself in this. It is only natural to feel what you do,” came his reply, steady as ever, though there was a quiet sadness behind it. Yet, despite all the walls they had built around themselves, there was no escaping the fact that they were both mourning, in their own ways, the loss of those they had cared for and fought alongside.

“What will happen to them?” she asked quietly after a moment, her gaze fixed on the swaying branches of the tree in the courtyard, the rain blurring her view. The storm outside mirrored the storm within her, and in the midst of her grief, she found herself seeking distraction, a way to push away the overwhelming emotions.

“They will become part of the Force,” he replied, his voice steady, carrying the calm certainty of someone who had accepted the inevitable.

"No," she corrected, her voice sharp with the intensity of her question. "I mean the Clones."

“I believe the Senate is set to vote on authorizing the use of the clone army to combat the growing threat of the Separatists,” he explained, his voice tinged with a subtle hesitation. “However, the Jedi remain wary of how the clones came into existence.”

“I thought the Republic outlawed slavery,” she scoffed, disbelief evident in her tone.

“They did,” he replied, his voice flat, understanding the gravity of the comparison she was making. He knew exactly what she was getting at—the clones’ situation was eerily similar to that of slaves. They were created to serve, to be controlled, with no autonomy. Their existence would be confined to the demands of the Republic, bound to a life of rigid structure with no freedom of choice. And to her, that felt far too close to slavery for comfort.

“The hypocrisy of that governing body knows no bounds,” she snapped, the frustration in her voice unmistakable. She paused, her expression darkening as the weight of the situation settled deeper into her bones. With a weary sigh, she continued, “What does the Jedi Council say on this matter?”

“Many believe that, given the escalating threat, it is the appropriate use of force to employ the clone army,” he replied, his tone measured, though tinged with a quiet bitterness.

She arched an eyebrow, not entirely satisfied with the response. “And you?” Her voice held an edge, a challenge beneath the words.

He hesitated, his gaze lowering, as though the question itself carried a weight too heavy to bear. "I was dismissed," he said, his voice quiet, defeated. "But you know as well as I do that when the Republic calls, the Jedi answer. Even when the answer is one we don’t agree with."

The air between them grew thick with the unspoken truth. She could feel the pull of his inner conflict—the contradiction of his duty and his conscience.

“If we are to serve with these men,” he continued, his words now more resolute, though his expression remained troubled, “then it will fall on the shoulders of those like you and me to treat them with the dignity and respect they deserve. They may have been created to fight, to serve, but that does not mean they should be used like tools. They are living beings, not weapons.” He paused, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that spoke volumes. “And when the time comes to end this conflict, we must ensure they are freed from this bond of servitude, released into a life of their own choosing. They deserve that much, at the very least.”

The words hung in the air, a shared vow between them—a promise to protect the clones not just as soldiers, but as individuals with their own rights, with their own futures. In that moment, the burden of leadership weighed heavily on both of them. The galaxy may have been at war, but there was a far more personal war raging inside each of them, one that demanded they fight for what was right, even when it was the hardest thing to do.

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ𓃥✧:･.:

Wolffe was thankful that Master Plo and the others had exited the pod to fight, leaving him behind to maintain the signal. Though he was frustrated by being sidelined from the fight, confined to the restrictive, itchy military officer uniform instead of his familiar pressurized armor, there was a small relief in the solitude. It spared him from having to mask his rising panic in front of the others.

No one would come for them. The thought gnawed at him, sinking deep into his bones. It was a bitter truth he couldn't escape. This was it. The end. They were adrift in the vast emptiness of space, with nothing to save them. The oxygen supply was dwindling, each breath becoming more strained, more desperate. He could already feel the air growing heavier, the tightness in his chest as he inhaled, as if the very atmosphere was suffocating him.

The pod was drifting farther from hope, isolated and fragile. It felt as though time had slowed, each second stretching painfully as the reality of their situation settled in. Wolffe's mind raced, trying to calculate, to find a way out, but there was nothing. The stars outside were cold, distant, and unforgiving. He could almost hear the quiet hum of the dying systems around him, each soft flicker of the lights another reminder of their inevitable fate.

He should have been with them. Out there, with the others, fighting for survival. But instead, he was trapped here, alone with his thoughts, and the crushing weight of failure.

As Wolffe continued to wait for what felt like his inevitable end, his mind drifted back over the course of his life. Most of it was a blur—an endless procession of drills, training exercises, and sterile routines. Kamino had been a cold, unfeeling place. The bland food they were served never seemed to satisfy, and the strict, regimented schedules ensured there was no time for personal indulgence or freedom. Regulation haircuts, the endless rain, the never-ending monotony—it had been all he knew, all he had ever known.

Then, like an unexpected interruption in the rhythm of his existence, the Jedi arrived. They were... strange, even by his standards. Warriors of Peace—a contradiction unto itself? Their purpose seemed at odds with their very nature, yet somehow it made sense. They were not like the clones in any way. Where the clones were bred for war, molded into soldiers from the start, with little to no variation. Same face, same body, same resolve. The Jedi were individuals. Their uniqueness was striking—different ages, genders, species. There was no uniformity among them, beyond the rigid structure of their religion. 

If Wolffe hadn’t seen so much of the impossible in their presence, he might have dismissed it as nonsense. But in the face of the things he had witnessed—things that defied logic—he couldn’t bring himself to deny the reality of it. The Force was real even if he didn’t truly understand how it worked beyond allowing the jedi to maintain impossible feats.

Initially, there had been a division between the Clones and the Jedi, but over time, Wolffe had come to see that they could coexist. When he was planet-side, there were conversations with fellow leaders about their Jedi Generals. Some of those generals were kind, empathetic, while others were more dismissive, more focused on the path to victory than the lives of the soldiers they commanded. Yet, the more Wolffe had worked alongside the Jedi, the more he had come to appreciate those who truly respected the men they led.

Plo, with his wisdom and compassion, had never seen the clones as mere tools. He had seen them as individuals. Wolffe admired him greatly for it. He had been one of the few who could see beyond the battlefield, who could understand that the clones were not just soldiers, but beings with thoughts, emotions, and desires of their own. He’d been one of the first Wolffe knew of to use their names, not numbers, even encouraging each of his men to think of what they wish to be called. 

Yet for all his remarkable qualities, Plo had always seemed a bit too optimistic. Wolffe couldn’t shake the feeling that Master Plo's hope that someone would come looking for them—a handful of clones and a single Jedi—was misplaced. They were out here in deep space, lost and stranded, and though Plo had always maintained his calm, unwavering faith, Wolffe wasn’t so sure. The reality of their situation was harsh and unforgiving, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would go to the lengths required to find them.

But even in the face of that, a small part of him wanted to believe in Plo’s optimism. Because, in the end, it was that hope—however faint—that kept them going. And maybe that was all they had left.

That optimism, fleeting as it was, allowed Wolffe to momentarily block out the blaster fire from the battle droids echoing just beyond the pod's thin walls. It didn’t, however, diminish the ever-present anxiety gnawing at him—the gut-churning realization that the craft’s relentless scraping against the pod’s metal was only a hair's breadth away from creating a catastrophic breach. The sounds of the metal warping, groaning under pressure, were a constant reminder: one more strike, one more hit, and the pod would depressurize, sucking the life from him in a deadly, silent instant.

Amidst the suffocating tension and the relentless chaos both inside the pod and outside in the cold vacuum of space, a voice suddenly pierced through the static—a crackling lifeline in the storm. “Is anyone out there? Come in.”

Wolffe’s heart skipped a beat, his mind racing. Could it be? Was someone actually out there, hearing their distress? The radio crackled again, louder this time, the voice clearer. “Come in, this is General Halle—”

His pulse quickened, a flicker of hope stirring deep within him. He didn't recognize the name, but the urgency in the voice—tired yet determined—stirred something within him. Someone was reaching out. Someone had heard their distress call.

The thought of rescue, of survival, felt so distant, so impossible. Yet here it was, a chance, a thread of hope. Wolffe’s grip tightened on the console as he frantically moved to respond, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. Could it be real? Was it truly possible that they weren’t going to be left to die in the cold void of space?

“There’s a general! She must be close!” he shouted urgently into the short-range comms, his voice cutting through the tension like a burst of raw hope. He had to let the others know—there was a chance, however slim, that they might not be alone in this. With a surge of adrenaline, he quickly turned to attempt contact himself, fingers flying over the controls, desperate to reach out and confirm that help was truly on the way.

“Wolffe to General Halle—come in!” he finally barked, his voice rough with urgency, barely suppressing the rising tide of disbelief. The last remnants of fear mixed with a deep, primal hope—the kind of hope he’d long abandoned in the wake of so many battles. Would they make it out of this after all?

“Keep the signal alive, Commander!” Plo Koon’s voice rang out over the chaos of battle, sharp and commanding. Wolffe gritted his teeth as he scrambled to maintain the connection. But the failing power system mocked him at every turn, the energy rapidly draining from the pod’s reserves. His mind raced, cursing himself for not paying more attention during basic engineering training—skills that could’ve saved them all now.

The beeping from the console grew louder, more insistent, each tone like the countdown to their inevitable end. Wolffe’s hands flew over the controls, fighting to keep the fragile signal steady. His stomach twisted as the air around him grew more suffocating with every passing second.

Desperation clawed at him as he forced the words out, “We’re losing the signal! The pod can’t take much more damage!” His voice cracked under the strain, betraying his calm exterior as he looked at the status report. The ship was on the verge of total collapse. The thought of what would come next—suffocating in the cold vacuum of space—made his chest tighten with dread.

It was a terrifying place to exist, caught between the faint hope of survival and the crushing reality that even the prospect of rescue might be a fleeting illusion. Despite hearing the voice over the comms, the question gnawed at him: Who was General Halle? He’d never heard her name before. Was she a fellow Jedi? Perhaps Plo Koon knew her? But Wolffe couldn’t waste time questioning—he had to fight for the signal. Every second felt like a lifetime, and yet, no matter how hard he tried, the clock was ticking down.

A burst of fiery light illuminated the cold darkness outside the pod as the enemy craft was severed in two by a decisive strike from the Jedi. The force of the explosion sent debris scattering into the void, and for a brief moment, Wolffe could allow himself to exhale. The immediate threat had been eradicated, but the relief was fleeting. The question that remained—would anyone get there in time to save them?

The panic that had surged through him began to recede, but he knew they weren’t out of the woods yet. The communication frequency had gone silent on his end, the voice that had offered hope now lost amidst the static and chaos. Whoever had been trying to reach them was now just a whisper in the void, swallowed by the expanding silence of space. The only sounds left were the crackling of their short-range comms, the voices of his brothers outside the pod, echoing through the static.

“We are clones. We are meant to be expendable.” The words, spoken by one of his brothers, hung heavily in the air, carrying a cold, hard truth. Wolffe felt a gnawing agreement with the sentiment. He had always known their place in the galaxy—cogs in a war machine, bred for battle and designed to be discarded when no longer needed. He was a commanding officer, yes, but that title was little more than a designation in the grand scheme of the Grand Army of the Republic. In the end, he wasn’t any different from the others.

If someone came for them, it would be to save the Jedi, to recover the one they had been tasked to protect. His own survival—his brothers’ survival—was not the priority. Even if some Jedi had tried to make them more than that, in the eyes of the galaxy, they would remain faceless, nameless soldiers.

Wolffe clenched his fists, pushing aside the creeping feelings of insignificance. He couldn’t afford to dwell on that now. There was still the chance—slim though it was—that they might make it out alive. But the weight of those words lingered in his mind, a reminder that in the end, their worth had always been measured by their utility to others.

Wolffe slumped back into his seat, the weight of the air around him becoming unbearable with each shallow breath. It felt as though the very oxygen in the pod was slipping through his grasp, as if it too were being torn apart by the impending end. The faint, flickering red lights above him grew dimmer with every passing second, casting an eerie, muted glow that barely illuminated the confines of the pod. The life support system was failing—he could feel it now, the slow encroachment of cold creeping into his bones, chilling him in ways that the adrenaline of battle never could.

It was a cruel sort of fate, the silence that followed. No grand declaration of doom, no sirens blaring, no sudden warning to mark the end of everything. The systems were shutting down quietly, efficiently, as if they were just letting him slip into nothingness with as little disturbance as possible. It was almost too serene.

He understood why it was done this way, of course. The programming was designed to allow any survivors a peaceful departure, a gentle fade into sleep as their surroundings gradually succumbed to the cold embrace of space. It was meant to be humane, a way to spare the mind the anguish of facing the end head-on. But Wolffe had never been one for gentle endings. He didn’t want peace in his final moments—he wanted defiance, a clear acknowledgment that the end had come, that it was final, that he had fought to the bitter end, even if that end had no grand spectacle. If he had it his way, there would be an unmistakable signal, a sharp, resounding yes, this is it, a harsh punctuation to the story of his life.

Instead, he was left in a limbo of silent, inevitable decay, surrounded by the endless hum of failing systems and the distant knowledge that the seconds, the minutes, were slipping away without him ever knowing for sure if this was the end.

Wolffe's hands tightened on the seat as he sat there in the suffocating stillness. The sensation of time dragging on without any real sense of urgency made him ache with frustration. What was the point of it all? To just fade away quietly, like some nameless casualty in the war that had defined his existence? No dramatic last stand, no final shout of defiance, no reckoning to be had. Just silence, cold, and the slow, grinding end of everything he had ever known.

He let out a shaky breath, the air growing thinner, the pressure in his chest mounting. In the quiet of the pod, with only the faintest hum of equipment barely keeping him alive, Wolffe had nothing left but his thoughts—and they were becoming far too loud.

Wolffe's eyelids drooped, heavy with the oppressive weight of fatigue and cold. His body had long since surrendered to the numbness, the chill creeping deeper into his limbs, making every breath feel like an effort, each inhale a struggle against the inevitable. Death had caught up with him. There was no escaping it now, no last-minute miracle to spare him. The sharp, biting cold pressed against his skin, and the air around him—once a lifeline—had become a distant, fading memory. His lungs screamed for oxygen that never came, every breath shallower than the last.

His muscles, once honed by years of training and battle, now felt like lead, too heavy to move, too weary to resist. His eyes fluttered, unable to stay open for much longer. He could feel his consciousness slipping away, the last remnants of his awareness slipping into darkness, where no light reached. A part of him embraced the quiet finality of it, welcomed it, even. Perhaps this was how it was meant to be. Perhaps Master Plo had been right—death was just a transition, a merging with the Force. It wasn’t an end; it was a return. Warm, bright, peaceful—the Force. Perhaps in that moment, he would finally understand.

And yet, even as the darkness crept closer, something stirred. The beat of his heart—the final, sluggish rhythm of life—pounded in his ears, louder now than it had ever been before, each thud reverberating through his chest like a drumbeat echoing in the stillness.

Bump.

Bump... Bump.

Bump.

The sound seemed to slow with his fading consciousness, the once-urgent beat now a rhythmic lullaby guiding him to the edge.

But then, without warning, a brilliant flash of light cut through the suffocating darkness. It pierced the quiet, searing through the despair like a sudden burst of hope. Wolffe’s mind struggled to comprehend it, but the light was unmistakable. Maybe Master Plo had been right after all—the warmth, the brightness, the sense of something beyond... but then—

Bang!

The sudden, loud noise outside the pod shattered the fragile peace that had begun to claim him. His body jerked involuntarily in response, his eyes snapping open as the shock of the sound cut through the fading haze of his thoughts.

Someone was out there. 

A surge of adrenaline shot through him, his heart leaping back to life. The air, now a bit thicker, felt somehow less suffocating, the hope that had seemed so distant flickering again. Whoever it was outside had just given him a moment—maybe more—of something he hadn’t dared hope for.

The pain in his chest was still apparent to him, and his vision blurred, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he found himself focused, listening. The world outside the pod had just shifted, and he had to know if it was the salvation he had been waiting for.

Then, with a violent jolt, the pod slammed into something hard, the impact reverberating through his entire body, rattling him to his core. The world around him seemed to spin, and for a moment, Wolffe could do nothing but slump over, his strength utterly drained. His limbs felt as though they had turned to lead, each one a weight he could no longer lift.

He fought against it, clawing for any remaining reserves of energy. He pushed himself, muscles trembling with the effort, but his body refused to cooperate. Every motion felt sluggish and wrong, as if the very will to rise had been stolen from him.

But then, with a sound that echoed in the empty space, the viewport of the pod shattered away, sending a burst of cold, fresh air flooding into the cabin. The sudden rush of oxygen felt like a rebirth, a blessing from the stars themselves. His chest heaved with desperate gulps, as though his lungs had forgotten what it was like to breathe. The air filled him with a ferocity he hadn’t realized he was starving for, until it seemed to choke him, forcing him to cough uncontrollably.

His arms shook with the final effort, but he found just enough strength to push himself toward the exit, his legs barely supporting his weight as he hobbled forward. He could barely think, his mind clouded with the dizziness of survival, but there was no stopping him now. He had to get out.

As he reached the opening, the ground seemed to tilt beneath him. He faltered, teetering on the edge of collapse, and braced himself for the inevitable fall. But instead of the cold metal of the floor meeting him, strong arms caught him in mid-motion, preventing his fall with an unexpected gentleness.

Expecting one of his brothers, his thoughts disoriented and desperate, he was taken aback when he realized the arms holding him were smaller—slender and feminine. A voice, calm and soothing, spoke just above a whisper, asking with surprising kindness, “Are you alright, Trooper?”

•—⟪=====> 

Perdita's focus deepened as she reached out through the Force, trying to find Master Plo amidst the chaos, but it was the disjointed, desperate thoughts of one of the men that captured her attention. His presence was a storm, fierce and muddled, his emotions ringing out far louder than the calm yet intense connection of her Jedi mentor.

His thoughts were raw, unrefined—full of fear and confusion. He didn’t want to be a cog in the machine. A mindless instrument of war. He didn’t want to be another expendable clone, lost in the endless tide of conflict. A question lingered in his mind: What would death feel like? 

Amidst those thoughts was something else—a flicker of gratitude. He was grateful to Master Plo Koon. The Jedi had treated him and his brothers with respect, with civility, even amidst the brutality of their roles. This is more than a commanding officer, he thought. This is a leader. This is how they all should be.

But then, the wave of frustration surged within him. An unwillingness to give in, even as his body slowly surrendered to exhaustion. His thoughts grew erratic as he pushed against the physical limits of his being, fighting against the inevitable collapse of his own mind and body.

Perdita understood that feeling. How many times had she felt the same way? The overwhelming fatigue, the pull to fight against the tide, against the war that seemed unrelenting. This war was not the purpose of the Jedi—it was a corruption of their true calling. The Jedi were meant to protect life, not throw it away. Yet here they were, caught in the gears of an endless machine, forced to wage war against an enemy that kept multiplying, even as the cost of every life weighed heavy on them. 

It wasn’t fair, she thought bitterly. None of this was fair.

The men, the clones, paid for the greed and ambitions of those who never felt the weight of their sacrifices. She could feel their pain, the endless struggle for meaning in a galaxy that seemed to demand only death in return for their service.

This man, in particular, seemed to be a reflection of everything she had come to understand about the clones. He was more than just a soldier—he was a person, a being with thoughts and feelings, dreams and fears. He wanted to be something more than just one of the millions, but at the same time, he was tethered to them all. He felt the deep connection with his brothers, the ones who bled and died beside him. They were more than just his comrades; they were his family. 

And yet, through all the pain and fear, there was a beautiful truth. He was alive. Against all odds, he was alive. The Force pulsed through him, as it did every living thing, binding him to everything in the galaxy.

Wolffe.

She could feel him.

When the pod finally crashed into the reconnaissance ship, Perdita didn’t hesitate. She acted quickly, tearing the viewport away with ease, knowing that every second mattered. What she saw made her heart ache—a broken figure, barely clinging to life, his eyes wide with terror, fighting against his own weakening body. 

His breath came in short gasps as he slumped, a mere fraction of the strong man he was, now reduced to a vulnerable body lying in the wreckage. But he was still alive. And for all the pain that radiated from him, she knew that was enough.

She moved swiftly, gathering him up as gently as she could, easing him out of the wreckage. His body seemed heavy, limp against her, but the sense of life—the fragile thread that connected him to the world—was undeniable. She settled him against her chest, her heart racing with the effort to hold onto that precious spark of life.

She gently propped him up against the side of the damaged pod, her hands steady but filled with urgency. Looking down at him, she saw the fear in his brown eyes, darting around in confusion and panic. His breaths were shallow, strained, and he seemed lost, disoriented in the chaos of his surroundings. She could sense his fight-or-flight instincts were still alive.

Her voice, soft yet steady, pierced through the fog of his panic like a lifeline. "Are you alright, trooper?" she asked, her tone as calm and reassuring as she could muster, despite the storm raging within her. She knelt beside him, leaning close in an effort to anchor him to the present, her steady presence a fragile shield against the weight of the chaos surrounding them. 

Her hands came up to cradle his face, the touch gentle but grounding. She smoothed her thumbs along his temples, her warmth urging his ragged breaths to slow, her quiet strength coaxing his lungs to draw in air again. Bit by bit, the tension in his shoulders eased, and with a slight nod, he leaned back, letting her hands fall away. A flicker of gratitude passed between them before she shifted her attention to Master Plo, who had just arrived.

“I see your tracking abilities remain as sharp as ever. Your master would be proud,” Master Plo said, his voice measured, though the words carried an unintentional weight. The compliment, meant to honor her, cut deep, stirring a memory she had yet to confront fully.

“Actually,” she began, her voice steady but laced with an edge of emotion, “I didn’t need to rely on them completely. One of your men guided me here. His admiration for you stood out, even amidst the chaos. It was louder than anything else.” 

Her words hung in the air, both a testament to the trooper’s loyalty and an unspoken reminder of the connections that kept them tethered, even in the darkest of times.

"I have done little more than what I promised at the war's outset," he said, his voice low and reflective as he inclined his head toward her. The unspoken understanding between them hung heavy in the air, unyielding but oddly comforting.  

"Skywalker," he continued, his tone shifting to something more urgent, "we need to get to the bridge and navigate out of this debris field before they track us. Dita, would you stay—"  

"I will help your men," she interjected with a firm nod, her voice calm yet resolute.  

The name lingered in the air, charged with a meaning no one else seemed to grasp. Dita. It slipped from his tongue so naturally that there was no time for the others to question it. She hadn't been called that in years—not since her old master had bestowed the moniker upon her. The sound of it was a bittersweet echo of a past life: part ache, part warmth, but entirely hers.  

Without hesitation, she knelt beside one of the injured soldiers clad in armor, her movements graceful but purposeful. She glanced at the medical droid, waiting for its assessment and instructions as it examined the man she'd found.  

Her eyes flicked briefly to the clone in the white uniform—definitely a commander. The oxygen mask pressed to his face obscured part of his features, but the sharp lines of his profile remained strikingly clear.  

Wolffe, she thought. The name suited him.  

There was something undeniably captivating about the clones. Their sun-kissed golden complexions and mischievous brown eyes seemed to embody an irrepressible vitality, even in the darkest moments. To her, they'd always been handsome—every single one of them. An army of millions, each bearing the same roguish charm, had often proved... distracting.  

But now was not the time for such thoughts. She pushed them aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. The commander needed care, and she would see to it that he was alright.

“This one is stable but may require additional care,” the mechanical droid informed her, its tone clinical and detached as it moved away from the commander.

Perdita nodded absently, her attention already shifting to Wolffe. She knelt beside him, her movements careful but deliberate, and gently took the oxygen canister from his hands. He leaned back slightly against the wall, his exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders slumped.

“General Halle, I presume,” he muttered, his voice raw and uneven. His dark eyes met hers, their sharpness dulled but still assessing.

“Yes,” she replied simply, her tone steady. Her gaze flicked to the shallow cut along his brow, the blood dried and dark against his golden skin. It wasn’t deep, just a small split where the skin had given way. But even minor injuries could become complications if left untreated.

Reaching for an anesthetic wipe, Perdita paused just long enough to lower her mask. She tore the foil packet open with her teeth, the action quick and efficient, and withdrew the medicated pad. Quickly replaced was the veil before anyone could see her almost constantly guarded features.

“This might sting a little,” she warned softly.

He didn’t flinch as she dabbed the pad against the cut, clearing away the blood with practiced care. His breathing was steady, though his gaze remained fixed on her, studying her scar and the small sliver of her face which showed beneath her mask and hood as if trying to piece together a puzzle.

The wipe’s cool, stinging touch worked its way through the wound, sterilizing as it soothed. She pressed a little firmer, ensuring the medicated solution did its job. After a moment of examination, she was satisfied.

“No stitches needed,” she murmured, discarding the used wipe. “You’ll be fine.”

Wolffe exhaled slowly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can’t say you are what I expected after hearing your voice.”

Perdita arched a brow, her lips curving into a subtle smile. “And what exactly were you expecting?”

“Someone... taller,” he quipped, his voice still raspy but laced with dry humor.

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Well, I’m afraid this is all you are going to get.”

Wolffe’s smirk widened, but it faded quickly as he winced, shifting slightly. Perdita placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Easy,” she cautioned. “You’ve been through a lot. Rest while you can.”

His eyes softened, the earlier tension in his expression easing as he leaned back again. “Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly, the words tinged with both respect and a hint of weariness.

Something about this clone felt... different. All clones had their own subtle distinctions—small quirks that set them apart despite their identical origins. But with him, there was an undeniable uniqueness, an aura she couldn’t quite name. Was it his quiet strength? The way his presence seemed to command attention even in silence? She wasn’t sure, and now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

They weren’t out of danger yet.

As if to underline the thought, the lights around them flickered once before plunging the room into total darkness before the red backup lights kicked in. The low hum of machinery ceased, replaced by an eerie silence that seemed to swallow the air itself.

Around her, the clones seemed to snap into action, the hum of urgency electrifying the air. Despite their injuries, they moved with a kind of practiced efficiency, readying themselves for whatever threat loomed. The shift was palpable—soldiers who had been teetering on the edge of exhaustion now stood poised and alert, their instincts sharpened by years of training and battle.

“We should get up to the bridge,” Wolffe muttered, his voice strained but resolute. He took a tentative step forward, but his balance wavered, his body betraying the toll his injuries had taken.

Perdita was at his side in an instant, her fingers tightening around his bicep to steady him. “Not yet,” she said softly, shaking her head. Her grip was firm but careful, her support unyielding as his shaky legs found a semblance of stability.

Wolffe let out a frustrated breath, but he didn’t resist her help. She could see the determination etched into his features—the same determination that likely kept him alive through battles far worse than this. But right now, he needed rest more than heroics.

“I’ll head up and check on things,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze.

She held his arm for another moment, ensuring he could stand without her support. His dark eyes flicked to hers in the dim glow of the backup lighting, and for a brief second, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

As she stepped onto the bridge, the palpable tension hit her like a wave. The air was thick with unspoken fears and barely contained nerves. Through the viewport, the colossal battle station loomed, its ominous silhouette swallowing the distant starlight. It seemed to defy time itself, drifting past with an almost taunting slowness. No one dared to breathe, the quiet hum of the ship's systems the only sound cutting through the suffocating silence.

“Assuming that’s why it went dark…” she muttered after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a question, and no one offered an answer. The rhetorical comment hung in the air, unanswered, as the ship adjusted its course ever so slightly. Her gaze shifted to the corner of the bridge, where Skywalker’s R2 unit sat dormant, its lifeless dome a stark contrast to the urgency mounting around them.

The ship gave a faint shudder as its engines shifted power, turning them to face the looming battle station fully. The realization hit her like a thunderbolt—everything was at a standstill. Systems across the scout ship were dark, leaving them vulnerable to the predatory machine outside.

“Are all the systems shut down?” Master Plo’s calm voice broke through the silence, though his measured tone belied the danger they faced.

“Medical droid in the hull is still active” she mentioned with a terse tone, panic creeping into her voice as her words sent everyone into a frenzy of motion. 

“We’ve got to get the power back on, now!” Anakin’s voice cut through the chaos like a commander’s call to arms. Around her, frantic hands worked to restore life to the ship. Lights flickered, consoles hummed back to life, and the faint vibration of repowering systems thrummed underfoot.

She turned her attention back to the viewport, her chest tightening as the battle station continued to reposition itself. Its massive ion blaster came into full view, the weapon more menacing than she had ever imagined. The sheer size of it seemed to mock their tiny scout ship.

Her mind raced, recalling the grim story Master Plo had told—the devastating power of that ion cannon, the annihilation of his entire fleet, leaving only four survivors. Her breath caught in her throat. If that monstrous weapon could obliterate a fleet, what chance did they stand now? The odds felt crushingly impossible.

Being tossed around the cockpit by Skywalker’s daring maneuvers, Perdita clung to the nearest console, trying to steady herself against the turbulence. Anakin’s unique flying style was chaotic, but it was their only hope of threading through the dense debris field. The ship groaned in protest as it twisted and weaved, and Perdita struggled to keep her footing. To her left, a flickering display showed a massive energy surge closing in from behind—an ominous purple glow that painted the cockpit in ghostly light.

“Master…” Ahsoka’s voice cut through the alarms, tight with anxiety. The warning klaxons screamed louder, a relentless reminder of the doom racing toward them.

Perdita swallowed her fear, forcing herself to trust in Anakin’s uncanny ability to pull them out of impossible situations. He is the Chosen One, she reminded herself, clinging to the belief that his destiny would see them through. But the thought brought little comfort as her mind strayed down the corridor to where the rescued clones huddled, still recovering from their last ordeal.

What a cruel twist of fate, she thought bitterly. To have been saved from one deathtrap only to face annihilation again so soon—it was almost too much to bear. Her heart ached at the memory of the Commander, who still felt the call to assist despite his injuries. 

As the ion blast crept closer, its menacing glow filling the bridge, Perdita fought to keep her emotions in check. But her thoughts betrayed her, shifting to memories she had long tried to suppress. The laughter of her fallen Master echoed faintly in her mind, only to be replaced by the gravelly, smoke-tinged voice of the injured Commander. His calm presence in the face of despair had steadied her before, but now, with nothing but the vast void of space around them, she felt untethered.

“We’re clear!” Ahsoka’s triumphant yell snapped Perdita back to the present as the ship’s engines roared to life. With a sharp pull of the controls, Anakin wrenched them out of the debris field and into hyperspace. The oppressive glow of the ion blast disappeared as stars streaked past the viewport in brilliant lines of light.

For a moment, there was silence—a stillness broken only by the hum of the ship’s systems returning to normal. Perdita exhaled shakily, her hands trembling as she released the console. Relief mingled with exhaustion, but another feeling lingered beneath the surface.

Master Plo turned to her, his calm presence grounding her as always. Though he said nothing, his body language spoke volumes. His steady gaze met hers, and she knew he understood where her mind had wandered during the chaos. There was no judgment in his expression, only a quiet empathy that made her feel exposed yet comforted.

In the wake of their escape, the tension in the room eased, but Perdita couldn’t shake the weight of what had just transpired. The Commander’s thoughts echoed in her mind once more, a reminder of both the fragility of life and the strength found in moments of resolve. As the movement of hyperspace stretched endlessly before them, she decided to carry that strength forward—if only to honor those who couldn’t.

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ𓃥✧:･.:

General Plo had returned to the hull where Wolffe and the surviving troopers rested after their harrowing escape into hyperspace. The debris field had been merciless, and though their escape was barely successful, it had yielded critical intelligence about the "mystery weapon." That knowledge alone offered a glimmer of hope for its eventual destruction. Despite the heavy casualties they had suffered and the searing pain that lingered in his lungs, Wolffe felt a small measure of relief. They had survived, and their struggle might now have purpose.

Seated against the hull wall, Wolffe adjusted the oxygen mask strapped to his face, his voice muffled as he spoke. “Sir, the General who found us—” he began, trailing off as his thoughts turned inward. Perdita had remained on the bridge after delivering them to safety, leaving him with questions that refused to settle. How had she found them? Or more specifically, how had she found him?

“What about her?” Plo Koon asked, his calm, gravelly voice breaking through Wolffe’s haze of uncertainty. The Kel Dor Jedi leaned slightly closer, his presence steady and grounding in the way only a Jedi Master’s could be.

Wolffe hesitated, his brow furrowing beneath the mask. “How did she… find us? Or… my thoughts, I suppose. Through the Force?” The question hung in the air, tinged with curiosity and unease. He’d heard tales of Jedi abilities before, but this felt different—more personal.

Plo’s masked face tilted thoughtfully, his gloved fingers brushing the edges of his respirator in a contemplative gesture. After a moment, he answered, his tone as measured as ever. “Perdita possesses a rare gift among Jedi. She has the ability to track memories and strong emotions through the Force. By touching an object, she can glimpse its past, and through the emotions of others, she can sense their presence—even across great distances. I suspect that, in the chaos, she latched onto your fear and resolve as a beacon through the noise.”

Wolffe blinked, the explanation both clarifying and unsettling. His fear and resolve… the emotions that had churned within him during those desperate moments had been like a flare, drawing her to their position. The thought made him pause, his mind turning over the implications of such a power.

“So… She felt… me,” he murmured, more to himself than to Plo. The idea was humbling and unsettling in equal measure. His fear, his regrets, his desire to save his brothers—it had all been laid bare in the Force for her to see. The mere thought of it all was exposing.

Plo nodded, his gaze steady. “She likely did. But do not mistake her insight for intrusion. Perdita does not seek to exploit what she feels. She uses her gift to help, to guide, and to protect.”

Wolffe mulled over the words, his gaze dropping to his hands as he contemplated the weight of them. It wasn’t easy for him to trust, even when it came to the Jedi. But Perdita’s actions spoke volumes—she had saved them, had reached through the chaos to find them when all hope seemed lost.

“I see,” Wolffe finally said, his voice quieter now. He leaned back against the hull, his mind still grappling with what Plo had shared. Perhaps it didn’t matter how she’d found him. What mattered was that she had. "I’ve never heard of her before. No troopers that I know of are under her command," the Commander replied, his brow furrowing slightly as he spoke. "But you referred to her as Dita—so, I take it you’re well-acquainted with her?"

For a brief moment, a flicker of concern crossed his mind. He wondered if the Jedi might interpret his question as an interrogation, but the man simply nodded, his expression softening. It seemed to Plo Koon that Wolffe was eager to understand more about his savior.

"I knew her master well," the Jedi began, his voice tinged with a quiet sadness. "He perished on the same day my padawan did. It's... a bond, of sorts. We’ve always seemed to think alike when it comes to this war. But as for why she doesn’t command any troopers—well, that’s a decision the Council made. They don’t believe it's in her best interest to lead in the traditional sense, as other Jedi do. Instead, she’s been assigned to work directly with those caught in the heart of the conflict. Her strengths along with her compassion, are an asset that is often in short supply these days." 

Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, his mind working overtime to make sense of the conversation. He had never known that Master Plo Koon had a padawan. Let alone that the jedi he served seemed to hold such a personal connection with the woman who’d saved them. The Jedi’s words lingered in the air, but they only served to deepen the mystery that seemingly was General Halle. 

He let out a quiet breath and nodded, deciding it was best to leave the questions for another time. The woman would be leaving soon. She would return to her own quiet battles, whatever they might be, and he would return to his more familiar role—leading the troopers, issuing orders, and focusing on the fight ahead. There was no room for distractions or unanswered questions in the midst of war.

Yet, as much as he tried to dismiss the matter, one thought refused to leave him: she had saved them. All of them. Without hesitation. Without asking for anything in return. The entire squad owed their lives to her, and that reality sat heavy on his conscience. The woman was elusive, almost untouchable in her detached, silent grace, but that didn’t lessen the gratitude Wolffe felt.

The question gnawed at him: How could he thank her?

A simple "thank you" seemed insufficient, a token gesture at best. Words had never felt so inadequate, especially when it came to something so profound. What did you say to someone who had saved you? How could you honor such an act of selflessness without making her uncomfortable or drawing unwanted attention to the deed?

To his right, Boost and Sinker were seated on the floor, the pair leaning against the hull, talking about nothing of importance. They were laughing, animatedly discussing how they couldn’t wait to get a warm shower and a decent meal. It was the kind of conversation soldiers often fell into when they’d survived another harrowing battle—small comforts, simple pleasures that felt like luxuries after the hell of war. He could understand their excitement; a hot shower and a good meal sounded like heaven right now.

But as Wolffe listened to them, a small knot of discomfort tightened in his chest. Their talk was too... narrow, too self-contained. It felt out of place, almost wrong. They were survivors, yes—but the war didn’t end just because they’d made it through another day. There was a bigger picture, one that stretched beyond their immediate needs. Perhaps it was that difference in perspective that had shaped him into the Commander he was.

He had always been trained to see the situation as a whole, to think beyond the individual and focus on the larger mission, the bigger strategy. The war doesn’t stop for you, his training had drilled into him, day after day. And yet here they were, consumed by the thought of a hot meal, as if the battle had already been won, as if there weren’t still lives at stake and a galaxy in peril. It bothered him. It didn’t sit right.

Wolffe shook his head slightly, trying to push the unease aside. His gaze dropped to his uniform, the stiff white fabric of his officer's tunic, out of place and ill-fitting in the moment. He was more acclimated to the constraints of armor, that this tweed material made him exposed. 

He brushed a hand over the fabric, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles that had accumulated. It felt like an odd, futile gesture, trying to bring order to something that was, in essence, chaotic. He wasn’t used to thinking about his appearance—rarely had need to think about it. 

Wolffe shared the same features as his brothers—identical in every way. The same bronze complexion, the same dark, intense eyes, the same deep brown hair. To him, there was little need to stand out in appearance; his identity was defined by his role and his actions, not the way he looked.

He had always felt that the clones who sought uniqueness through changes to their appearance were chasing something fleeting, something unnecessary. The idea of colored or long hair seemed absurd—maintenance during deployments or combat was difficult enough without adding more to the list. And face tattoos? They struck him as... unprofessional, especially for someone in a leadership position. It wasn’t just about practicality; it was about maintaining a certain standard of discipline, a sense of order. Officers, in his view, needed to embody that standard—not stand apart from it.

In Wolffe’s mind, any alterations to appearance should be a personal matter, something private—done for oneself, not for the approval or attention of others. So, he kept his tattoos hidden, a personal choice that he saw no need to display. His hair was kept short and practical, his facial hair carefully shaved away. It was simple, efficient, and in his eyes, a mark of professionalism. 

Instinctively, he reached up to fix his hair, his gloved hand running through the short strands. His fingers caught on the thick gel he had used to keep his hair in place during the chaos of combat. Wolffe tugged at it, trying to rearrange his dark locks. The effort was in vain, of course. The gel was too set, too unyielding, and his hair refused to cooperate.

Why did this matter?

He froze, his hand still tangled in his hair, the question hanging in the air. Why did he feel this compulsive need to make himself presentable, when everything around him was in tatters? They had all been spared death today, yes. But that was the only victory. His appearance hardly mattered—not in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t as if anyone would notice.

Yet, despite the absurdity of it, the need lingered. The need to appear competent, presentable, even when he felt anything but. Perhaps it was a way to cling to some semblance of normalcy, some small piece of order in the disarray of his thoughts.

But as the thought lingered, Wolffe caught himself, questioning it—Why?

More troubling still, for whom?

The very notion made him want to bolt, to open the airlock and let the weight of his embarrassment carry him into the cold emptiness of space. What was he doing? Why would a seasoned Commander in the clone army, respected and battle-hardened, seek the approval of a woman he barely knew? A Jedi, no less—a figure bound by the very rules that forbade attachment, a woman who kept herself shrouded in secrecy, both physically and emotionally.

He couldn’t even begin to guess who she truly was beneath the robes and the mask. The only parts of her he could make out were the eerie glow of her bright eyes—eyes that seemed to pierce through the veil of mystery surrounding her—and the scar that marred the otherwise smooth, pale skin of her face. A single mark, like a memory of a battle she’d survived. But beyond that, there was nothing. He had no knowledge of her species, no clue about the woman behind the mask.

He felt like an outsider looking in, caught between a gnawing curiosity and the stark realization that his place was far removed from hers. He was just a clone—a soldier—and she was a Jedi, bound by codes he could never understand, carrying burdens that had nothing to do with him.

The curiosity made him feel... juvenile. He didn’t wonder about women—not like this. His interests had always been more straightforward, more functional. The warmth he sought back on Coruscant was the kind most officers indulged in—brief, impersonal, and fleeting. Late nights in the backrooms of the 79s, tossing credits won in a game of sabacc onto the table, before making a quick retreat back to base to hit the refresher. The entertainers, with their bright smiles and painted faces, always made him anxious to get clean, to scrub away the evidence of the…distraction.

But this? To actually want to see the features of a woman who was his superior? The very thought was absurd. Wolffe scoffed under his breath, shaking his head at the idea. It had to be some kind of side effect of the gratitude he felt. She had saved his life—no small feat—and now that debt had manifested in this bizarre curiosity.

That’s all it was, he reasoned with himself. After months of nothing but combat and the sterile company of his brothers, she was one of the only women he’d been around. A brief glimpse of something unfamiliar, something human, had stirred feelings he’d never given much thought to before. She’d touched him gently, and in a way he’d never recalled being touched before. Her thumbs softly brushed along his skin, as if she was concerned it may shatter under her fingertips. It wasn’t attraction—it was simply curiosity, nothing more. Right?

The subtle shift in the ship’s movement as it exited hyperspace brought Wolffe back to the present, the hum of the engines signaling their return to realspace. They would be arriving soon—back with Skywalker’s fleet—and from there, his path would be uncertain, shrouded in the fog of the war. His thoughts faltered, caught between the urgency of duty and the questions that lingered unanswered.

The muffled voices in the corridor grew louder, pulling him from his reflections. The door slid open, revealing Master Plo Koon and Ahsoka.  Wolffe hadn’t even noticed his brief departure, only his return. The Jedi Master was speaking calmly, his hand outstretched in a gesture of reassurance, while Ahsoka wore a faint smile, her eyes alight with the quiet relief of their arrival.

Below them, the ship’s landing gear made contact with the cruiser, the low thud reverberating through the hull. Wolffe watched as Boost and Sinker stood, moving with practiced efficiency as they donned their armor once more, preparing for the next phase of their mission. The Gateway hissed open, and one by one, his brothers filed out of the small craft, their movements swift and familiar.

First his brothers, then Plo Koon and the padawan—each moving with purpose. Wolffe lingered at the back, holding his position. He had made up his mind: before leaving, he would find a way to thank her. The Jedi had saved their lives. He owed her that much, at least.

Moments later, she emerged, deep in conversation with Skywalker, her gaze flicking across the room with casual precision. But then, her eyes locked on him. “Anakin—” he heard her murmur, before her tone shifted, the words trailing off. Slowly, deliberately, she began to walk toward him.

“Commander, might I accompany you to the med bay?” Her voice was unexpectedly warm, the request coming with a hint of sincerity that caught him off guard.

Wolffe blinked, momentarily taken aback. “That’s not necessary, Ma’am—” he started, ready to brush off the offer.

She cut him off gently, her tone light but firm. “It would be my pleasure, sir,” she said, and Wolffe could almost hear the smile in her voice. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer some time alone after the events of today?”

He hesitated, glancing away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “No, it’s not that. I just didn’t think escorting a clone to the med bay would be a good use of your time,” he replied, his eyes darting uncomfortably to the side.

“Nonsense,” she replied with a quiet laugh, her confidence unwavering. “Besides—” she paused for a moment, as if considering something. “If that means the Council will take out their frustration on Anakin and Ahsoka instead, then you’d be doing me a favor by keeping me out of the crossfire.”

Wolffe couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. “In that case, General, I’d be more than happy to spare you,” he said, a hint of dry humor creeping into his voice.

The woman gestured toward the gangplank, and Wolffe gave a curt nod, beginning his walk. She moved effortlessly beside him, her every step a picture of grace. The dark robes she wore—much deeper in hue than any Jedi’s attire he had seen before—swayed with her movements, flowing like shadows that shifted with the rhythm of her stride. In contrast, he stood in his pale officer's uniform, the stark white fabric a striking contrast against his dark features. She, with her pale skin catching the light beneath the dark material of her robes, was a study in contrast—an enigma of light and shadow walking beside him.

After a moment of silence, he broke the quiet, his voice steady but carrying the weight of gratitude. “Thank you for getting us out in one piece, General Halle,” he said.

Her steps faltered on the ramp at his words. She paused, turning to face him, her expression unreadable as she studied him in silence for a moment. “It was your determination that guided me to you all,” she said softly, her voice carrying an unexpected depth. “In a way, you saved yourself, Commander Wolffe.”

He shifted uncomfortably, hoping to brush off her comment. “Master Plo said someone would come for us. I’m glad he was right,” he replied, his tone steady, though the flicker of uncertainty behind it betrayed his intent to deflect.

Her gaze remained fixed on him, her eyes sharp, searching for something deeper. “You did not share his sentiment?” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity.

Wolffe hesitated before answering, his voice carrying the weight of experience. “Strategically, General, it doesn’t make sense to waste resources on rescuing a handful of clone troopers,” he said, his tone firm, though there was a slight edge of discomfort in admitting it aloud. He wasn’t sure why the words felt heavier than usual, as if the notion of worth had shifted in his mind, leaving him with more questions than answers.

She didn’t respond immediately, a thoughtful hum escaping her lips as she processed his words. Then, with quiet conviction, she spoke. “Respectfully, sir, I do not agree with your assessment.”

His eyes widened in surprise at her candidness, and he turned to face her, momentarily speechless. “I—” he began, unsure of how to respond.

She held his gaze, her expression steady. “Strategically, our primary objective was to uncover the mystery behind that weapon,” she continued, her tone deliberate and measured. “Given the scale of the fleets that were lost, a small mercy mission to rescue the survivors could provide critical insight toward achieving that goal. However…” Her eyes softened slightly as she regarded him, “The value of life—no matter its origins—is something I hold dear. I do not consider it a waste of resources.”

Wolffe paused, his mind turning over the conversation. He sighed deeply, shaking his head as he turned away, his gaze inadvertently falling on a passing member of the 501st. The soldier’s face was all too familiar—his name unknown—but the resemblance was undeniable. The same features, the same purpose, the same quiet determination. It served as a stark reminder of his argument to the Jedi: that clones were soldiers, not individuals worthy of exceptional regard. His thoughts wandered for a moment, reinforcing the point he'd made earlier. Yet, despite his best efforts, he couldn't shake the weight of the resolve with which she had spoken.

Just as Master Plo had, General Halle seemed to view things differently—she, too, seemed to believe there was more to the clones than their utility on the battlefield. A subtle shift in his thinking began to form, challenging the hardened convictions he’d carried for so long.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low but steady. “Master Plo speaks very highly of your compassion, General Halle.”

Her response was swift, a quiet smile in her tone. “As he does with the strength of your leadership, Commander Wolffe,” she replied, her eyes momentarily flicking to the distance, where the familiar signet of the medical ward could be seen, a quiet beacon marking the end of their short journey.

The words hung in the air between them, and for the first time, Wolffe wasn’t sure how to respond. He had spent so long compartmentalizing his thoughts, locking away any notion of self beneath the armor of duty. But there, in her gaze, he saw something that both unsettled and intrigued him—an invitation to consider that maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than the role he had always played.

Before he could gather his thoughts, they arrived at the medical bay’s entrance, the doors sliding open with a soft hiss. The sterile scent of antiseptic and bacta flooded his senses. A place for healing. A place where bodies were mended, but souls remained fractured.

Wolffe paused in the doorway, his eyes briefly sweeping across the medical ward—sterile, quiet, a space built for healing and recovery. Yet, amidst the sterile whiteness of the room, he could feel an overwhelming sense of finality. He shifted his gaze back to her, meeting General Halle’s eyes once more, his expression betraying the quiet weight of his thoughts.

“Thank you, General,” he said, his voice low but steady. "For... saving us. And for not seeing us as just soldiers."

Her expression softened, her eyes shifting from their usual intensity to something gentler, something more personal. She gave a slight nod, acknowledging his words with the respect she’d shown throughout their brief time together. “Any time, Commander,” she replied with warmth, her tone unguarded.

Without hesitation, she extended her arm toward him, and he met it halfway, gripping her forearm in the familiar gesture—one of comradeship, of respect, a bond forged not in words but in action. The clasp was firm, an unspoken promise of understanding between them.

"Until we meet again, Wolffe," she said, her voice carrying a quiet finality that spoke volumes. There was something in her gaze—perhaps it was the fleeting softness, or the unspoken understanding—that made the farewell feel heavier than it should have.

Wolffe found himself looking down at their joined forearms for a moment. His fingers, long and almost imposing, curled around the slender shape of her arm, while her delicate fingers rested lightly against his. The contrast between them was striking—two figures so vastly different in form and demeanor, yet united in this fleeting moment of connection.

He then lifted his gaze slowly. He sought one last glimpse into her bright green eyes, eyes that seemed to hold so much, that flickered with wisdom and purpose. Something there stirred within him, a feeling that he couldn’t quite name but knew he would carry with him for a long time.

“Until we meet again, General Halle,” he replied, his voice steady, though a trace of something deeper lingered beneath the surface.

Tag List: @leenathegreengirl @asgre @badbatch-bitch @cw80831 @heidnspeak

[legacygirlingreen]

"Princess" || Commander Wolffe x OFC Perdita || Clone x Clone OC Week 2025

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x OFC Perdita Halle (Bio HERE)

Word Count: 6.8k+

Rating: SFW but Teen+

Warnings: heavy flirtation, mentions of order 66, grief

Author's Note: Day 3 of @clonexocweek! Shifting gears to one of my other OC's Perdita. You can find her Bio linked ahead! This is also the next installment of her story with Commander Wolffe! So thankful to this writing challenge to really push me to keep my stories going! As always, this story exists within @leenathegreengirl 's AU and she is responsible for helping bring Perdita to life!

Previous Work || Masterlist

Wolffe stormed through the swamp, fury in every step. How he had ended up here was something he still couldn't fully accept as his own doing. The decision to fire on his own troopers the moment he set foot on the landing platform with the Jedi in custody had set everything in motion—forcing them both into a frantic scramble for a shuttle to escape. While their initial flight had been successful, it became clear that no matter how many ships they commandeered, they were always being tracked. The Empire was waiting for them the moment they made it off-world. And so, their latest crash landing on Nal Hutta, the ship's descent still echoing in his mind…

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

“I’d brace yourself for a rough landing, Princess,” he muttered grumpily, his eyes scanning the damaged shuttle’s computer system. The trajectory was set, but that didn’t ease the gnawing sense of dread. The hyperspace jump hadn’t been the problem—no, it was the damage they’d sustained during the last firefight. When they entered the atmosphere, the shuttle had been torn apart even more, each burst of fire and each jolting impact chipping away at what was left of the ship. 

“I told you to stop calling me that,” she snapped back, her voice edged with irritation.

He wasn’t sure why the nickname had stuck. Maybe it was the undeniable truth that, despite everything, she did look every bit like royalty—her elegance even in chaos a sharp contrast to the grim reality of their situation. Or maybe it was just his way of dealing with everything—his passive-aggressive shield, the thin veil of sarcasm and annoyance that kept the world at bay. He wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing: the name fit her, and it kept slipping off his tongue without a hint of regret.

The shuttle’s hull groaned in protest as it plunged further into the atmosphere, metal screeching under the strain. Wolffe’s fingers flew over the controls, trying to stabilize the craft, but it was like trying to tame a wild animal. Sparks flew from the dashboard, and alarms screamed in their ears as the ship's systems malfunctioned one by one.

“We’re not gonna make it,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her. His hands tightened on the controls, his mind racing with calculations, but there was no escaping the inevitable.

Perdita’s voice cut through the chaos. “Wolffe, do something!”

He barely heard her over the sound of the wind whipping through the shuttle’s breaches, but he could feel her eyes on him. He knew she was scared. Hell, he was scared. His mind raced, thinking of a hundred ways to try and save them, but his heart kept coming back to one thing: her.

She was a fighter, he’d seen that time and again, but there was something about the way she sat there—straight-backed, almost too calm for someone about to crash into a swamp—something that gnawed at him. It wasn’t the same composure he saw in seasoned soldiers. It was something more fragile, hidden behind those defiant eyes of hers.

His breath hitched as he looked over at her, the storm of emotions he’d kept locked up inside surging to the surface. “Don’t worry, I’m not letting you die,” he growled, more to himself than her, his voice rough with the weight of the words. There was no time to explain, no time to reconcile his feelings, but that fact rang clear in his mind.

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly about to retort, but the shuttle bucked violently, throwing both of them against their seats. The world outside spun, a blur of treetops and sky, before the ground suddenly rose up to meet them with a bone-rattling jolt.

The crash itself felt like an eternity—a gut-wrenching mix of twisting metal and bone-shaking impacts. For a moment, Wolffe was sure they were done for. His grip on the controls tightened as the shuttle careened towards the swamp, its fuselage skidding through the muck before coming to an abrupt, jarring halt. The sound of groaning metal filled the air, followed by an eerie silence.

He was breathing hard, disoriented, and his ears rang. For a moment, he just sat there, fighting to clear the fog in his mind. Then, he turned to her. Perdita was still in her seat, eyes wide but alert, a few cuts and bruises on her face from the impact and her hitting the glass viewport, but—thank the stars—still breathing.

“Princess,” he breathed, his tone softer now, betraying the storm of emotions he’d tried to mask. “You okay?”

She didn’t respond immediately, her hand pressed against the side of her head as she checked herself for injuries. It was then that Wolffe realized how deeply he’d been holding his breath. The relief flooding through him was overwhelming, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he let himself be vulnerable, his concern for her slipping through the cracks of his tough exterior.

Perdita finally looked over at him, her lips curling into a small smirk, despite the blood trickling from a gash on her temple. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

Wolffe’s lips twitched, but his gaze softened. "Maybe later," he muttered, then quickly turned his attention to the wreckage around them. "We need to get out of here. Now."

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

That was how he had ended up slogging through waist-deep, murky water, making his way toward what he could only loosely call civilization. If you could even label it that in Hutt-controlled territory. Still, it was precisely the area's reputation for being lawless and corrupt that had sparked the decision to come here in the first place. Nal Hutta, despite the Empire’s claims of dominance, remained firmly beyond their grasp. But in the chaos and uncertainty of this place, there was opportunity—a chance for both of them to regroup, to blend in with the shadows and find something they desperately needed: new clothes, supplies, and a ship the Empire wasn’t tracking.

The only problem now, however, was the eerie sound of water sloshing quietly beneath their boots, a constant reminder of how far from safety they truly were. There was no conversation, no words exchanged between them as they waded through the murky waters. Silence had become their constant companion. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, either. Their interactions had devolved into either tense, frustrated silence or harsh words. Gone were the days of lighthearted banter that had once filled their conversations during the war.

It hadn't taken long for Wolffe to realize that the fall of the Jedi Order had profoundly changed Perdita. The peaceful presence she had once projected, that calming aura she used to exude, had been dulled. In its place, there was a rawness to her emotions—a sharpness in her gaze and a palpable edge to her every move. Wolffe had seen glimpses of this before, flashes of intense emotion that cut through her usually serene exterior, but now, those moments were no longer rare. They were becoming the norm. And it was in this silence, as the water lapped at their feet, that he found himself unsure of where they stood now—or where they were heading.

He’d read her file shortly after the fall of the Jedi Order, desperate to find any shred of information that might explain which of the Jedi he had known were still alive—and, more hauntingly, which ones had perished, and how. Perdita’s name had appeared on the list of the missing, along with that of her padawan. At the time, that brief mention had sparked a small flicker of hope in him, something to hold onto as he navigated the confusion and loss of those early days. His ears had remained attuned, waiting for any news, any whisper that might tell him more.

But, despite all the time that had passed since their reunion, he still hadn’t found the courage to ask her about the whereabouts of her padawan. The silence surrounding that question had remained a heavy weight between them, one Wolffe wasn’t willing to lift. He could feel it in the air between them—an unspoken truth that the padawan had likely met the same grim fate as so many others. The odds were too high, the likelihood of survival too slim. He had seen too much in the aftermath of Order 66 to believe otherwise. He had learned, painfully, that the Empire’s reach was long and merciless.

"He’s fine—" Perdita's voice cut through the silence, her words tight with tension as they waded through the water. The sentence hung in the air, heavy with the unsaid. Wolffe hated it when she did that. He hated how she seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, even without a single word exchanged between them. It wasn't that he could fault her for it; after all, she had never once intruded on his thoughts since they had found each other again. Perdita respected his boundaries, never reaching into his mind the way others might have. But she couldn’t help when his emotions grew too loud, too raw, for her to ignore.

She always seemed to sense it—when his heart clenched, when his thoughts wandered into the darker corners of his past. She could feel the weight of his unresolved questions, his guilt, his fears. But there was something else, too—something deeper in her tone that he couldn’t quite place. It was as if, in that one brief sentence, she was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince him.

Wolffe didn’t respond immediately, but the silence that followed was thick with the tension of unspoken truths. Perdita’s assurances weren’t enough to silence the nagging doubt in his mind, but he knew better than to press her on it. He assumed she wasn’t ready to share, and that was something he could respect, even if it ate away at him.

"You are free to ask what happened if you like," Perdita spoke softly, her voice devoid of the sharp edge that had marked most of their exchanges since they’d been reunited. Gone was the venom, the anger that had become familiar whenever she addressed him. Instead, there was a quiet resignation in her tone, something fragile that caught Wolffe off guard. She seemed different now—less guarded, but in a way that spoke of deep, hidden sorrow. That sadness, creeping into her voice, halted his movements. He paused mid-step, his boots sinking slightly deeper into the murky water as he turned to face her fully.

The air between them felt thick with something unspoken, an invitation to tread where they had never dared before. Her eyes were distant, almost lost in a memory, as though she had seen something he couldn’t, something far beyond the shadows of Nal Hutta. He searched her face for some sign of her usual composure, but it was no longer there. The flicker of vulnerability in her eyes made his heart tighten in a way he hadn’t expected. He swallowed, unsure of what to say.

"It is not my business—" he began, but she interrupted him, her voice firmer now, tinged with something that bordered on resolve.

"Nonsense," she said sharply, though the bite in her words was softened by the underlying emotion. "You threw away so much to help me. You are at the very least owed an explanation if you desire it."

Her words lingered between them, carrying the weight of a history neither of them had fully confronted. Wolffe felt a strange stirring in his chest. Perdita had always been one to keep her secrets, and to offer even a hint of explanation was something rare, something she clearly didn’t give lightly. He could see the effort it took for her to even offer this. She wasn’t asking for his pity, but perhaps, for understanding—a moment of honesty in the aftermath of all they had lost.

He took a step closer, his voice low, steady, as though each word carried weight he didn’t want to acknowledge. "I didn’t do it for an explanation, Princess. I did it because I know you are a good person, someone who didn’t deserve to suffer. I didn’t want to be complicit in causing you pain," he admitted, the truth falling from his lips without hesitation.

There was a long pause between them, the weight of his words sinking into the murky water surrounding them. For a moment, Wolffe wondered if she would respond with bitterness or if she would retreat into the walls she’d built so carefully around herself. But instead, she simply nodded, as though the admission was both expected and understood. It was a moment of quiet connection between them, a rare honesty amidst all the lies and deceit they had both endured.

Perdita inhaled deeply, her shoulders tightening, as if bracing herself for the weight of the memories she was about to relive. She spoke softly, almost to herself. "We were on an assignment off-world. Onderon. We were assisting Gerrera’s forces—fighting the Separatists trying to reclaim the system.” Her eyes unfocused, drifting back to the distant horizon as if the memory was replaying in her mind. "When it happened... when everything fell apart, his men helped Zatt and I escape."

Wolffe’s chest tightened at the mention of Zatt. The padawan. His thoughts flickered briefly to the child, imagining the fear in his eyes as his world crumbled. He said nothing, allowing Perdita to continue, knowing she needed to speak.

"Kenobi sent out a message from the temple, warning survivors not to return, so we did that—we ran. Hiding where we could, wherever we thought we were safe. But as the Empire began taking over system after system, it became harder for someone like me to stay hidden, especially with a child. A child who doesn’t look anything like me." She shook her head, the sorrow clear in her voice. "It draws attention, and we couldn’t keep pretending that he was my flesh and blood. The Empire’s reach was too long, and the risks... they became too high."

Her voice faltered for a moment, a brief crack in her otherwise composed demeanor. Wolffe’s heart ached at the thought of how much she had carried alone during that time. She had been a beacon of strength in the war, but even the strongest of people break when they carry too much.

"So, I got him back to his people." Perdita’s voice hardened slightly as she continued, as if her decision was one she had replayed in her mind a thousand times. "They promised me that they would protect him. And... I trust that he is alright. I trust in the Force. He’s—" She paused, her words catching in her throat for a moment, as though the weight of them was almost too much to bear. "He’s a good kid. He deserves the chance to be a kid."

Wolffe felt a lump form in his throat as he listened to her words. The image of a child, a bright and hopeful young soul, caught in the crossfire of a war he couldn’t fully understand, hit him harder than he expected. Perdita had risked everything to ensure the boy’s safety, even if it meant letting go of him. He could see the love and the pain in her eyes, the impossible decision she had made out of love for a child who wasn’t hers by blood, but had become her responsibility all the same.

"You did what you had to do," Wolffe said quietly, stepping closer still. "You did what was right."

Perdita looked at him then, her eyes searching his, almost as if looking for confirmation that she wasn’t alone in her choices. "I hope I did," she murmured, more to herself than to him, her voice breaking slightly. "I hope he’s safe. That he’s somewhere far from this war... that he can live a life outside of the Empire's reach."

The silence that followed was filled with the weight of everything they had both lost, everything they had both endured. And yet, despite the darkness surrounding them, Wolffe could feel a quiet strength growing between them. Perdita’s pain was raw, but she wasn’t letting it consume her. She had made sacrifices, had fought for a future that didn’t belong just to her, but to someone else—a child who deserved a chance to grow up, untouched by the horrors of the galaxy.

"You’ll find him again," Wolffe said, his voice firm with the certainty of his words. Perdita’s gaze softened slightly, the tiniest hint of hope flickering in her eyes. "I hope you’re right, Wolffe," she replied quietly. "I really do."

Wolffe watched as a small tear escaped the corner of her eye, a fragile drop of emotion she couldn’t quite hold back. For a moment, it hung there, suspended in time, before she quickly brushed it away, as though to erase the vulnerability that had slipped through her defenses. "We should keep moving," she said, her voice steady, but there was a faint tremor beneath the surface—one that Wolffe could feel, even if she tried to hide it.

"Hey—" Wolffe’s voice was hesitant, laced with concern. He took a step closer, unsure if she would push him away.

"Nightfall is approaching," she replied quickly, her tone resolute, though the effort to mask her emotions was clear. Wolffe knew the routine, the constant push forward, the need to keep moving. It had been their mantra ever since they’d been thrust into this war-torn galaxy together, but something about the cold finality in her voice made him hesitate.

He couldn’t just leave her like this—not when he saw the raw pain etched so deeply into her face.

Without thinking, he placed a hand gently on her shoulder, his grip light but firm. He turned her body slowly to face him, not allowing her to keep walking. Her eyes met his, wide with surprise, and in that brief moment, Wolffe saw a fresh wave of tears gathering at the corner of her eyes—tears that threatened to spill over, despite her best efforts to hold them in.

"Perdita," he whispered her name, his voice softer than he intended, but full of meaning. It was the first time he’d said her name, the first time since their reunion, and the sound of it seemed to cut through the thick, heavy air between them.

She sucked in a sharp breath at the sound of it, as if hearing it aloud was a jolt to her system. Wolffe noticed the subtle shift in her expression—the way her eyes softened, the way her breath hitched, as though his voice had pierced a wall she had so carefully constructed around herself.

For a brief moment, she looked like the woman he had once known, back when they were fighting side by side in the war. But then, the mask cracked just enough for him to see the depth of the grief she had buried inside. "I... I don’t remember you ever saying my name," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. It was almost as though saying it aloud brought the reality of everything they’d been through into sharper focus, forcing her to confront the distance that had grown between them.

Wolffe’s heart tightened at her words. He hadn’t meant to bring back those old wounds, but somehow, he had. He realized then that, for all the battles they had fought together, all the missions they had survived, they had never truly stopped long enough to talk, to heal. Back then, it had always been "General" or "General Halle" in the field. A title, a role. There had been no room for anything else. Since their reunion, he’d stuck to calling her by the nickname she had loathed, a habit formed from years of familiarity, but it had never been her. He had never truly seen her until now, in this fragile moment of shared silence.

“Sorry, Jedi aren’t supposed to be weak,” she muttered, her voice laced with self-derision. She reached up to brush the tears from her face, as though to erase the vulnerability she had just allowed herself to show. But before her hand could make contact, Wolffe stopped her, gently intercepting her movement.

“Perdita,” he spoke her name softly, his voice quiet but steady, “you aren’t weak.”

His hand found hers, but instead of simply holding it, he gently guided it away from her face. His thumb traced the delicate line of her cheek, his touch light, almost reverent, as though he was afraid of breaking something even more fragile than the tears she had shed. He had never been one to shy away from battle, from hard decisions, but this felt different. In that simple act, in that moment, he was offering something she had probably not had in far too long: tenderness.

The gesture wasn’t necessary, not in any practical sense. He knew she could wipe the tears away herself. But there was something inside him, something deep and unspoken, that made him want to help ease the burden she carried. And so, with each gentle sweep of his thumb, he felt a warmth spread inside him—an unexpected pride. This was not just about shielding her from the storm outside. It was about giving her the chance to fight the battles within herself, the ones she had been fighting alone for so long.

She had always been alone in this—carrying the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders, trying to make sense of everything that had been ripped away. But for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t have to do it alone. He was here, and he wanted to be here.

Her breath caught in her throat as he traced the scar that ran along her cheek. It was an old one, from long ago when she was a padawan, yet it was still part of her. It was a reminder of what she had survived. And as his fingers lingered there, a quiet admission slipped from his lips, barely above a whisper, but filled with meaning. “And you always were better than most of them in that Temple,” he said quietly, the words rolling out with the ease of someone who had seen the truth from the start, but had never said it aloud. “You were always different. You are different.”

The words hung between them, heavy with sincerity, and for a brief moment, it seemed as though time stood still. Perdita blinked, taken aback, her chest tightening as his words settled in. No one had ever said that to her—not like this, not with this kind of raw honesty. There was no judgment, no expectation. Only the simple truth, spoken with care.

She didn’t know how to respond. There had been so many voices over the years, so many opinions of who she was, what she should have been, who she had failed to become. But Wolffe wasn’t like the others. His words weren’t meant to fix her. They weren’t some hollow comfort, a fleeting reassurance to make her feel better. They were a quiet acknowledgment of everything she had been through, everything she still carried. It wasn’t just about the battles she’d fought or the scars she wore, inside and out. It was about who she was—the woman standing before him, still fighting, still surviving, despite it all. And for the first time in a long time, she felt as though she didn’t have to hide from it. 

Wolffe, who had seen her at her best and her worst, who had fought alongside her before and now when the galaxy was falling apart,  stood before her not as a soldier, not as a comrade, but as someone who saw her. Really saw her.

Her breath shuddered, but this time, the tears that welled up were different. They were not born of sorrow or loss, but of something more profound—a release. A moment of pure honesty, of being seen, of being understood.

For a long moment, she couldn’t speak, the words stuck in her throat, but she didn’t need to. Instead, she simply met his gaze, her hand reaching up to rest on his wrist, the quiet connection between them saying everything that needed to be said.

Wolffe, in turn, held her gaze with a quiet determination. He wasn’t going to push her. He wasn’t going to demand anything from her. He simply stayed there, his presence solid and unwavering, offering her the one thing she had always needed more than anything else: understanding.

“Thank you, Wolffe,” she whispered, her voice low and filled with gratitude. It wasn’t just for saving her, not just for the battles he had fought for her, but for something deeper—something she hadn’t realized she needed until now. Thankful for the way he had listened, how he had seen her when no one else had, and for the care he was offering so freely, without asking for anything in return.

How the Jedi had seen attachments like this as a danger showed Perdita just how misguided the order was. 

For a moment, everything else faded away. There was no war, no Empire hunting them down, no scarred past between them. It was just the two of them, standing in this fragile space where words didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Wolffe’s lips—one she hadn’t seen in what felt like ages, not since that last day at the Jedi Temple, before everything fell apart. A quiet, familiar expression, filled with that old, comforting confidence. It was a smirk that reminded her of the man she once fought alongside, and yet, there was something different about it now—something softer, something more.

Without warning, Wolffe leaned in, and the smirk, like a subtle, unspoken promise, grazed her skin as he pressed the lightest of kisses to her temple. It was brief, but it lingered in a way that left her breathless, like a gentle caress against both her skin and a part of her soul she’d not quite acknowledged before. She could feel the warmth of his lips, the softness, the tenderness in the gesture—a contrast to the rugged soldier she had always known him to be.

Her heart skipped a beat, and for the briefest of moments, it felt as though the world had slowed down, leaving only the quiet intimacy of the moment between them. She didn’t pull away, didn’t move, instead she closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of him there, so close, yet so carefully distant.

When he pulled back, his face softened, but the smirk was still there, like a secret they shared.

“Anytime, Princess,” he said, his voice low, but his tone teasing—though there was something more in it now. Something that hadn’t been there before. He called her “Princess” but now instead of in the heat of an argument, the word now carried a weight she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t a jest anymore. 

Her breath caught for a moment, and she found herself searching his eyes, as if trying to make sense of the moment, of the unexpected depth in his words, his touch. There was no pretense between them now—no shields, no walls. Just the raw honesty that had grown between them in the shared emotions of their joint situation.

She could see it now. The way he looked at her was different. Not with the same respect he had shown in the heat of battle, but with something warmer, softer—something that made her heart race a little faster. It wasn’t just the soldier standing before her anymore. It was Wolffe—the man who had always respected her and was grateful for saving his life. Now, as if trying to prove he was worthy of her by tossing away all he’d known to keep her safe.

“Wolffe…” Her voice trailed off, and she didn’t quite know what to say. There was too much between them now, too many emotions swirling in the space they shared, to fit into just a few words. She didn’t need to say it all out loud. He already knew.

His hand, still resting lightly on her shoulder, tightened ever so slightly, not possessive, but protective—gentle, yet firm. Her eyes, searching his face, spoke volumes—questions, uncertainties, and perhaps even a hint of something she wasn’t yet ready to name. He saw it all, the raw vulnerability behind her gaze, and yet, there was no fear in it. Just honesty. 

Wolffe knew she wasn’t the kind of woman to let herself need anyone, especially not someone like him. He had seen the way she fought alone, the way she carried the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders with the stoic grace of a Jedi. But now, in this quiet space between them, he could sense the shift. She didn’t need to say everything. He already knew.

Gently, as though allowing her the space to pull away if she needed, he moved his hand to tenderly cup her cheek, his thumb brushing against the smoothness of her skin. He wasn’t trying to push, only to offer her the quiet reassurance that he was there, unwavering. His fingers lingered at the side of her head, where the soft, shorn hair met her scalp. He hadn’t yet asked whether that style had been a choice, or a necessity born of their circumstances. They hadn’t been running long, but already, he’d grown unkempt—his face dotted with the beginnings of a beard, his hair far past regulation. Yet, there was something captivating about the contrast between her long hair and the one side she’d kept so short. It highlighted the delicate curve of her neck, leading down to her nape. As his fingertips brushed over it, he found himself mesmerized by the beauty in the unexpected—a striking blend of sharpness and softness that left him almost breathless. 

Her breath caught, just a whisper of a sound, as his touch lingered against her skin. Her eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, as though afraid that if she opened them, the softness of the sensation would slip away, leaving nothing but the cold reality of their world.

"I like this," he confessed, his voice low, tinged with a quiet warmth. His fingers brushed over the short hair again, the gesture casual, yet it carried a weight he hadn’t expected.

Wolffe couldn’t quite understand it—the way his stomach fluttered at something so simple, so seemingly trivial. To touch her hair, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips—it was enough to make his heart race, to stir a feeling deep inside him that he couldn't place. It was a strange blend of yearning, of wanting more, and yet, at the same time, a quiet anticipation that left him breathless, as though this moment was something more than he could put into words.

Perdita let out a soft scoff, the sound tinged with an edge of frustration. "I didn’t really have much choice in the matter," she said, her voice quiet but resolute. The puzzled furrow of his brows seemed to silently demand more, urging her to explain. With a reluctant sigh, she did. "Hair got caught trying to escape not too long ago. It was easier to just cut myself free and deal with the consequences later," she confessed, the words coming out heavier than she intended. There was a fleeting vulnerability in her tone, one she quickly buried beneath the weight of practicality.

Inside, she knew it sounded ridiculous. The Jedi had always taught her that vanity was a frivolous concern, something beneath the greater mission. It was one of the reasons she had always kept herself veiled. She had listened to the council’s recommendation to cover herself in fear of leading her peers to stumble with their own vows, as many women at the temple did.

But standing here now, with Wolffe's gaze lingering on her, she felt a sudden self-consciousness she hadn’t expected. There was something raw in the way his eyes held her—something that seemed almost hungry. And in that moment, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of uncertainty about the simplest of things: the unexpected and frankly unwanted cut made her worry about his opinion. It seemed so trivial, yet she couldn’t help but wonder how he would view it. 

Wolffe’s hand remained at her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin with a slow, deliberate rhythm. He watched her carefully, the softness in her eyes, the faint tension in her posture as she spoke. There was something about the way she seemed so conflicted over something as trivial as an unwanted haircut that made him smile. But it wasn’t just any smile—it was a smile filled with admiration, warmth, and, surprisingly, a bit of boldness.

He took a deep breath, his gaze locking onto hers with a playful intensity, as though testing the waters before plunging in. "I’m about to say something that would’ve definitely landed me in hot water when you were my superior..." His voice was low, steady, and there was a subtle weight to his words that hinted at something more. "But the truth is, you’re an incredibly attractive woman. I always noticed things—like how the faint shape of your body would show through those robes, or how your eyes, no matter how stoic, could still be so captivating."

He paused, meeting her gaze. There was no sense in pretending anymore. They had too little to lose, and he knew she'd likely sensed his thoughts already. This confession, he decided, needed to come from his lips, not his mind.

He leaned in slightly, the intensity of the moment drawing them even closer. “But right now? In this filthy swamp, covered in blood, sweat, and tears?” He let out a quiet chuckle, one that mixed affection with something deeper, more genuine. "Even with your... unique hairstyle," he teased with a warm smile, "you’re damn enticing, if you ask me."

The words hung in the air between them, charged with honesty and something far more intimate than he'd expected to reveal.

She blinked at him, the comment catching her off guard, and for a second, Wolffe thought she might blush. Instead, she quirked an eyebrow at him, her lips pulling into a teasing smirk.

“Well, aren’t you the smooth talker,” she replied with a sarcastic, yet amused tone, trying to cover the way her heart fluttered at his words. She tilted her head, studying him for a moment before responding with a slight chuckle of her own. “If I’m being honest, I’ve kind of gotten used to the scruffy look,” she teased, her eyes lighting up with playful mischief. “I think it suits you. We’ve both seen better days, after all. It kind of fits this whole... runaway, no-one’s-gonna-catch-us vibe we’ve got going on.”

Wolffe let out a low laugh at that, the sound rich and genuine, and his thumb brushed across her cheek one more time before he dropped his hand. “Scruffy, huh?” he mused, his lips curving into a sly grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Perdita shrugged, her expression shifting into something softer, more genuine beneath the teasing facade. “I’m just saying,” she added, her voice quieter now, “there’s something... enticing about someone who’s lost the need to keep up appearances.” She repeated his choice of words back to him.

He studied her for a moment, taking in the lightness in her words and the warmth in her eyes. He could see the change in her—the way she let down the walls just a little bit more, the way she let herself be a little more real with him.

“You’d better get used to the scruff. No guarantees we’ll be able to find razors anytime soon, so it’s going to be this for the foreseeable future,” he warned, referring to his own appearance. 

Perdita’s lips curved into a playful smile, her eyes glinting with amusement as she regarded him. “Oh, trust me, I think I can handle it. It's not like I’m exactly looking pristine myself,” she teased, gesturing toward her own disheveled state. “Besides, if I’m going to keep surviving this runaway life, I’ll have to learn to appreciate the little things. Like scruffy Wolffe,” she added with a wink, the teasing tone in her voice softer now, the playful banter offering a shield, but beneath it was something more sincere.

Wolffe chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, and his gaze lingered on her a little longer than before, not just taking in her teasing words but the subtle way her posture had shifted, the quiet vulnerability that had seeped into her demeanor. She leaned into his hold, and at some point he hadn’t noticed that she’d settled her hands on his waist. There was something refreshing about the way they could still find humor in all of this, despite the chaos surrounding them.

“I’m not exactly worried about my looks right now,” he admitted, his voice quieting just a touch, something more serious weaving through. “But if you think I look good this way, then maybe I should hold onto it a little longer.” He raised an eyebrow, the playfulness still there, but now it was paired with a flicker of something deeper, something that hadn’t been there before.

Perdita tilted her head, studying him closely. Her expression softened, and the teasing edge from earlier seemed to fade, replaced by something more sincere. “I’ll admit... there’s something more real about it. It's like the soldier is finally disappearing, and what's left is just... Well, Wolffe.”

“Well, good to know Princess…” he said. Perdita raised an eyebrow, her expression a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Princess again?” she asked, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “You really can’t let that go, can you?”

Wolffe grinned, his eyes glinting with mischievous humor. “What can I say? It suits you. You’ve got that royal vibe, even when you’re covered in dirt and mud.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “Royal vibe? Please, I’m far from royalty.” She gave him a nudge with her shoulder, her voice light but laced with curiosity. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

He let out a chuckle, the sound warm and genuine. “I don’t know... I guess it’s just suited to you at the moment. If I didn’t know who you were, I’d assume someone as pretty as you would be royalty.”

Perdita blinked, her expression softening. “Well, I don’t know if that’s true,” 

Wolffe’s grin deepened. “Don’t sell yourself short, Princess. You’ve got a lot more going on than you give yourself credit for.”

She shook her head with a smile, the playfulness in her eyes still dancing. “Alright, alright. But I’m not letting you off the hook for that nickname anytime soon.”

He shrugged with an exaggerated nonchalance, though there was a glint of warmth in his eyes. “Sorry but you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Perdita’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the teasing faded, leaving something more honest, more vulnerable behind. “You know,” she said quietly, “even though it’s been... insane, I don’t mind these moments. The ones where we can laugh, forget the world for a little while. And hey, we’re not screaming at each other for once.”

Wolffe met her gaze, his smile slipping into something more genuine, a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “I get what you mean,” he said softly. “But just so you know, I’m still going to argue with you. Count on it.”

Perdita raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at her lips. “Oh yeah? You’re not done with that?”

“Of course not. You’re easily the most vexing woman I’ve ever met,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Vexing?” she repeated, a mischievous glint in her eyes before she shoved him playfully. The sudden motion caught him off guard, and he stumbled backward, sinking deeper into the murky water than he’d planned.

“Oh, you are not getting away with that one, Princess.” Wolffe scoffed, reaching for her, but his hand froze mid-air, caught in some unseen force. He blinked, startled, as Perdita flashed a sly grin and wiggled her brows at him.

“Sorry, what was that?” she teased, her voice light as she turned to walk away. “Can’t hear you over being this vexing.”

Wolffe stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, before finally feeling the hold around his hand loosen. As she started walking, he could still feel the playful tug of her teasing energy. She glanced back over her shoulder, tossing him a look that spoke volumes—like maybe, just maybe, things could be okay if they kept going down this path.

With a quiet chuckle, he followed her, the promise of more moments like this could make his decision worthwhile. It wouldn’t be easy. They’d still clash. Danger was always there, lurking in the background. But if life on the run could be this... chaotic, but somehow enjoyable, he was more than willing to take on a little more conflict.

Tag List: @leenathegreengirl @asgre @badbatch-bitch @cw80831 @heidnspeak

[legacygirlingreen]

What If… || ClonexOCWeek2025

Rex & Mae || Wolffe & Perdita || Tech & Marina

Author’s Note: Hi friends! For day 6 of @clonexocweek I thought I’d better convey some of the things I associate with my OC’s and their copy/paste men… so I had fun with a little social media aesthetic prompt! Below you will find one for each character, as well as a little glance at how I see each couple as a unit visually speaking. So for “what if…” it’s “what if they were a color (for example). Anywho, this was a prompt more to show how I see these characters and help people feel as connected to them as I do. Reminder this all exists within my friend @leenathegreengirl ‘s AU! All art of my oc's is by her!

Pairings: Captain Rex x OC Mae Killough | Commander Wolffe x OC Perdita Halle | Tech x OC Marina

Masterlist

Animal

Lion: Rex is fierce, he is a bold protector and he is powerful. He works best by leading others. But at his core, he truly is a wonderful soldier.

Red Fox: Foxes are typically known for and associated with resourcefulness, cunningness and cleverness. They often have a shy but playful disposition. Mae has had to rely on herself for so long, that her ability to adapt to survive through her intelligence makes her more aligned with a Fox than just the similar color of their hair/fur…

Place

Mountainous Body of Water: Usually bodies of water near mountains are carved out by glacier activity. Strong erosions over time that create a pristine and enriching space. Rex has seen many things through his life, but he is resilient.

Misty Mountains: Mae has a tumultuous past and her homeworld replicates that of our world’s climates like Scotland or Ireland. The lack of sunlight mixing with the peaks to some would seem depressing, but to others the calm they bring is aligned with her more subdued nature of being - which I’d say is a less flashy kind of beauty.

Plant

Succulent: Succulents are desert plants, that learn to survive on little resources. They tend to weather lots of mistreatment and still maintain their ability to persevere. Rex has been through much in his life, and he continues to keep fighting the good fight.

English Ivy: This vine plant grows very quickly, can grow virtually anywhere and is known to help remove toxins from the spaces they occupy. Mae is quick to adapt, keep her morals aligned despite her upbringing with a crime family, and she left upon her first chance at freedom.

Character

Li Shang: He is a leader. He’s a strong warrior. He tends to be more reserved, maintaining what he can on his own. Initially he is by the book and has to learn to adapt. That sounds an awful lot like Rex to me… we will gloss over Li Shang’s initial sexism though…

Anna: The Princess can be quite awkward. She is also optimistic, caring and free-spirited. I honestly do see more of Anna’s tendency to be a bit clumsy aligning well with Mae. Early on I do think that Mae was a bit sheltered from real life, kept away from some of her siblings and that aligns a lot with Anna’s growth from willing to marry the first man she met to being Queen of the kingdom. (With a handsome blond near her side!)

Season

Summer: Summer is warm. It’s bright. It is the peak of likelihood. It’s when we are closest to the sun. The days are longer. Rex has a lot of light to him so often forgotten by his struggles. He was born to be absorbing the suns rays with a drink in his hand.

Autumn: A brisk chill in the air leads to the heartiness that goes on in one’s home in fall. I always have seen Mae as a large pot of soup with a fireplace as the leaves outside begin to fall.

Hobby

Surfing: One of the first times Rex directly interacted with Mae was on one of her rare days off. She grew up in a large mansion by the sea, but the kind of cold, rocky shorelines were not build for surfing. When she moved to Pabu, her appreciation for the calm that life by the water increased, and the locals showed her how to appreciate them in a harmonizing way. When she taught Rex, he found the physicality enjoyable, and the relaxation it provided through bonding with the doctor to be the kind of reprieve he needed. With time, her favorite hobby, became a pastime of his as well

Color

Blue: 501 Blue does go so well to describe Rex. Loyalty, honor, stability, and calm describe him so well, but at this point the shade is so closely associated with the captain, I’d be remiss not the say Blue.

Forest Green: While Mae frequently dons soft blue, I think green fits her much more. Green is a nurturing color, associated with nature, and one’s ability to adapt. It’s a color that subconsciously relaxes. Her home being a safe haven for many is more attuned to this shade.

Crystal/Stone/Gem

Sea Glass: Given the narrative connections run so deep here, I won’t elaborate as I already have in “Something About You”, but Rex is much alike the kind of beauty that comes from transformation through hardship.

Pearls: Mae used an alias while she initially was working for the Republic Aid Relief - another translation or meaning of her name - Pearl. Pearls are associated with luxury but also new beginnings. There’s a Devine feminine energy of something that comes from the sea and has the subdued brilliance of pearls.

Food

Pot Roast: Rex just seems like the kind of man who wants to come home to a hearty, slow cooked meal that’s rich and warms the soul

Waffles: They are sweet, and they are compartmentalized. Mae, while a kind person, has her quirks. She likes to sort things out on her own.

Together, they are both a mix of very striking differences on the outside, but the kind of people they are - the kind that would give you clothes off their back or work so hard to help those in need since it’s the right thing to do - make Mae and Rex one of my favorite couples to write for. She isn’t a gun wielding badass, but she’s a spitfire. She’s bold when she needs to be. She’s refreshingly honest. The two have a similar mind of putting others first, themselves second. Finding someone like that, helps you maintain a love in which you care for the other person’s needs in a beautiful and calm light. Mae brings Rex stability. He brings her security. With that comes smiles into cups of caf and the jovial times of those who began as friends first. His appreciation for her endearing sweetness and respect for her strength hopefully will allow these two to survive virtually whatever throws their way. I see their dynamic to be one that is timeless, and soft.

Read their stories here:

Key: Flashback ★

Introduction : "Spitfire" | 4.9 (SFW) | collab for @clonexocweek day 1! ★ 1.Peace | 6.5 (SFW) | Ao3 Link 2. Something About You | 8.8k (SFW) | Ao3 Link \_> "Tag" | 5.9k (SFW) | collab for @clonexocweek day 2! \_> "A Quiet Hum" | 1k (SFW) | Tunesgiving Event \_> Life Day 2025 Event: "Operation Life Day" | Ao3 Link(Fanart & Story) 3. Touching Revelations | 5.5k (NSFW)

Animal

Wolf: I mean. I don’t feel the need to explain this one…

Arctic Fox: solidarity creatures, raised in harsh climates that still - despite all odds - are loving and playful. Monogamous, and maintaining loyalty to one mating partner for life, they are willing to cross the tundra for the one they love. Perdita’s time with the Jedi created a solidarity which she has to learn to overcome, but the loyalty she feels towards Wolffe is finally bringing out the more playful and inquisitive side of her that shows there’s so much more to life than the Jedi Order she may have been neglecting…

Place

Open spaces under a night sky: Wolffe has a stillness about him. Don’t assume it makes him weak, but he has a nature that seems just on the outskirts of things. The stillness of night is something that he often feels connected to. Especially given his life almost ended in an escape pod, adrift amongst the stars. The ability to feel the ground below, seeing them from a distance, is where he feels the most at peace.

Caves: Growing up under the Quarzite surface, in the intricate system of caves, Perdita has many aspects associated with her people. Some may find the hollowed out spaces to be eerie, vacant, but with them comes security and a sense of protection.

Plant

Pine trees: Woody, strong and also… comforting. Pines have many associations of tradition and the warmth that accompanies celebrations of the winter. Wolffe has a traditional undertone to him that feels aligned with the strength and comfort of a pine.

(Redacted) Russian Purple Variation: So, keep with me… but a certain substance often used recreationally for health benefits definitely aligns with the more odd aspects of the Jedi, and their tendency to prioritize meditation and connecting to the force… as for the Russian purple variation of this plant… it is grown in HARSH climates, just like the environment Perdita came from.

Character

The Winter Soldier: Left under mind control at the hand of a regime that saw him as a tool not a person? Check. A badass with a cybernetic element? Check. Associations with Wolf (later the White Wolf)? Need I say more?

Daenerys: Both Perdita and Daenerys were the victims of situation, where their power was often wielding without their consent or against them. They are both inquisitive, but also have a vengeful streak. The more Perdita becomes distant from the Jedi, the more she is willing to see how wrong they are. But, unlike Daenerys she learns to confront it and accept it. Calm, levelheaded and regal these women both have a grace about them.

Season

Winter: Both Wolffe and Perdita have a coldness about them that radiates with winter. Perdita, from repressing emotion so long, and Wolffe with his regrets and rigid soldier tendencies.

Hobby

Music: With time, I see Wolffe appreciating music. Perhaps a quiet melody played only for himself, but the dedication to learn an instrument seems like something he’d do in private.

Strategy Games: At the temple, Perdita often excelled with logical games that related on strategy. I think this ability to shift things around her through intuition is something she continues to enjoy

Color

Grey : His color during the war, and he still feels the pull to associate with it now, Wolffe enjoys the tranquility associated with the color. Although, now with the addition of Perdita to his life, he prefers the mixing of a misty teal and grey, as the colors harmonize in a serenity he enjoys.

Dark Green/Teal: A color of communication and sophistication, Perdita is open and gentle in nature.

Crystal/Stone/Gem

Dalmatian Jasper: Grounding and loyal. This stone is said to bring about renewal. A visual representation of the darkness Wolffe is still trying to process.

Clear Quartz: A crystal for purifying and cleansing other stones. Translucent and strong.

Food

Coffee: Black. No frills. Chugged while scalding. On Pabu I think he’d get WAY too into espresso and making good espresso.

Tacos: Not sure why but I love the thoughts of a Perdita that is safe, and just pounding some street tacos on Pabu.

There is so much strength, determination and above all… trust. They fight hard for one another. Are likely unhealthily attached to one another. They defied all odds - a Jedi Survivor and a Deserter Clone. There is not a thing these two would not do to keep the other safe. And in that, something beautiful emerged. A tension which lead to a fierce love and respect. Like a dog guarding its home almost, Wolffe would not stop at anything to keep her safe. Despite everything their love is so rich its intensity goes without words. Both transformed by the harshness they endured , picture them like Coal, so impressed upon it eventually turns to diamond. Not to mention the lovely symmetry in which they exist. Reflections of one another in so many ways, and yet a strong contrast of light and darkness. And… despite all the jokes he really does see this former Jedi as his “Princess”, worthy of love and admiration.

Read their stories here:

Key: Flashback ★

The Introduction: "Now we are even"| 5k (SFW) Part 1 : " The Rescue "| 13.5k (SFW) ★ Part 2: "Princess" | 6.8k (SFW) | collab for @clonexocweek day 3! Part 3: "Lessons in Intimacy" | 7.7k (mostly SFW) | @clonexocweek day 4! Part 4: "Mercy Mission" (Coming Soon!) ★

Animal

Silver Foxes (Brown): Fast, intelligent, resourceful. Silver Foxes specifically have associations with being hunter for sport and worn by royalty. They tend to be more antisocial creatures, but once they grow to trust, they are very friendly. Fierce hunters and adaptable creatures, Tech is intelligent and good at problem solving.

Sea Turtle: Having long lives and being an integral role in the marine ecosystem, turtles are resilant. From hatching, to a life of solidarity, they are always finding ways to adapt and survive. Graceful and strong. Marina has faced hardships but she continues to survive.

Place

Misty Ocean Cliffside: Tech seems the type to appreciate the softeness of an overcast down overlooking the water. No harshness of the sun, but taking in the splendor of the strength of the ocean.

Oceanside: In a more generalized sense, Marina is very connected to the ocean. Her work, her livihood, even her name are tied to a connection with the ocean. She particularly enjoys diving to view reefs.

Plant

Mint: fresh, clean, and cool. Mint is a plant with beneficially properties and a plesant taste/aroma that is mild. Tech radiates practicality and keeping a calm head about most things.

Marine Alage: A part of the reef ecosystem, sea alage is very unique in terms of the genetic structture and physical makeup. They do not act as normal 'plants', not having a vasualar system or structure. In a similar way, Marina is very unique both physically and socially.

Character

Milo Thatch: loyal, well intending... and awkward. Milo is very intelligent and respectful of people regardless of background. Plus, we are not blind... Milo girlies are now Tech girlies.

Elizabeth "Lizzie" Bennet: Name me a more independant, intelligent and witty woman. I'll wait. But in all seriousness, Elizabeth has much that she has to grow and learn with time - same as Marina needs to learn to allow herself to be cared for once again.

Season

Summer: A time for long days filled with many activities. Warmth and outdoor time. Summer is often associated with both a productive time and a time to unwind. Tech and Marina spend an awful lot of time around the ocean, so summer just feels like a fitting season for them both. The only differnce I see - Marina is a mid day swim, and Tech is a relaxing summer evening after a long day.

Hobby

Diving: What kind of Marina biologist doesn't enjoy diving and exploring? Marina's work is also her enjoyment, and with time becomes something she shares with him. The physicality of it, paired with the curiousity is the perfect blend of fun and educational for both these lovely scientists.

Color

Orange: Orange is a color of confidence and warmth. Often seen in nature and connected to creativity. Orange was the first color Tech 'chose' to identify with himself after Order 66 and the Batch repainted their armor.

Navy Blue: A color associated with dependability and calm. A color Marina has decorating her skin in the intricate lines of her tattoos.

Cyrstals, Stones, Gems

Ammonoidea fossil: Tech and Marina both share a love of research, and I do feel that fossils would hold interest for both. Aquatic based ones would provide a look at the past that they both find intriguing.

Food

Fish and Risotto: Something about the light filling nature of a nice grilled, citrus fish and risotto feels like a meal Tech would enjoy. It's got a practical comfort to it.

Salad: Healthy, fresh and limitless options for filling. Marina feels like the kind to actually enjoy a nice salad with homemade dressing.

Tech and Marina are the definition of a well oiled machine. Practical, sensible, and speaking a similar language without actually needing to speak at all. Academically minded people who genuinely care for the other's interest, they spend so much quality time in deep discussions on life, theories and hypotheticals. These two will never grow bored of each other. A story both of loss, and rebirth, they learn to move in a unified song and dance through life that contradicts everything people previously assumed about them. Marina brings out a lightness in him he never knew was there. Tech shows her that it's okay to be taken care of. Not to mention... a hidden spiciness brimming below the surface. Their love is one that says "I already did that dear-", since their strong atunement towards each other's needs is so strong, it often outweighs their own.

Read their story here:

1. "Someone New" | 10k (SFW) | Part of "Between Hearts and Ruin" Event

[legacygirlingreen]

Day 7 || ClonexOCWeek2025 ||

Rex x Mae || Wolffe x Perdita || Tech x Marina

Author’s Note: Finally, last day of @clonexocweek ! This has been so much fun and while it’s not another day of true writing, I thought I’d keep it rolling more with a random/misc. sharing of things I have saved for my OCs. Below is a mood board with the girls styles as well as a silly little showing of their “com device” lock-screen with a text (totally doesn’t look like an earthly IPhone…). Thanks again for all the comradre this event has brought! And just as a reminder, all these ships exist without @leenathegreengirl ‘s Pabu AU (as well as any fanart of the girls/guys is by her!)

Pairings: Captain Rex x Mae Killough | Commander Wolffe x Perdita Halle | Tech x Marina

Warnings: suggestion texting

Masterlist

Mae

This girlie is a bit on the older fashioned side. A blend of 60s beachwear and 40s/50s silhouettes majority of the time, she sticks to soft blues, oranges, light greens, soft yellows, and maroons. The only exception to this is finding her in a pair of scrubs - which is most of the time honestly. She loves a high waisted bottom to accentuate her waistline and her long legs for a shorter gal!

As for messaging goes, these two are still massively in denial at their feelings for one another. Mae and Rex both use their coms OFTEN to speak to one another given he rarely visits in person. But, they share the same photo in their lock-screen, a more goofy one from a time he visited Pabu…

Perdita

She spent most of her life with the Jedi order, covering in flowing fabrics so she still lingers more towards practical and comfortable. Preferring greys and blacks, she mostly experiments with shape or texture. Perdita’s style is a bit more harsh than others but it fits her life on the run.

Wolffe still demands on calling her Princess, and it seems with time she’s acclimated… as for the former commander Perdita most often just endearingly calls him “Grumpy”…

Marina

Like the stark contrast in her features, Marina’s style also is frequently harsh jumps from practical beachwear for her work to a shocking more bohemian look when she’s not working. Simple lines and patterns of swimwear opposed to flowing skirts and tops that show off her tattoos. Having never left Pabu, a born tropical woman such as herself physically showcases island life and its culture when she’s not too busy in the water or behind a microscope.

What would their lock-screens without involving the water? A moonlight stroll by the water or dive…

[legacygirlingreen]

Star Wars Masterlist

Last updated: Feb 15, 2025

My OC's Breakdown for @clonexocweek Day 6!

\_> OCs at a glance/“com device” for @clonexocweek Day 7!

(Avatar Art is by @leenathegreengirl!)

Tech

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. 

F!Reader Insert

Easing Tensions | 16.5k (NSFW) | Ao3 link

Mornings on Pabu | 2k (mildly suggestive but mostly SFW) | Ao3 link

\_> Prompt from Summer of Bad Batch 2024

Late Nights on Pabu (Sequel to 'Mornings on Pabu') | 6k (NSFW) | Ao3

Original Female Character

Marina & Tech

(Collaboration with @leenathegreengirl's PabuVerse found HERE!)

1. "Someone New" | 10k (SFW) | Part of "Between Hearts and Ruin" Event | @clonexocweek day 5 2. "Goggle-Eyed" | 9.4k (SFW) 3. "Lady by the Sea" | NSFW \_> Part 1 | 13.3 k \_> Part 2 (Mar 4)

Rex

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. 

Mae Killough & Rex

(Collaboration with @leenathegreengirl 's PabuVerse which can be found Here)

Meet Mae and Her sister

(Story Parts in order!) Key: Flashback ★

Introduction : "Spitfire" | 4.9 (SFW) ★ 1.Peace | 6.5 (SFW) | Ao3 Link 2. Something About You | 8.8k (SFW) | Ao3 Link \_> "Tag" | 5.9k (SFW) | collab for @clonexocweek day 2! \_> "A Quiet Hum" | 1k (SFW) | Tunesgiving Event \_> Life Day 2025 Event: "Operation Life Day" | Ao3 Link (Fanart & Story) 3. Touching Revelations | 5.5k (NSFW)

Wolffe

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. 

Perdita Halle & Wolffe

(Collaboration with @leenathegreengirl's Pabu AU found HERE !)

Meet Perdita

Key: Flashback ★

The Introduction: "Now we are even" | 5k (SFW) Part 1 : " The Rescue " | 13.5k (SFW) ★ Part 2: "Princess" | 6.8k (SFW) | collab for @clonexocweek day 3! Part 3: "Lessons in Intimacy" | 7.7k (mostly SFW) | @clonexocweek day 4! Part 4: "Mercy Mission" (Coming Soon!) ★

Mae Killough & Captain Rex

"Spitfire" | 4.9 (SFW) | day 1! Introductions "Tag" | 5.9k (SFW) | day 2! Quality Time

Perdita Halle & Commander Wolffe

"Princess" | 6.8k (SFW) | day 3! Conflict "Lessons in Intimacy" | 7.7k (mostly SFW) | day 4! Intimacy

Marina & Tech

"Someone New" | 10k (SFW) | day 5! Future

Compilations

My OC's Breakdown for Day 6! What If... OCs at a glance/“com device” for @clonexocweek Day 7! Free Space

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. 

Art

Tech's Helmet Simplified

Crosshair's Helmet Simplified

Hunter's Helmet Simplified

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. 

Reminder that my asks box is open! Feel free to pop in, say hi, bring up ideas (as I am open to hearing them with the understanding that I may/may not get to them). As a general rule of thumb I do NSFW with some exclusions (such as Non-con), but overall I am down to hear whatever you may have in your mind...

[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

  from WordPress https://ift.tt/2WAt4Ct via IFTTT

[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

  from WordPress https://ift.tt/2IeaPLg via IFTTT

[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

  from WordPress https://ift.tt/2pamrt1 via IFTTT

[badbatch-bitch]

Such a good story. I'm hooked!

"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!)

[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!)

[leenathegreengirl]

YESSSSS!!!!!! GIVE ME MORE OF THESE TWO!!!!!! 😍😍😍😍😍💜💜💜💜💜💜💕💕💕💕💕

I: "The Rescue"|| Commander Wolffe x OC Perdita Halle

Author's Note: Finally got around to editing this part... I am excited to kick things off with a beefy flashback. Unfortunately the early stages of their story will be a bit disjointed. Eventually time will catch back up to their life after the prologue, but I wanted to lay some ground work for Wolffe and Perdita. Thanks again to @leenathegreengirl for the lovely cover art for this chapter, showing Wolffe with his two natural eyes and Perdita's! I hope you all enjoy, I'll link the prologue to this if you missed it, and let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. ~ M

Pairing: Wolffe x OC Perdita Halle

Word Count: 13.5k+

Warnings: mentions of nearly dying, illusions to religious trauma (the jedi suck tbh), mentions of loss/grief

Summary: When all hope is lost, a mysterious figure comes to Wolffe's rescue...

Masterlist || Previous Section || Next Section (Coming Soon!)

Perdita had been doomed from the start when it came to the Jedi Order. It was a miracle they had ever accepted her at all. The Jedi were a people bound by their strict code, where attachments were seen as a dangerous weakness, and only the young children—those with little to no memories of their families—were chosen for training. They had long been wary of the emotional baggage that came with deep bonds to others, believing that such attachments would cloud judgment and lead to the dark side.

But Perdita’s species, the Kage, presented an unfair conflict—a unique struggle that she had carried with her her entire life. Unlike most beings, the Kage were born sentient, with complex and fully formed minds from the moment of their birth. Their memories were sharp, vivid, and long-lasting, capable of recalling even the smallest details from infancy.

Though Perdita had been brought to the Jedi Temple at only three years of age, she was not the blank slate the Jedi were accustomed to. She carried with her three full years of memories of her home world. She could still see the lush, rich purple landscape of her birthplace, the towering spires that punctuated the horizon, and the deep violet horizon that stretched endlessly above. She could feel the heavy weight of the planet’s atmosphere pressing down on the tunnels where her people lived—an ever-present force, almost comforting, like a warm embrace.

She remembered her mother, with her soft hands stroking her brow as she tucked her in at night, whispering gentle words that still echoed in the recesses of her mind. And her older brother, agile and wild, climbing the towering spires with an ease that Perdita had always admired. 

It was these memories, these emotions, that the Jedi Order had never fully understood. To them, Perdita’s past was a burden, something that could jeopardize her ability to serve the Order without the distractions of personal attachments. They had taken her in regardless, but the struggle between her nature and the Jedi code had always been an internal battle, one that never truly ceased. And though she had grown up learning to suppress those memories, to bury them beneath layers of training and discipline, they lingered—persistent and undeniable.

Perdita’s mind wasn’t just uniquely capable of recalling complex memories—her gift extended far beyond what most would expect. Not only could she vividly recall her own experiences with remarkable clarity, but she also had the ability to reach out through the Force and pull in memories that were not her own. By extending her consciousness, she could tap into the echoes of others' pasts, drawing out their hidden knowledge and experiences. It was a rare and extraordinary gift, one that allowed her to uncover information that most others couldn’t even fathom.

This skill proved invaluable in the field of tracking. Unlike traditional methods of pursuit, Perdita could search for clues not only in the physical world but in the very fabric of the Force itself. By reaching out and connecting to the impressions left behind, she could see traces of someone’s movements, their intentions, their very essence—memories lingering like faint whispers in the ether. It was a method that allowed her to find those who had lost their way, those who had vanished without a trace.

This very ability had been the reason she was called upon to assist in the hunt for General Grievous’s latest secret weapon. The stakes were higher than ever, and the Jedi had learned quickly that Perdita’s unique talents were a tool they could not afford to overlook. With her ability to track through the Force, there was hope that they might locate the weapon before it could be unleashed upon the galaxy. Yet, as she prepared to dive into the mission, a familiar unease stirred within her—a reminder that even the most useful abilities could come at a personal cost, especially when they forced her to confront the very attachments she had worked so hard to suppress.

Stationed alongside General Skywalker and his new Padawan, Perdita had been a silent observer, watching as Master Plo Koon’s transmission had gone dark with the fleet after briefly making contact about tracking the secret weapon. The transmission had been short, but enough for them to glean its location before the connection abruptly severed. It was a moment that had sent ripples of uncertainty through the ranks, and in the quiet that followed, Perdita had found herself reflecting on the situation, her thoughts drifting back to the Jedi she knew and admired.

Master Plo had been more than just a wise Jedi; he had been a dear friend to her own Master, a bond forged through years of shared experiences and mutual respect. It was a relationship that had endured even after her Master’s untimely death—a loss that had left an undeniable void in her heart, a piece of her spirit fractured by the absence of one she had trusted so deeply. The grief from that loss had never fully faded, though time had done its best to smooth the sharp edges of her sorrow. In his own quiet way, Master Plo had been a source of comfort during those dark times. He had never shied away from acknowledging the struggles that came with being a Jedi, particularly in a war that demanded so much.

Master Plo had always shown her kindness in ways that others in the Order could not—or would not. In the privacy of shared moments, he had confided in her, admitting that he too had struggled with the very things she faced. The tension between compassion and attachment was something he understood all too well, perhaps more than any of his peers. It was a duality he had learned to live with, the lines between them so fine and blurred that they often became indistinguishable. He had spoken of the weight of that knowledge, of the difficulty of reconciling the Jedi Code with the innate need to connect, to care for others.

"Compassion is not the same as attachment," he had told her once, his voice soft, yet firm. "But in the depths of our hearts, the difference can feel almost impossible to discern."

Those words had stuck with her through the years, particularly in moments when the conflict within her became unbearable. In Master Plo’s aura, she had seen a reflection of her own struggles—a recognition that she was not alone, even in her darkest guarded secrets. And yet, despite the comfort of his words, there was always a lingering question in Perdita's mind: could the Jedi truly ever understand the complexities of the heart, or were they forever destined to struggle with the boundaries between duty and the natural need for connection? It was a question that gnawed at her, especially as the war raged on, and as she watched the galaxy slowly unravel around her.

Now, with Master Plo's fate uncertain and the pressure mounting to locate the weapon before it could wreak havoc, Perdita was forced to confront the very thing that had always haunted her: could she truly let go of the people she had cared about, the bonds she had formed, in the name of duty? Or would the compassionate side of her, the one that had been nurtured by the memory of her Master and by Jedi like Plo Koon, ultimately lead her down a path that defied the very code she had sworn to uphold?

She supposed that, as with most things, time would be the deciding factor.

As Anakin tried to slip away quietly, Perdita followed closely behind, her instincts telling her he was on his way to defy the Council’s orders. She knew him too well. Despite his tendency to act on impulse, she couldn’t fully fault him. He was the Chosen One, the one who would fulfill the Jedi prophecy, and because of that, he was afforded privileges that the rest of them—herself included—could only dream of. No matter how many times he bent the rules, Anakin would always be given a pass, his actions excused by his destiny.

Perdita, on the other hand, had never been so fortunate. No matter how hard she tried, she was frequently reprimanded for the way she navigated the complex teachings of the Jedi Code. She had always struggled with the balance between duty and attachment, between compassion and detachment, and her methods were often seen as unorthodox. Yet, despite the Council’s judgment and her own doubts, one thing remained clear: she wasn’t about to let Anakin go off to search for Master Plo. Not without her.

“I’m coming with you,” she stated bluntly, her voice firm, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Anakin’s sudden movement—his body lifting skyward in surprise—was all the answer she needed. She’d caught him off guard, just as she’d intended. His expression shifted, one of frustration mixed with a trace of reluctance. She could see the conflict in his eyes; he knew he wasn’t supposed to be acting on his own. But the same fire that drove him to defy the Council also made him appreciate the rare few who were willing to stand by him when the path ahead seemed too treacherous to walk alone.

“Why?” he asked, his voice laced with surprise but also a hint of amusement.

“Because,” she said, her gaze steady, “you’ll need all the help you can get—and it’s been a while since I got a reprimand from the council. Figured it’s long overdue, don't you agree?”

Anakin paused, his eyes scanning her, reading the resolve in her stance, and for a moment, it was as if the tension between them dissolved. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared an understanding, though they rarely acknowledged it aloud. She wasn’t just another Jedi. She was someone who knew the burden of walking a path fraught with difficult choices, someone who understood the weight of the Order’s expectations. One of the few with memories of her childhood as he too struggled. 

"Welcome aboard," Anakin said with a smirk, his tone laced with mischief. "Ahsoka's already called dibs on co-pilot."

She raised an eyebrow, scoffing as she stepped onto the ship platform beside him. "The fact that the Council even gave you a Padawan is a miracle unto itself," she retorted, her voice dripping with incredulity.

Anakin chuckled, his smirk widening as he adjusted the controls, clearly unfazed by her jab. "You’re not the first to say that, and you won’t be the last," he replied, though there was a hint of pride in his voice. 

Perdita was quiet for a moment. Watching Anakin with Ahsoka—how effortlessly they seemed to work together, how there was an unspoken understanding between them—reminded her of the emotional distance she often felt, even with her closest allies. She had never been given the privilege of a Padawan, nor had she ever considered taking one. There was something inherently personal about the bond between master and student, and she wasn’t sure if she could form that connection without compromising her own sense of self.

"Where was Master Plo’s fleet stationed again?" Perdita asked, stepping aside to give the younger Togruta a clear path to the seat next to Anakin.

"Abragado system," Anakin replied quietly, just as the door slid open. Ahsoka appeared in the doorway, her expression a mixture of annoyance and impatience as she flopped into the seat with little ceremony.

"Alright, I’m ready to scout ahead," Ahsoka declared, her tone laced with both determination and a hint of frustration. It seemed Anakin had conveniently forgotten to inform his Padawan about the mischievous true nature of their mission. Perdita couldn't help but smile at the thought. The pair was certainly... unorthodox. The kind of team that thrived on spontaneity and defied the conventional rules of the Jedi Order. It was both endearing and dangerous.

"I'll be meditating. Let me know if anything comes up," she said, her voice calm but firm as she turned toward the wall panel. She stepped away from the group, heading toward the hull, giving them the space they needed to process the reality of their actions without her interference. Sitting on the floor, Perdita folded her legs, recalling the details of Master Plo in an effort to locate him within the force… 

•—⟪=====> 

Storms were a rare occurrence on Coruscant. The bustling city-planet, with its endless lights and thick smog, didn’t foster the kind of atmosphere that would produce precipitation—or the howling winds that now swept through the streets. Yet, as the ship touched down after their harrowing return from Geonosis, it felt as though the planet itself was mourning. The violent winds seemed to echo the grief that hung heavy in the air, as if Coruscant, too, was grieving the loss of so many Jedi.

Perdita had been swiftly escorted to the Council upon their arrival at the Temple, the weight of the battle still heavy on her shoulders. “Congratulations,” they had said, their voices steady but distant. They told her the battle had been her trial, that she had passed, and that she was no longer a Padawan. The words felt almost hollow in the aftermath of so much loss, but she stood there, unblinking, as Master Fisto stepped forward to sever the braid that had marked her as a learner. It was a rite of passage that should have been performed by her own Master, but he was gone—fallen in the arena, like so many others, reduced to ash and blood. The ceremony, once a symbol of growth and achievement, now felt like a bitter reminder of the life she had lost.

In that same arena, when hope seemed all but extinguished, they had arrived. The roar of gunships filled the air as they descended, and Perdita had watched as squads of men, armored from head to toe, emerged ready for battle. No one questioned their arrival, no one questioned their purpose. In the chaos of the moment, there was only survival—and she had been thrust into their ranks, quickly learning that these men were not just soldiers; they were clones. Created for war. Created to fight. They didn’t have the luxury of choice. They followed orders, without question, without hesitation.

But now, with the literal dust settling, and her promotion complete, the questions began to creep in. Questions about duty, about what came next, about where she fit in a galaxy that seemed to be falling apart. The weight of it all pressed heavily on her chest, and the ceremony—though a mark of her achievement—felt like a formality, a reminder of all that had been sacrificed. She needed space. She needed silence.

And so, when the opportunity presented itself, Perdita slipped away, her emotions swirling like the storm outside. The courtyard was empty, save for the relentless fury of the rain and wind. She didn’t mind the storm. The storm outside matched the storm in her mind—chaotic, violent, and full of unresolved anger, sorrow, and fear.

Her gaze lifted to the sky, the sheets of rain blurring her vision as she sought some kind of solace in the tumultuous weather. But all she felt was an overwhelming sense of loss—the loss of her Master, the loss of so many others, and the loss of her own sense of purpose in the wake of it all. Jedi were meant to be peacekeepers. What would happen if they now were forced to lead men into battle? The Jedi Code had taught her to suppress emotions, to detach. But in this moment, as the wind howled around her, Perdita couldn’t help but feel every single one of them.

"I knew I'd find you here," came the calm, familiar timber of a voice behind her. Perdita didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. She recognized the voice instantly, as well as the steady presence it carried. It was Master Plo, and the words he spoke were laden with the kind of understanding that could only come from shared grief.

His student, like her own master, had been struck down in the arena. The thought of it still twisted her insides. The four of them had often trained together, or traveled on specific assignments during her time as a Padawan—Moments of camaraderie and mutual respect, forming a bond forged in the fires of battle. She had known his student nearly as well as she had known her own master, their relationships built not just on duty, but on trust. Now both were gone.

It felt like a cruel twist of fate—two warriors, once so sure of their purpose, now left to navigate a galaxy that no longer made sense. She, without a master, and he, without his student. Both left behind to pick up the shattered pieces of what had once been, each holding together their own fractured pieces of humanity under the heavy scrutiny of the Jedi Council. To grieve was to show weakness, and that was something neither of them could afford, not now.

She felt his presence beside her, a quiet understanding that seemed to hang between them like an unspoken bond. They were two sides of the same coin, each carrying the weight of their loss in silence, never allowing it to fully surface in the light of day. The Jedi Code demanded it. Their mission demanded it. But in the solitude of the storm, far from the eyes of their peers, they didn’t need to speak. They both understood too well the painful burden of sacrifice.

Perdita closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment to breathe before speaking, her voice soft but firm. “I didn’t expect anyone to follow me.”

“You should not isolate yourself in this. It is only natural to feel what you do,” came his reply, steady as ever, though there was a quiet sadness behind it. Yet, despite all the walls they had built around themselves, there was no escaping the fact that they were both mourning, in their own ways, the loss of those they had cared for and fought alongside.

“What will happen to them?” she asked quietly after a moment, her gaze fixed on the swaying branches of the tree in the courtyard, the rain blurring her view. The storm outside mirrored the storm within her, and in the midst of her grief, she found herself seeking distraction, a way to push away the overwhelming emotions.

“They will become part of the Force,” he replied, his voice steady, carrying the calm certainty of someone who had accepted the inevitable.

"No," she corrected, her voice sharp with the intensity of her question. "I mean the Clones."

“I believe the Senate is set to vote on authorizing the use of the clone army to combat the growing threat of the Separatists,” he explained, his voice tinged with a subtle hesitation. “However, the Jedi remain wary of how the clones came into existence.”

“I thought the Republic outlawed slavery,” she scoffed, disbelief evident in her tone.

“They did,” he replied, his voice flat, understanding the gravity of the comparison she was making. He knew exactly what she was getting at—the clones’ situation was eerily similar to that of slaves. They were created to serve, to be controlled, with no autonomy. Their existence would be confined to the demands of the Republic, bound to a life of rigid structure with no freedom of choice. And to her, that felt far too close to slavery for comfort.

“The hypocrisy of that governing body knows no bounds,” she snapped, the frustration in her voice unmistakable. She paused, her expression darkening as the weight of the situation settled deeper into her bones. With a weary sigh, she continued, “What does the Jedi Council say on this matter?”

“Many believe that, given the escalating threat, it is the appropriate use of force to employ the clone army,” he replied, his tone measured, though tinged with a quiet bitterness.

She arched an eyebrow, not entirely satisfied with the response. “And you?” Her voice held an edge, a challenge beneath the words.

He hesitated, his gaze lowering, as though the question itself carried a weight too heavy to bear. "I was dismissed," he said, his voice quiet, defeated. "But you know as well as I do that when the Republic calls, the Jedi answer. Even when the answer is one we don’t agree with."

The air between them grew thick with the unspoken truth. She could feel the pull of his inner conflict—the contradiction of his duty and his conscience.

“If we are to serve with these men,” he continued, his words now more resolute, though his expression remained troubled, “then it will fall on the shoulders of those like you and me to treat them with the dignity and respect they deserve. They may have been created to fight, to serve, but that does not mean they should be used like tools. They are living beings, not weapons.” He paused, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that spoke volumes. “And when the time comes to end this conflict, we must ensure they are freed from this bond of servitude, released into a life of their own choosing. They deserve that much, at the very least.”

The words hung in the air, a shared vow between them—a promise to protect the clones not just as soldiers, but as individuals with their own rights, with their own futures. In that moment, the burden of leadership weighed heavily on both of them. The galaxy may have been at war, but there was a far more personal war raging inside each of them, one that demanded they fight for what was right, even when it was the hardest thing to do.

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ𓃥✧:･.:

Wolffe was thankful that Master Plo and the others had exited the pod to fight, leaving him behind to maintain the signal. Though he was frustrated by being sidelined from the fight, confined to the restrictive, itchy military officer uniform instead of his familiar pressurized armor, there was a small relief in the solitude. It spared him from having to mask his rising panic in front of the others.

No one would come for them. The thought gnawed at him, sinking deep into his bones. It was a bitter truth he couldn't escape. This was it. The end. They were adrift in the vast emptiness of space, with nothing to save them. The oxygen supply was dwindling, each breath becoming more strained, more desperate. He could already feel the air growing heavier, the tightness in his chest as he inhaled, as if the very atmosphere was suffocating him.

The pod was drifting farther from hope, isolated and fragile. It felt as though time had slowed, each second stretching painfully as the reality of their situation settled in. Wolffe's mind raced, trying to calculate, to find a way out, but there was nothing. The stars outside were cold, distant, and unforgiving. He could almost hear the quiet hum of the dying systems around him, each soft flicker of the lights another reminder of their inevitable fate.

He should have been with them. Out there, with the others, fighting for survival. But instead, he was trapped here, alone with his thoughts, and the crushing weight of failure.

As Wolffe continued to wait for what felt like his inevitable end, his mind drifted back over the course of his life. Most of it was a blur—an endless procession of drills, training exercises, and sterile routines. Kamino had been a cold, unfeeling place. The bland food they were served never seemed to satisfy, and the strict, regimented schedules ensured there was no time for personal indulgence or freedom. Regulation haircuts, the endless rain, the never-ending monotony—it had been all he knew, all he had ever known.

Then, like an unexpected interruption in the rhythm of his existence, the Jedi arrived. They were... strange, even by his standards. Warriors of Peace—a contradiction unto itself? Their purpose seemed at odds with their very nature, yet somehow it made sense. They were not like the clones in any way. Where the clones were bred for war, molded into soldiers from the start, with little to no variation. Same face, same body, same resolve. The Jedi were individuals. Their uniqueness was striking—different ages, genders, species. There was no uniformity among them, beyond the rigid structure of their religion. 

If Wolffe hadn’t seen so much of the impossible in their presence, he might have dismissed it as nonsense. But in the face of the things he had witnessed—things that defied logic—he couldn’t bring himself to deny the reality of it. The Force was real even if he didn’t truly understand how it worked beyond allowing the jedi to maintain impossible feats.

Initially, there had been a division between the Clones and the Jedi, but over time, Wolffe had come to see that they could coexist. When he was planet-side, there were conversations with fellow leaders about their Jedi Generals. Some of those generals were kind, empathetic, while others were more dismissive, more focused on the path to victory than the lives of the soldiers they commanded. Yet, the more Wolffe had worked alongside the Jedi, the more he had come to appreciate those who truly respected the men they led.

Plo, with his wisdom and compassion, had never seen the clones as mere tools. He had seen them as individuals. Wolffe admired him greatly for it. He had been one of the few who could see beyond the battlefield, who could understand that the clones were not just soldiers, but beings with thoughts, emotions, and desires of their own. He’d been one of the first Wolffe knew of to use their names, not numbers, even encouraging each of his men to think of what they wish to be called. 

Yet for all his remarkable qualities, Plo had always seemed a bit too optimistic. Wolffe couldn’t shake the feeling that Master Plo's hope that someone would come looking for them—a handful of clones and a single Jedi—was misplaced. They were out here in deep space, lost and stranded, and though Plo had always maintained his calm, unwavering faith, Wolffe wasn’t so sure. The reality of their situation was harsh and unforgiving, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would go to the lengths required to find them.

But even in the face of that, a small part of him wanted to believe in Plo’s optimism. Because, in the end, it was that hope—however faint—that kept them going. And maybe that was all they had left.

That optimism, fleeting as it was, allowed Wolffe to momentarily block out the blaster fire from the battle droids echoing just beyond the pod's thin walls. It didn’t, however, diminish the ever-present anxiety gnawing at him—the gut-churning realization that the craft’s relentless scraping against the pod’s metal was only a hair's breadth away from creating a catastrophic breach. The sounds of the metal warping, groaning under pressure, were a constant reminder: one more strike, one more hit, and the pod would depressurize, sucking the life from him in a deadly, silent instant.

Amidst the suffocating tension and the relentless chaos both inside the pod and outside in the cold vacuum of space, a voice suddenly pierced through the static—a crackling lifeline in the storm. “Is anyone out there? Come in.”

Wolffe’s heart skipped a beat, his mind racing. Could it be? Was someone actually out there, hearing their distress? The radio crackled again, louder this time, the voice clearer. “Come in, this is General Halle—”

His pulse quickened, a flicker of hope stirring deep within him. He didn't recognize the name, but the urgency in the voice—tired yet determined—stirred something within him. Someone was reaching out. Someone had heard their distress call.

The thought of rescue, of survival, felt so distant, so impossible. Yet here it was, a chance, a thread of hope. Wolffe’s grip tightened on the console as he frantically moved to respond, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. Could it be real? Was it truly possible that they weren’t going to be left to die in the cold void of space?

“There’s a general! She must be close!” he shouted urgently into the short-range comms, his voice cutting through the tension like a burst of raw hope. He had to let the others know—there was a chance, however slim, that they might not be alone in this. With a surge of adrenaline, he quickly turned to attempt contact himself, fingers flying over the controls, desperate to reach out and confirm that help was truly on the way.

“Wolffe to General Halle—come in!” he finally barked, his voice rough with urgency, barely suppressing the rising tide of disbelief. The last remnants of fear mixed with a deep, primal hope—the kind of hope he’d long abandoned in the wake of so many battles. Would they make it out of this after all?

“Keep the signal alive, Commander!” Plo Koon’s voice rang out over the chaos of battle, sharp and commanding. Wolffe gritted his teeth as he scrambled to maintain the connection. But the failing power system mocked him at every turn, the energy rapidly draining from the pod’s reserves. His mind raced, cursing himself for not paying more attention during basic engineering training—skills that could’ve saved them all now.

The beeping from the console grew louder, more insistent, each tone like the countdown to their inevitable end. Wolffe’s hands flew over the controls, fighting to keep the fragile signal steady. His stomach twisted as the air around him grew more suffocating with every passing second.

Desperation clawed at him as he forced the words out, “We’re losing the signal! The pod can’t take much more damage!” His voice cracked under the strain, betraying his calm exterior as he looked at the status report. The ship was on the verge of total collapse. The thought of what would come next—suffocating in the cold vacuum of space—made his chest tighten with dread.

It was a terrifying place to exist, caught between the faint hope of survival and the crushing reality that even the prospect of rescue might be a fleeting illusion. Despite hearing the voice over the comms, the question gnawed at him: Who was General Halle? He’d never heard her name before. Was she a fellow Jedi? Perhaps Plo Koon knew her? But Wolffe couldn’t waste time questioning—he had to fight for the signal. Every second felt like a lifetime, and yet, no matter how hard he tried, the clock was ticking down.

A burst of fiery light illuminated the cold darkness outside the pod as the enemy craft was severed in two by a decisive strike from the Jedi. The force of the explosion sent debris scattering into the void, and for a brief moment, Wolffe could allow himself to exhale. The immediate threat had been eradicated, but the relief was fleeting. The question that remained—would anyone get there in time to save them?

The panic that had surged through him began to recede, but he knew they weren’t out of the woods yet. The communication frequency had gone silent on his end, the voice that had offered hope now lost amidst the static and chaos. Whoever had been trying to reach them was now just a whisper in the void, swallowed by the expanding silence of space. The only sounds left were the crackling of their short-range comms, the voices of his brothers outside the pod, echoing through the static.

“We are clones. We are meant to be expendable.” The words, spoken by one of his brothers, hung heavily in the air, carrying a cold, hard truth. Wolffe felt a gnawing agreement with the sentiment. He had always known their place in the galaxy—cogs in a war machine, bred for battle and designed to be discarded when no longer needed. He was a commanding officer, yes, but that title was little more than a designation in the grand scheme of the Grand Army of the Republic. In the end, he wasn’t any different from the others.

If someone came for them, it would be to save the Jedi, to recover the one they had been tasked to protect. His own survival—his brothers’ survival—was not the priority. Even if some Jedi had tried to make them more than that, in the eyes of the galaxy, they would remain faceless, nameless soldiers.

Wolffe clenched his fists, pushing aside the creeping feelings of insignificance. He couldn’t afford to dwell on that now. There was still the chance—slim though it was—that they might make it out alive. But the weight of those words lingered in his mind, a reminder that in the end, their worth had always been measured by their utility to others.

Wolffe slumped back into his seat, the weight of the air around him becoming unbearable with each shallow breath. It felt as though the very oxygen in the pod was slipping through his grasp, as if it too were being torn apart by the impending end. The faint, flickering red lights above him grew dimmer with every passing second, casting an eerie, muted glow that barely illuminated the confines of the pod. The life support system was failing—he could feel it now, the slow encroachment of cold creeping into his bones, chilling him in ways that the adrenaline of battle never could.

It was a cruel sort of fate, the silence that followed. No grand declaration of doom, no sirens blaring, no sudden warning to mark the end of everything. The systems were shutting down quietly, efficiently, as if they were just letting him slip into nothingness with as little disturbance as possible. It was almost too serene.

He understood why it was done this way, of course. The programming was designed to allow any survivors a peaceful departure, a gentle fade into sleep as their surroundings gradually succumbed to the cold embrace of space. It was meant to be humane, a way to spare the mind the anguish of facing the end head-on. But Wolffe had never been one for gentle endings. He didn’t want peace in his final moments—he wanted defiance, a clear acknowledgment that the end had come, that it was final, that he had fought to the bitter end, even if that end had no grand spectacle. If he had it his way, there would be an unmistakable signal, a sharp, resounding yes, this is it, a harsh punctuation to the story of his life.

Instead, he was left in a limbo of silent, inevitable decay, surrounded by the endless hum of failing systems and the distant knowledge that the seconds, the minutes, were slipping away without him ever knowing for sure if this was the end.

Wolffe's hands tightened on the seat as he sat there in the suffocating stillness. The sensation of time dragging on without any real sense of urgency made him ache with frustration. What was the point of it all? To just fade away quietly, like some nameless casualty in the war that had defined his existence? No dramatic last stand, no final shout of defiance, no reckoning to be had. Just silence, cold, and the slow, grinding end of everything he had ever known.

He let out a shaky breath, the air growing thinner, the pressure in his chest mounting. In the quiet of the pod, with only the faintest hum of equipment barely keeping him alive, Wolffe had nothing left but his thoughts—and they were becoming far too loud.

Wolffe's eyelids drooped, heavy with the oppressive weight of fatigue and cold. His body had long since surrendered to the numbness, the chill creeping deeper into his limbs, making every breath feel like an effort, each inhale a struggle against the inevitable. Death had caught up with him. There was no escaping it now, no last-minute miracle to spare him. The sharp, biting cold pressed against his skin, and the air around him—once a lifeline—had become a distant, fading memory. His lungs screamed for oxygen that never came, every breath shallower than the last.

His muscles, once honed by years of training and battle, now felt like lead, too heavy to move, too weary to resist. His eyes fluttered, unable to stay open for much longer. He could feel his consciousness slipping away, the last remnants of his awareness slipping into darkness, where no light reached. A part of him embraced the quiet finality of it, welcomed it, even. Perhaps this was how it was meant to be. Perhaps Master Plo had been right—death was just a transition, a merging with the Force. It wasn’t an end; it was a return. Warm, bright, peaceful—the Force. Perhaps in that moment, he would finally understand.

And yet, even as the darkness crept closer, something stirred. The beat of his heart—the final, sluggish rhythm of life—pounded in his ears, louder now than it had ever been before, each thud reverberating through his chest like a drumbeat echoing in the stillness.

Bump.

Bump... Bump.

Bump.

The sound seemed to slow with his fading consciousness, the once-urgent beat now a rhythmic lullaby guiding him to the edge.

But then, without warning, a brilliant flash of light cut through the suffocating darkness. It pierced the quiet, searing through the despair like a sudden burst of hope. Wolffe’s mind struggled to comprehend it, but the light was unmistakable. Maybe Master Plo had been right after all—the warmth, the brightness, the sense of something beyond... but then—

Bang!

The sudden, loud noise outside the pod shattered the fragile peace that had begun to claim him. His body jerked involuntarily in response, his eyes snapping open as the shock of the sound cut through the fading haze of his thoughts.

Someone was out there. 

A surge of adrenaline shot through him, his heart leaping back to life. The air, now a bit thicker, felt somehow less suffocating, the hope that had seemed so distant flickering again. Whoever it was outside had just given him a moment—maybe more—of something he hadn’t dared hope for.

The pain in his chest was still apparent to him, and his vision blurred, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he found himself focused, listening. The world outside the pod had just shifted, and he had to know if it was the salvation he had been waiting for.

Then, with a violent jolt, the pod slammed into something hard, the impact reverberating through his entire body, rattling him to his core. The world around him seemed to spin, and for a moment, Wolffe could do nothing but slump over, his strength utterly drained. His limbs felt as though they had turned to lead, each one a weight he could no longer lift.

He fought against it, clawing for any remaining reserves of energy. He pushed himself, muscles trembling with the effort, but his body refused to cooperate. Every motion felt sluggish and wrong, as if the very will to rise had been stolen from him.

But then, with a sound that echoed in the empty space, the viewport of the pod shattered away, sending a burst of cold, fresh air flooding into the cabin. The sudden rush of oxygen felt like a rebirth, a blessing from the stars themselves. His chest heaved with desperate gulps, as though his lungs had forgotten what it was like to breathe. The air filled him with a ferocity he hadn’t realized he was starving for, until it seemed to choke him, forcing him to cough uncontrollably.

His arms shook with the final effort, but he found just enough strength to push himself toward the exit, his legs barely supporting his weight as he hobbled forward. He could barely think, his mind clouded with the dizziness of survival, but there was no stopping him now. He had to get out.

As he reached the opening, the ground seemed to tilt beneath him. He faltered, teetering on the edge of collapse, and braced himself for the inevitable fall. But instead of the cold metal of the floor meeting him, strong arms caught him in mid-motion, preventing his fall with an unexpected gentleness.

Expecting one of his brothers, his thoughts disoriented and desperate, he was taken aback when he realized the arms holding him were smaller—slender and feminine. A voice, calm and soothing, spoke just above a whisper, asking with surprising kindness, “Are you alright, Trooper?”

•—⟪=====> 

Perdita's focus deepened as she reached out through the Force, trying to find Master Plo amidst the chaos, but it was the disjointed, desperate thoughts of one of the men that captured her attention. His presence was a storm, fierce and muddled, his emotions ringing out far louder than the calm yet intense connection of her Jedi mentor.

His thoughts were raw, unrefined—full of fear and confusion. He didn’t want to be a cog in the machine. A mindless instrument of war. He didn’t want to be another expendable clone, lost in the endless tide of conflict. A question lingered in his mind: What would death feel like? 

Amidst those thoughts was something else—a flicker of gratitude. He was grateful to Master Plo Koon. The Jedi had treated him and his brothers with respect, with civility, even amidst the brutality of their roles. This is more than a commanding officer, he thought. This is a leader. This is how they all should be.

But then, the wave of frustration surged within him. An unwillingness to give in, even as his body slowly surrendered to exhaustion. His thoughts grew erratic as he pushed against the physical limits of his being, fighting against the inevitable collapse of his own mind and body.

Perdita understood that feeling. How many times had she felt the same way? The overwhelming fatigue, the pull to fight against the tide, against the war that seemed unrelenting. This war was not the purpose of the Jedi—it was a corruption of their true calling. The Jedi were meant to protect life, not throw it away. Yet here they were, caught in the gears of an endless machine, forced to wage war against an enemy that kept multiplying, even as the cost of every life weighed heavy on them. 

It wasn’t fair, she thought bitterly. None of this was fair.

The men, the clones, paid for the greed and ambitions of those who never felt the weight of their sacrifices. She could feel their pain, the endless struggle for meaning in a galaxy that seemed to demand only death in return for their service.

This man, in particular, seemed to be a reflection of everything she had come to understand about the clones. He was more than just a soldier—he was a person, a being with thoughts and feelings, dreams and fears. He wanted to be something more than just one of the millions, but at the same time, he was tethered to them all. He felt the deep connection with his brothers, the ones who bled and died beside him. They were more than just his comrades; they were his family. 

And yet, through all the pain and fear, there was a beautiful truth. He was alive. Against all odds, he was alive. The Force pulsed through him, as it did every living thing, binding him to everything in the galaxy.

Wolffe.

She could feel him.

When the pod finally crashed into the reconnaissance ship, Perdita didn’t hesitate. She acted quickly, tearing the viewport away with ease, knowing that every second mattered. What she saw made her heart ache—a broken figure, barely clinging to life, his eyes wide with terror, fighting against his own weakening body. 

His breath came in short gasps as he slumped, a mere fraction of the strong man he was, now reduced to a vulnerable body lying in the wreckage. But he was still alive. And for all the pain that radiated from him, she knew that was enough.

She moved swiftly, gathering him up as gently as she could, easing him out of the wreckage. His body seemed heavy, limp against her, but the sense of life—the fragile thread that connected him to the world—was undeniable. She settled him against her chest, her heart racing with the effort to hold onto that precious spark of life.

She gently propped him up against the side of the damaged pod, her hands steady but filled with urgency. Looking down at him, she saw the fear in his brown eyes, darting around in confusion and panic. His breaths were shallow, strained, and he seemed lost, disoriented in the chaos of his surroundings. She could sense his fight-or-flight instincts were still alive.

Her voice, soft yet steady, pierced through the fog of his panic like a lifeline. "Are you alright, trooper?" she asked, her tone as calm and reassuring as she could muster, despite the storm raging within her. She knelt beside him, leaning close in an effort to anchor him to the present, her steady presence a fragile shield against the weight of the chaos surrounding them. 

Her hands came up to cradle his face, the touch gentle but grounding. She smoothed her thumbs along his temples, her warmth urging his ragged breaths to slow, her quiet strength coaxing his lungs to draw in air again. Bit by bit, the tension in his shoulders eased, and with a slight nod, he leaned back, letting her hands fall away. A flicker of gratitude passed between them before she shifted her attention to Master Plo, who had just arrived.

“I see your tracking abilities remain as sharp as ever. Your master would be proud,” Master Plo said, his voice measured, though the words carried an unintentional weight. The compliment, meant to honor her, cut deep, stirring a memory she had yet to confront fully.

“Actually,” she began, her voice steady but laced with an edge of emotion, “I didn’t need to rely on them completely. One of your men guided me here. His admiration for you stood out, even amidst the chaos. It was louder than anything else.” 

Her words hung in the air, both a testament to the trooper’s loyalty and an unspoken reminder of the connections that kept them tethered, even in the darkest of times.

"I have done little more than what I promised at the war's outset," he said, his voice low and reflective as he inclined his head toward her. The unspoken understanding between them hung heavy in the air, unyielding but oddly comforting.  

"Skywalker," he continued, his tone shifting to something more urgent, "we need to get to the bridge and navigate out of this debris field before they track us. Dita, would you stay—"  

"I will help your men," she interjected with a firm nod, her voice calm yet resolute.  

The name lingered in the air, charged with a meaning no one else seemed to grasp. Dita. It slipped from his tongue so naturally that there was no time for the others to question it. She hadn't been called that in years—not since her old master had bestowed the moniker upon her. The sound of it was a bittersweet echo of a past life: part ache, part warmth, but entirely hers.  

Without hesitation, she knelt beside one of the injured soldiers clad in armor, her movements graceful but purposeful. She glanced at the medical droid, waiting for its assessment and instructions as it examined the man she'd found.  

Her eyes flicked briefly to the clone in the white uniform—definitely a commander. The oxygen mask pressed to his face obscured part of his features, but the sharp lines of his profile remained strikingly clear.  

Wolffe, she thought. The name suited him.  

There was something undeniably captivating about the clones. Their sun-kissed golden complexions and mischievous brown eyes seemed to embody an irrepressible vitality, even in the darkest moments. To her, they'd always been handsome—every single one of them. An army of millions, each bearing the same roguish charm, had often proved... distracting.  

But now was not the time for such thoughts. She pushed them aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. The commander needed care, and she would see to it that he was alright.

“This one is stable but may require additional care,” the mechanical droid informed her, its tone clinical and detached as it moved away from the commander.

Perdita nodded absently, her attention already shifting to Wolffe. She knelt beside him, her movements careful but deliberate, and gently took the oxygen canister from his hands. He leaned back slightly against the wall, his exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders slumped.

“General Halle, I presume,” he muttered, his voice raw and uneven. His dark eyes met hers, their sharpness dulled but still assessing.

“Yes,” she replied simply, her tone steady. Her gaze flicked to the shallow cut along his brow, the blood dried and dark against his golden skin. It wasn’t deep, just a small split where the skin had given way. But even minor injuries could become complications if left untreated.

Reaching for an anesthetic wipe, Perdita paused just long enough to lower her mask. She tore the foil packet open with her teeth, the action quick and efficient, and withdrew the medicated pad. Quickly replaced was the veil before anyone could see her almost constantly guarded features.

“This might sting a little,” she warned softly.

He didn’t flinch as she dabbed the pad against the cut, clearing away the blood with practiced care. His breathing was steady, though his gaze remained fixed on her, studying her scar and the small sliver of her face which showed beneath her mask and hood as if trying to piece together a puzzle.

The wipe’s cool, stinging touch worked its way through the wound, sterilizing as it soothed. She pressed a little firmer, ensuring the medicated solution did its job. After a moment of examination, she was satisfied.

“No stitches needed,” she murmured, discarding the used wipe. “You’ll be fine.”

Wolffe exhaled slowly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can’t say you are what I expected after hearing your voice.”

Perdita arched a brow, her lips curving into a subtle smile. “And what exactly were you expecting?”

“Someone... taller,” he quipped, his voice still raspy but laced with dry humor.

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Well, I’m afraid this is all you are going to get.”

Wolffe’s smirk widened, but it faded quickly as he winced, shifting slightly. Perdita placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Easy,” she cautioned. “You’ve been through a lot. Rest while you can.”

His eyes softened, the earlier tension in his expression easing as he leaned back again. “Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly, the words tinged with both respect and a hint of weariness.

Something about this clone felt... different. All clones had their own subtle distinctions—small quirks that set them apart despite their identical origins. But with him, there was an undeniable uniqueness, an aura she couldn’t quite name. Was it his quiet strength? The way his presence seemed to command attention even in silence? She wasn’t sure, and now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

They weren’t out of danger yet.

As if to underline the thought, the lights around them flickered once before plunging the room into total darkness before the red backup lights kicked in. The low hum of machinery ceased, replaced by an eerie silence that seemed to swallow the air itself.

Around her, the clones seemed to snap into action, the hum of urgency electrifying the air. Despite their injuries, they moved with a kind of practiced efficiency, readying themselves for whatever threat loomed. The shift was palpable—soldiers who had been teetering on the edge of exhaustion now stood poised and alert, their instincts sharpened by years of training and battle.

“We should get up to the bridge,” Wolffe muttered, his voice strained but resolute. He took a tentative step forward, but his balance wavered, his body betraying the toll his injuries had taken.

Perdita was at his side in an instant, her fingers tightening around his bicep to steady him. “Not yet,” she said softly, shaking her head. Her grip was firm but careful, her support unyielding as his shaky legs found a semblance of stability.

Wolffe let out a frustrated breath, but he didn’t resist her help. She could see the determination etched into his features—the same determination that likely kept him alive through battles far worse than this. But right now, he needed rest more than heroics.

“I’ll head up and check on things,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze.

She held his arm for another moment, ensuring he could stand without her support. His dark eyes flicked to hers in the dim glow of the backup lighting, and for a brief second, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

As she stepped onto the bridge, the palpable tension hit her like a wave. The air was thick with unspoken fears and barely contained nerves. Through the viewport, the colossal battle station loomed, its ominous silhouette swallowing the distant starlight. It seemed to defy time itself, drifting past with an almost taunting slowness. No one dared to breathe, the quiet hum of the ship's systems the only sound cutting through the suffocating silence.

“Assuming that’s why it went dark…” she muttered after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a question, and no one offered an answer. The rhetorical comment hung in the air, unanswered, as the ship adjusted its course ever so slightly. Her gaze shifted to the corner of the bridge, where Skywalker’s R2 unit sat dormant, its lifeless dome a stark contrast to the urgency mounting around them.

The ship gave a faint shudder as its engines shifted power, turning them to face the looming battle station fully. The realization hit her like a thunderbolt—everything was at a standstill. Systems across the scout ship were dark, leaving them vulnerable to the predatory machine outside.

“Are all the systems shut down?” Master Plo’s calm voice broke through the silence, though his measured tone belied the danger they faced.

“Medical droid in the hull is still active” she mentioned with a terse tone, panic creeping into her voice as her words sent everyone into a frenzy of motion. 

“We’ve got to get the power back on, now!” Anakin’s voice cut through the chaos like a commander’s call to arms. Around her, frantic hands worked to restore life to the ship. Lights flickered, consoles hummed back to life, and the faint vibration of repowering systems thrummed underfoot.

She turned her attention back to the viewport, her chest tightening as the battle station continued to reposition itself. Its massive ion blaster came into full view, the weapon more menacing than she had ever imagined. The sheer size of it seemed to mock their tiny scout ship.

Her mind raced, recalling the grim story Master Plo had told—the devastating power of that ion cannon, the annihilation of his entire fleet, leaving only four survivors. Her breath caught in her throat. If that monstrous weapon could obliterate a fleet, what chance did they stand now? The odds felt crushingly impossible.

Being tossed around the cockpit by Skywalker’s daring maneuvers, Perdita clung to the nearest console, trying to steady herself against the turbulence. Anakin’s unique flying style was chaotic, but it was their only hope of threading through the dense debris field. The ship groaned in protest as it twisted and weaved, and Perdita struggled to keep her footing. To her left, a flickering display showed a massive energy surge closing in from behind—an ominous purple glow that painted the cockpit in ghostly light.

“Master…” Ahsoka’s voice cut through the alarms, tight with anxiety. The warning klaxons screamed louder, a relentless reminder of the doom racing toward them.

Perdita swallowed her fear, forcing herself to trust in Anakin’s uncanny ability to pull them out of impossible situations. He is the Chosen One, she reminded herself, clinging to the belief that his destiny would see them through. But the thought brought little comfort as her mind strayed down the corridor to where the rescued clones huddled, still recovering from their last ordeal.

What a cruel twist of fate, she thought bitterly. To have been saved from one deathtrap only to face annihilation again so soon—it was almost too much to bear. Her heart ached at the memory of the Commander, who still felt the call to assist despite his injuries. 

As the ion blast crept closer, its menacing glow filling the bridge, Perdita fought to keep her emotions in check. But her thoughts betrayed her, shifting to memories she had long tried to suppress. The laughter of her fallen Master echoed faintly in her mind, only to be replaced by the gravelly, smoke-tinged voice of the injured Commander. His calm presence in the face of despair had steadied her before, but now, with nothing but the vast void of space around them, she felt untethered.

“We’re clear!” Ahsoka’s triumphant yell snapped Perdita back to the present as the ship’s engines roared to life. With a sharp pull of the controls, Anakin wrenched them out of the debris field and into hyperspace. The oppressive glow of the ion blast disappeared as stars streaked past the viewport in brilliant lines of light.

For a moment, there was silence—a stillness broken only by the hum of the ship’s systems returning to normal. Perdita exhaled shakily, her hands trembling as she released the console. Relief mingled with exhaustion, but another feeling lingered beneath the surface.

Master Plo turned to her, his calm presence grounding her as always. Though he said nothing, his body language spoke volumes. His steady gaze met hers, and she knew he understood where her mind had wandered during the chaos. There was no judgment in his expression, only a quiet empathy that made her feel exposed yet comforted.

In the wake of their escape, the tension in the room eased, but Perdita couldn’t shake the weight of what had just transpired. The Commander’s thoughts echoed in her mind once more, a reminder of both the fragility of life and the strength found in moments of resolve. As the movement of hyperspace stretched endlessly before them, she decided to carry that strength forward—if only to honor those who couldn’t.

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ𓃥✧:･.:

General Plo had returned to the hull where Wolffe and the surviving troopers rested after their harrowing escape into hyperspace. The debris field had been merciless, and though their escape was barely successful, it had yielded critical intelligence about the "mystery weapon." That knowledge alone offered a glimmer of hope for its eventual destruction. Despite the heavy casualties they had suffered and the searing pain that lingered in his lungs, Wolffe felt a small measure of relief. They had survived, and their struggle might now have purpose.

Seated against the hull wall, Wolffe adjusted the oxygen mask strapped to his face, his voice muffled as he spoke. “Sir, the General who found us—” he began, trailing off as his thoughts turned inward. Perdita had remained on the bridge after delivering them to safety, leaving him with questions that refused to settle. How had she found them? Or more specifically, how had she found him?

“What about her?” Plo Koon asked, his calm, gravelly voice breaking through Wolffe’s haze of uncertainty. The Kel Dor Jedi leaned slightly closer, his presence steady and grounding in the way only a Jedi Master’s could be.

Wolffe hesitated, his brow furrowing beneath the mask. “How did she… find us? Or… my thoughts, I suppose. Through the Force?” The question hung in the air, tinged with curiosity and unease. He’d heard tales of Jedi abilities before, but this felt different—more personal.

Plo’s masked face tilted thoughtfully, his gloved fingers brushing the edges of his respirator in a contemplative gesture. After a moment, he answered, his tone as measured as ever. “Perdita possesses a rare gift among Jedi. She has the ability to track memories and strong emotions through the Force. By touching an object, she can glimpse its past, and through the emotions of others, she can sense their presence—even across great distances. I suspect that, in the chaos, she latched onto your fear and resolve as a beacon through the noise.”

Wolffe blinked, the explanation both clarifying and unsettling. His fear and resolve… the emotions that had churned within him during those desperate moments had been like a flare, drawing her to their position. The thought made him pause, his mind turning over the implications of such a power.

“So… She felt… me,” he murmured, more to himself than to Plo. The idea was humbling and unsettling in equal measure. His fear, his regrets, his desire to save his brothers—it had all been laid bare in the Force for her to see. The mere thought of it all was exposing.

Plo nodded, his gaze steady. “She likely did. But do not mistake her insight for intrusion. Perdita does not seek to exploit what she feels. She uses her gift to help, to guide, and to protect.”

Wolffe mulled over the words, his gaze dropping to his hands as he contemplated the weight of them. It wasn’t easy for him to trust, even when it came to the Jedi. But Perdita’s actions spoke volumes—she had saved them, had reached through the chaos to find them when all hope seemed lost.

“I see,” Wolffe finally said, his voice quieter now. He leaned back against the hull, his mind still grappling with what Plo had shared. Perhaps it didn’t matter how she’d found him. What mattered was that she had. "I’ve never heard of her before. No troopers that I know of are under her command," the Commander replied, his brow furrowing slightly as he spoke. "But you referred to her as Dita—so, I take it you’re well-acquainted with her?"

For a brief moment, a flicker of concern crossed his mind. He wondered if the Jedi might interpret his question as an interrogation, but the man simply nodded, his expression softening. It seemed to Plo Koon that Wolffe was eager to understand more about his savior.

"I knew her master well," the Jedi began, his voice tinged with a quiet sadness. "He perished on the same day my padawan did. It's... a bond, of sorts. We’ve always seemed to think alike when it comes to this war. But as for why she doesn’t command any troopers—well, that’s a decision the Council made. They don’t believe it's in her best interest to lead in the traditional sense, as other Jedi do. Instead, she’s been assigned to work directly with those caught in the heart of the conflict. Her strengths along with her compassion, are an asset that is often in short supply these days." 

Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, his mind working overtime to make sense of the conversation. He had never known that Master Plo Koon had a padawan. Let alone that the jedi he served seemed to hold such a personal connection with the woman who’d saved them. The Jedi’s words lingered in the air, but they only served to deepen the mystery that seemingly was General Halle. 

He let out a quiet breath and nodded, deciding it was best to leave the questions for another time. The woman would be leaving soon. She would return to her own quiet battles, whatever they might be, and he would return to his more familiar role—leading the troopers, issuing orders, and focusing on the fight ahead. There was no room for distractions or unanswered questions in the midst of war.

Yet, as much as he tried to dismiss the matter, one thought refused to leave him: she had saved them. All of them. Without hesitation. Without asking for anything in return. The entire squad owed their lives to her, and that reality sat heavy on his conscience. The woman was elusive, almost untouchable in her detached, silent grace, but that didn’t lessen the gratitude Wolffe felt.

The question gnawed at him: How could he thank her?

A simple "thank you" seemed insufficient, a token gesture at best. Words had never felt so inadequate, especially when it came to something so profound. What did you say to someone who had saved you? How could you honor such an act of selflessness without making her uncomfortable or drawing unwanted attention to the deed?

To his right, Boost and Sinker were seated on the floor, the pair leaning against the hull, talking about nothing of importance. They were laughing, animatedly discussing how they couldn’t wait to get a warm shower and a decent meal. It was the kind of conversation soldiers often fell into when they’d survived another harrowing battle—small comforts, simple pleasures that felt like luxuries after the hell of war. He could understand their excitement; a hot shower and a good meal sounded like heaven right now.

But as Wolffe listened to them, a small knot of discomfort tightened in his chest. Their talk was too... narrow, too self-contained. It felt out of place, almost wrong. They were survivors, yes—but the war didn’t end just because they’d made it through another day. There was a bigger picture, one that stretched beyond their immediate needs. Perhaps it was that difference in perspective that had shaped him into the Commander he was.

He had always been trained to see the situation as a whole, to think beyond the individual and focus on the larger mission, the bigger strategy. The war doesn’t stop for you, his training had drilled into him, day after day. And yet here they were, consumed by the thought of a hot meal, as if the battle had already been won, as if there weren’t still lives at stake and a galaxy in peril. It bothered him. It didn’t sit right.

Wolffe shook his head slightly, trying to push the unease aside. His gaze dropped to his uniform, the stiff white fabric of his officer's tunic, out of place and ill-fitting in the moment. He was more acclimated to the constraints of armor, that this tweed material made him exposed. 

He brushed a hand over the fabric, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles that had accumulated. It felt like an odd, futile gesture, trying to bring order to something that was, in essence, chaotic. He wasn’t used to thinking about his appearance—rarely had need to think about it. 

Wolffe shared the same features as his brothers—identical in every way. The same bronze complexion, the same dark, intense eyes, the same deep brown hair. To him, there was little need to stand out in appearance; his identity was defined by his role and his actions, not the way he looked.

He had always felt that the clones who sought uniqueness through changes to their appearance were chasing something fleeting, something unnecessary. The idea of colored or long hair seemed absurd—maintenance during deployments or combat was difficult enough without adding more to the list. And face tattoos? They struck him as... unprofessional, especially for someone in a leadership position. It wasn’t just about practicality; it was about maintaining a certain standard of discipline, a sense of order. Officers, in his view, needed to embody that standard—not stand apart from it.

In Wolffe’s mind, any alterations to appearance should be a personal matter, something private—done for oneself, not for the approval or attention of others. So, he kept his tattoos hidden, a personal choice that he saw no need to display. His hair was kept short and practical, his facial hair carefully shaved away. It was simple, efficient, and in his eyes, a mark of professionalism. 

Instinctively, he reached up to fix his hair, his gloved hand running through the short strands. His fingers caught on the thick gel he had used to keep his hair in place during the chaos of combat. Wolffe tugged at it, trying to rearrange his dark locks. The effort was in vain, of course. The gel was too set, too unyielding, and his hair refused to cooperate.

Why did this matter?

He froze, his hand still tangled in his hair, the question hanging in the air. Why did he feel this compulsive need to make himself presentable, when everything around him was in tatters? They had all been spared death today, yes. But that was the only victory. His appearance hardly mattered—not in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t as if anyone would notice.

Yet, despite the absurdity of it, the need lingered. The need to appear competent, presentable, even when he felt anything but. Perhaps it was a way to cling to some semblance of normalcy, some small piece of order in the disarray of his thoughts.

But as the thought lingered, Wolffe caught himself, questioning it—Why?

More troubling still, for whom?

The very notion made him want to bolt, to open the airlock and let the weight of his embarrassment carry him into the cold emptiness of space. What was he doing? Why would a seasoned Commander in the clone army, respected and battle-hardened, seek the approval of a woman he barely knew? A Jedi, no less—a figure bound by the very rules that forbade attachment, a woman who kept herself shrouded in secrecy, both physically and emotionally.

He couldn’t even begin to guess who she truly was beneath the robes and the mask. The only parts of her he could make out were the eerie glow of her bright eyes—eyes that seemed to pierce through the veil of mystery surrounding her—and the scar that marred the otherwise smooth, pale skin of her face. A single mark, like a memory of a battle she’d survived. But beyond that, there was nothing. He had no knowledge of her species, no clue about the woman behind the mask.

He felt like an outsider looking in, caught between a gnawing curiosity and the stark realization that his place was far removed from hers. He was just a clone—a soldier—and she was a Jedi, bound by codes he could never understand, carrying burdens that had nothing to do with him.

The curiosity made him feel... juvenile. He didn’t wonder about women—not like this. His interests had always been more straightforward, more functional. The warmth he sought back on Coruscant was the kind most officers indulged in—brief, impersonal, and fleeting. Late nights in the backrooms of the 79s, tossing credits won in a game of sabacc onto the table, before making a quick retreat back to base to hit the refresher. The entertainers, with their bright smiles and painted faces, always made him anxious to get clean, to scrub away the evidence of the…distraction.

But this? To actually want to see the features of a woman who was his superior? The very thought was absurd. Wolffe scoffed under his breath, shaking his head at the idea. It had to be some kind of side effect of the gratitude he felt. She had saved his life—no small feat—and now that debt had manifested in this bizarre curiosity.

That’s all it was, he reasoned with himself. After months of nothing but combat and the sterile company of his brothers, she was one of the only women he’d been around. A brief glimpse of something unfamiliar, something human, had stirred feelings he’d never given much thought to before. She’d touched him gently, and in a way he’d never recalled being touched before. Her thumbs softly brushed along his skin, as if she was concerned it may shatter under her fingertips. It wasn’t attraction—it was simply curiosity, nothing more. Right?

The subtle shift in the ship’s movement as it exited hyperspace brought Wolffe back to the present, the hum of the engines signaling their return to realspace. They would be arriving soon—back with Skywalker’s fleet—and from there, his path would be uncertain, shrouded in the fog of the war. His thoughts faltered, caught between the urgency of duty and the questions that lingered unanswered.

The muffled voices in the corridor grew louder, pulling him from his reflections. The door slid open, revealing Master Plo Koon and Ahsoka.  Wolffe hadn’t even noticed his brief departure, only his return. The Jedi Master was speaking calmly, his hand outstretched in a gesture of reassurance, while Ahsoka wore a faint smile, her eyes alight with the quiet relief of their arrival.

Below them, the ship’s landing gear made contact with the cruiser, the low thud reverberating through the hull. Wolffe watched as Boost and Sinker stood, moving with practiced efficiency as they donned their armor once more, preparing for the next phase of their mission. The Gateway hissed open, and one by one, his brothers filed out of the small craft, their movements swift and familiar.

First his brothers, then Plo Koon and the padawan—each moving with purpose. Wolffe lingered at the back, holding his position. He had made up his mind: before leaving, he would find a way to thank her. The Jedi had saved their lives. He owed her that much, at least.

Moments later, she emerged, deep in conversation with Skywalker, her gaze flicking across the room with casual precision. But then, her eyes locked on him. “Anakin—” he heard her murmur, before her tone shifted, the words trailing off. Slowly, deliberately, she began to walk toward him.

“Commander, might I accompany you to the med bay?” Her voice was unexpectedly warm, the request coming with a hint of sincerity that caught him off guard.

Wolffe blinked, momentarily taken aback. “That’s not necessary, Ma’am—” he started, ready to brush off the offer.

She cut him off gently, her tone light but firm. “It would be my pleasure, sir,” she said, and Wolffe could almost hear the smile in her voice. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer some time alone after the events of today?”

He hesitated, glancing away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “No, it’s not that. I just didn’t think escorting a clone to the med bay would be a good use of your time,” he replied, his eyes darting uncomfortably to the side.

“Nonsense,” she replied with a quiet laugh, her confidence unwavering. “Besides—” she paused for a moment, as if considering something. “If that means the Council will take out their frustration on Anakin and Ahsoka instead, then you’d be doing me a favor by keeping me out of the crossfire.”

Wolffe couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. “In that case, General, I’d be more than happy to spare you,” he said, a hint of dry humor creeping into his voice.

The woman gestured toward the gangplank, and Wolffe gave a curt nod, beginning his walk. She moved effortlessly beside him, her every step a picture of grace. The dark robes she wore—much deeper in hue than any Jedi’s attire he had seen before—swayed with her movements, flowing like shadows that shifted with the rhythm of her stride. In contrast, he stood in his pale officer's uniform, the stark white fabric a striking contrast against his dark features. She, with her pale skin catching the light beneath the dark material of her robes, was a study in contrast—an enigma of light and shadow walking beside him.

After a moment of silence, he broke the quiet, his voice steady but carrying the weight of gratitude. “Thank you for getting us out in one piece, General Halle,” he said.

Her steps faltered on the ramp at his words. She paused, turning to face him, her expression unreadable as she studied him in silence for a moment. “It was your determination that guided me to you all,” she said softly, her voice carrying an unexpected depth. “In a way, you saved yourself, Commander Wolffe.”

He shifted uncomfortably, hoping to brush off her comment. “Master Plo said someone would come for us. I’m glad he was right,” he replied, his tone steady, though the flicker of uncertainty behind it betrayed his intent to deflect.

Her gaze remained fixed on him, her eyes sharp, searching for something deeper. “You did not share his sentiment?” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity.

Wolffe hesitated before answering, his voice carrying the weight of experience. “Strategically, General, it doesn’t make sense to waste resources on rescuing a handful of clone troopers,” he said, his tone firm, though there was a slight edge of discomfort in admitting it aloud. He wasn’t sure why the words felt heavier than usual, as if the notion of worth had shifted in his mind, leaving him with more questions than answers.

She didn’t respond immediately, a thoughtful hum escaping her lips as she processed his words. Then, with quiet conviction, she spoke. “Respectfully, sir, I do not agree with your assessment.”

His eyes widened in surprise at her candidness, and he turned to face her, momentarily speechless. “I—” he began, unsure of how to respond.

She held his gaze, her expression steady. “Strategically, our primary objective was to uncover the mystery behind that weapon,” she continued, her tone deliberate and measured. “Given the scale of the fleets that were lost, a small mercy mission to rescue the survivors could provide critical insight toward achieving that goal. However…” Her eyes softened slightly as she regarded him, “The value of life—no matter its origins—is something I hold dear. I do not consider it a waste of resources.”

Wolffe paused, his mind turning over the conversation. He sighed deeply, shaking his head as he turned away, his gaze inadvertently falling on a passing member of the 501st. The soldier’s face was all too familiar—his name unknown—but the resemblance was undeniable. The same features, the same purpose, the same quiet determination. It served as a stark reminder of his argument to the Jedi: that clones were soldiers, not individuals worthy of exceptional regard. His thoughts wandered for a moment, reinforcing the point he'd made earlier. Yet, despite his best efforts, he couldn't shake the weight of the resolve with which she had spoken.

Just as Master Plo had, General Halle seemed to view things differently—she, too, seemed to believe there was more to the clones than their utility on the battlefield. A subtle shift in his thinking began to form, challenging the hardened convictions he’d carried for so long.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low but steady. “Master Plo speaks very highly of your compassion, General Halle.”

Her response was swift, a quiet smile in her tone. “As he does with the strength of your leadership, Commander Wolffe,” she replied, her eyes momentarily flicking to the distance, where the familiar signet of the medical ward could be seen, a quiet beacon marking the end of their short journey.

The words hung in the air between them, and for the first time, Wolffe wasn’t sure how to respond. He had spent so long compartmentalizing his thoughts, locking away any notion of self beneath the armor of duty. But there, in her gaze, he saw something that both unsettled and intrigued him—an invitation to consider that maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than the role he had always played.

Before he could gather his thoughts, they arrived at the medical bay’s entrance, the doors sliding open with a soft hiss. The sterile scent of antiseptic and bacta flooded his senses. A place for healing. A place where bodies were mended, but souls remained fractured.

Wolffe paused in the doorway, his eyes briefly sweeping across the medical ward—sterile, quiet, a space built for healing and recovery. Yet, amidst the sterile whiteness of the room, he could feel an overwhelming sense of finality. He shifted his gaze back to her, meeting General Halle’s eyes once more, his expression betraying the quiet weight of his thoughts.

“Thank you, General,” he said, his voice low but steady. "For... saving us. And for not seeing us as just soldiers."

Her expression softened, her eyes shifting from their usual intensity to something gentler, something more personal. She gave a slight nod, acknowledging his words with the respect she’d shown throughout their brief time together. “Any time, Commander,” she replied with warmth, her tone unguarded.

Without hesitation, she extended her arm toward him, and he met it halfway, gripping her forearm in the familiar gesture—one of comradeship, of respect, a bond forged not in words but in action. The clasp was firm, an unspoken promise of understanding between them.

"Until we meet again, Wolffe," she said, her voice carrying a quiet finality that spoke volumes. There was something in her gaze—perhaps it was the fleeting softness, or the unspoken understanding—that made the farewell feel heavier than it should have.

Wolffe found himself looking down at their joined forearms for a moment. His fingers, long and almost imposing, curled around the slender shape of her arm, while her delicate fingers rested lightly against his. The contrast between them was striking—two figures so vastly different in form and demeanor, yet united in this fleeting moment of connection.

He then lifted his gaze slowly. He sought one last glimpse into her bright green eyes, eyes that seemed to hold so much, that flickered with wisdom and purpose. Something there stirred within him, a feeling that he couldn’t quite name but knew he would carry with him for a long time.

“Until we meet again, General Halle,” he replied, his voice steady, though a trace of something deeper lingered beneath the surface.

Tag List: @leenathegreengirl @asgre @badbatch-bitch @cw80831 @heidnspeak

[leenathegreengirl]

💜💜💜💜💜WOLFFE&PERDITA!!!! 💜💜💜💜💜

💜💜(Ya girl is happy squealing right now!!)💜💜

"Princess" || Commander Wolffe x OFC Perdita || Clone x Clone OC Week 2025

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x OFC Perdita Halle (Bio HERE)

Word Count: 6.8k+

Rating: SFW but Teen+

Warnings: heavy flirtation, mentions of order 66, grief

Author's Note: Day 3 of @clonexocweek! Shifting gears to one of my other OC's Perdita. You can find her Bio linked ahead! This is also the next installment of her story with Commander Wolffe! So thankful to this writing challenge to really push me to keep my stories going! As always, this story exists within @leenathegreengirl 's AU and she is responsible for helping bring Perdita to life!

Previous Work || Masterlist

Wolffe stormed through the swamp, fury in every step. How he had ended up here was something he still couldn't fully accept as his own doing. The decision to fire on his own troopers the moment he set foot on the landing platform with the Jedi in custody had set everything in motion—forcing them both into a frantic scramble for a shuttle to escape. While their initial flight had been successful, it became clear that no matter how many ships they commandeered, they were always being tracked. The Empire was waiting for them the moment they made it off-world. And so, their latest crash landing on Nal Hutta, the ship's descent still echoing in his mind…

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

“I’d brace yourself for a rough landing, Princess,” he muttered grumpily, his eyes scanning the damaged shuttle’s computer system. The trajectory was set, but that didn’t ease the gnawing sense of dread. The hyperspace jump hadn’t been the problem—no, it was the damage they’d sustained during the last firefight. When they entered the atmosphere, the shuttle had been torn apart even more, each burst of fire and each jolting impact chipping away at what was left of the ship. 

“I told you to stop calling me that,” she snapped back, her voice edged with irritation.

He wasn’t sure why the nickname had stuck. Maybe it was the undeniable truth that, despite everything, she did look every bit like royalty—her elegance even in chaos a sharp contrast to the grim reality of their situation. Or maybe it was just his way of dealing with everything—his passive-aggressive shield, the thin veil of sarcasm and annoyance that kept the world at bay. He wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing: the name fit her, and it kept slipping off his tongue without a hint of regret.

The shuttle’s hull groaned in protest as it plunged further into the atmosphere, metal screeching under the strain. Wolffe’s fingers flew over the controls, trying to stabilize the craft, but it was like trying to tame a wild animal. Sparks flew from the dashboard, and alarms screamed in their ears as the ship's systems malfunctioned one by one.

“We’re not gonna make it,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her. His hands tightened on the controls, his mind racing with calculations, but there was no escaping the inevitable.

Perdita’s voice cut through the chaos. “Wolffe, do something!”

He barely heard her over the sound of the wind whipping through the shuttle’s breaches, but he could feel her eyes on him. He knew she was scared. Hell, he was scared. His mind raced, thinking of a hundred ways to try and save them, but his heart kept coming back to one thing: her.

She was a fighter, he’d seen that time and again, but there was something about the way she sat there—straight-backed, almost too calm for someone about to crash into a swamp—something that gnawed at him. It wasn’t the same composure he saw in seasoned soldiers. It was something more fragile, hidden behind those defiant eyes of hers.

His breath hitched as he looked over at her, the storm of emotions he’d kept locked up inside surging to the surface. “Don’t worry, I’m not letting you die,” he growled, more to himself than her, his voice rough with the weight of the words. There was no time to explain, no time to reconcile his feelings, but that fact rang clear in his mind.

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly about to retort, but the shuttle bucked violently, throwing both of them against their seats. The world outside spun, a blur of treetops and sky, before the ground suddenly rose up to meet them with a bone-rattling jolt.

The crash itself felt like an eternity—a gut-wrenching mix of twisting metal and bone-shaking impacts. For a moment, Wolffe was sure they were done for. His grip on the controls tightened as the shuttle careened towards the swamp, its fuselage skidding through the muck before coming to an abrupt, jarring halt. The sound of groaning metal filled the air, followed by an eerie silence.

He was breathing hard, disoriented, and his ears rang. For a moment, he just sat there, fighting to clear the fog in his mind. Then, he turned to her. Perdita was still in her seat, eyes wide but alert, a few cuts and bruises on her face from the impact and her hitting the glass viewport, but—thank the stars—still breathing.

“Princess,” he breathed, his tone softer now, betraying the storm of emotions he’d tried to mask. “You okay?”

She didn’t respond immediately, her hand pressed against the side of her head as she checked herself for injuries. It was then that Wolffe realized how deeply he’d been holding his breath. The relief flooding through him was overwhelming, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he let himself be vulnerable, his concern for her slipping through the cracks of his tough exterior.

Perdita finally looked over at him, her lips curling into a small smirk, despite the blood trickling from a gash on her temple. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

Wolffe’s lips twitched, but his gaze softened. "Maybe later," he muttered, then quickly turned his attention to the wreckage around them. "We need to get out of here. Now."

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

That was how he had ended up slogging through waist-deep, murky water, making his way toward what he could only loosely call civilization. If you could even label it that in Hutt-controlled territory. Still, it was precisely the area's reputation for being lawless and corrupt that had sparked the decision to come here in the first place. Nal Hutta, despite the Empire’s claims of dominance, remained firmly beyond their grasp. But in the chaos and uncertainty of this place, there was opportunity—a chance for both of them to regroup, to blend in with the shadows and find something they desperately needed: new clothes, supplies, and a ship the Empire wasn’t tracking.

The only problem now, however, was the eerie sound of water sloshing quietly beneath their boots, a constant reminder of how far from safety they truly were. There was no conversation, no words exchanged between them as they waded through the murky waters. Silence had become their constant companion. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, either. Their interactions had devolved into either tense, frustrated silence or harsh words. Gone were the days of lighthearted banter that had once filled their conversations during the war.

It hadn't taken long for Wolffe to realize that the fall of the Jedi Order had profoundly changed Perdita. The peaceful presence she had once projected, that calming aura she used to exude, had been dulled. In its place, there was a rawness to her emotions—a sharpness in her gaze and a palpable edge to her every move. Wolffe had seen glimpses of this before, flashes of intense emotion that cut through her usually serene exterior, but now, those moments were no longer rare. They were becoming the norm. And it was in this silence, as the water lapped at their feet, that he found himself unsure of where they stood now—or where they were heading.

He’d read her file shortly after the fall of the Jedi Order, desperate to find any shred of information that might explain which of the Jedi he had known were still alive—and, more hauntingly, which ones had perished, and how. Perdita’s name had appeared on the list of the missing, along with that of her padawan. At the time, that brief mention had sparked a small flicker of hope in him, something to hold onto as he navigated the confusion and loss of those early days. His ears had remained attuned, waiting for any news, any whisper that might tell him more.

But, despite all the time that had passed since their reunion, he still hadn’t found the courage to ask her about the whereabouts of her padawan. The silence surrounding that question had remained a heavy weight between them, one Wolffe wasn’t willing to lift. He could feel it in the air between them—an unspoken truth that the padawan had likely met the same grim fate as so many others. The odds were too high, the likelihood of survival too slim. He had seen too much in the aftermath of Order 66 to believe otherwise. He had learned, painfully, that the Empire’s reach was long and merciless.

"He’s fine—" Perdita's voice cut through the silence, her words tight with tension as they waded through the water. The sentence hung in the air, heavy with the unsaid. Wolffe hated it when she did that. He hated how she seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, even without a single word exchanged between them. It wasn't that he could fault her for it; after all, she had never once intruded on his thoughts since they had found each other again. Perdita respected his boundaries, never reaching into his mind the way others might have. But she couldn’t help when his emotions grew too loud, too raw, for her to ignore.

She always seemed to sense it—when his heart clenched, when his thoughts wandered into the darker corners of his past. She could feel the weight of his unresolved questions, his guilt, his fears. But there was something else, too—something deeper in her tone that he couldn’t quite place. It was as if, in that one brief sentence, she was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince him.

Wolffe didn’t respond immediately, but the silence that followed was thick with the tension of unspoken truths. Perdita’s assurances weren’t enough to silence the nagging doubt in his mind, but he knew better than to press her on it. He assumed she wasn’t ready to share, and that was something he could respect, even if it ate away at him.

"You are free to ask what happened if you like," Perdita spoke softly, her voice devoid of the sharp edge that had marked most of their exchanges since they’d been reunited. Gone was the venom, the anger that had become familiar whenever she addressed him. Instead, there was a quiet resignation in her tone, something fragile that caught Wolffe off guard. She seemed different now—less guarded, but in a way that spoke of deep, hidden sorrow. That sadness, creeping into her voice, halted his movements. He paused mid-step, his boots sinking slightly deeper into the murky water as he turned to face her fully.

The air between them felt thick with something unspoken, an invitation to tread where they had never dared before. Her eyes were distant, almost lost in a memory, as though she had seen something he couldn’t, something far beyond the shadows of Nal Hutta. He searched her face for some sign of her usual composure, but it was no longer there. The flicker of vulnerability in her eyes made his heart tighten in a way he hadn’t expected. He swallowed, unsure of what to say.

"It is not my business—" he began, but she interrupted him, her voice firmer now, tinged with something that bordered on resolve.

"Nonsense," she said sharply, though the bite in her words was softened by the underlying emotion. "You threw away so much to help me. You are at the very least owed an explanation if you desire it."

Her words lingered between them, carrying the weight of a history neither of them had fully confronted. Wolffe felt a strange stirring in his chest. Perdita had always been one to keep her secrets, and to offer even a hint of explanation was something rare, something she clearly didn’t give lightly. He could see the effort it took for her to even offer this. She wasn’t asking for his pity, but perhaps, for understanding—a moment of honesty in the aftermath of all they had lost.

He took a step closer, his voice low, steady, as though each word carried weight he didn’t want to acknowledge. "I didn’t do it for an explanation, Princess. I did it because I know you are a good person, someone who didn’t deserve to suffer. I didn’t want to be complicit in causing you pain," he admitted, the truth falling from his lips without hesitation.

There was a long pause between them, the weight of his words sinking into the murky water surrounding them. For a moment, Wolffe wondered if she would respond with bitterness or if she would retreat into the walls she’d built so carefully around herself. But instead, she simply nodded, as though the admission was both expected and understood. It was a moment of quiet connection between them, a rare honesty amidst all the lies and deceit they had both endured.

Perdita inhaled deeply, her shoulders tightening, as if bracing herself for the weight of the memories she was about to relive. She spoke softly, almost to herself. "We were on an assignment off-world. Onderon. We were assisting Gerrera’s forces—fighting the Separatists trying to reclaim the system.” Her eyes unfocused, drifting back to the distant horizon as if the memory was replaying in her mind. "When it happened... when everything fell apart, his men helped Zatt and I escape."

Wolffe’s chest tightened at the mention of Zatt. The padawan. His thoughts flickered briefly to the child, imagining the fear in his eyes as his world crumbled. He said nothing, allowing Perdita to continue, knowing she needed to speak.

"Kenobi sent out a message from the temple, warning survivors not to return, so we did that—we ran. Hiding where we could, wherever we thought we were safe. But as the Empire began taking over system after system, it became harder for someone like me to stay hidden, especially with a child. A child who doesn’t look anything like me." She shook her head, the sorrow clear in her voice. "It draws attention, and we couldn’t keep pretending that he was my flesh and blood. The Empire’s reach was too long, and the risks... they became too high."

Her voice faltered for a moment, a brief crack in her otherwise composed demeanor. Wolffe’s heart ached at the thought of how much she had carried alone during that time. She had been a beacon of strength in the war, but even the strongest of people break when they carry too much.

"So, I got him back to his people." Perdita’s voice hardened slightly as she continued, as if her decision was one she had replayed in her mind a thousand times. "They promised me that they would protect him. And... I trust that he is alright. I trust in the Force. He’s—" She paused, her words catching in her throat for a moment, as though the weight of them was almost too much to bear. "He’s a good kid. He deserves the chance to be a kid."

Wolffe felt a lump form in his throat as he listened to her words. The image of a child, a bright and hopeful young soul, caught in the crossfire of a war he couldn’t fully understand, hit him harder than he expected. Perdita had risked everything to ensure the boy’s safety, even if it meant letting go of him. He could see the love and the pain in her eyes, the impossible decision she had made out of love for a child who wasn’t hers by blood, but had become her responsibility all the same.

"You did what you had to do," Wolffe said quietly, stepping closer still. "You did what was right."

Perdita looked at him then, her eyes searching his, almost as if looking for confirmation that she wasn’t alone in her choices. "I hope I did," she murmured, more to herself than to him, her voice breaking slightly. "I hope he’s safe. That he’s somewhere far from this war... that he can live a life outside of the Empire's reach."

The silence that followed was filled with the weight of everything they had both lost, everything they had both endured. And yet, despite the darkness surrounding them, Wolffe could feel a quiet strength growing between them. Perdita’s pain was raw, but she wasn’t letting it consume her. She had made sacrifices, had fought for a future that didn’t belong just to her, but to someone else—a child who deserved a chance to grow up, untouched by the horrors of the galaxy.

"You’ll find him again," Wolffe said, his voice firm with the certainty of his words. Perdita’s gaze softened slightly, the tiniest hint of hope flickering in her eyes. "I hope you’re right, Wolffe," she replied quietly. "I really do."

Wolffe watched as a small tear escaped the corner of her eye, a fragile drop of emotion she couldn’t quite hold back. For a moment, it hung there, suspended in time, before she quickly brushed it away, as though to erase the vulnerability that had slipped through her defenses. "We should keep moving," she said, her voice steady, but there was a faint tremor beneath the surface—one that Wolffe could feel, even if she tried to hide it.

"Hey—" Wolffe’s voice was hesitant, laced with concern. He took a step closer, unsure if she would push him away.

"Nightfall is approaching," she replied quickly, her tone resolute, though the effort to mask her emotions was clear. Wolffe knew the routine, the constant push forward, the need to keep moving. It had been their mantra ever since they’d been thrust into this war-torn galaxy together, but something about the cold finality in her voice made him hesitate.

He couldn’t just leave her like this—not when he saw the raw pain etched so deeply into her face.

Without thinking, he placed a hand gently on her shoulder, his grip light but firm. He turned her body slowly to face him, not allowing her to keep walking. Her eyes met his, wide with surprise, and in that brief moment, Wolffe saw a fresh wave of tears gathering at the corner of her eyes—tears that threatened to spill over, despite her best efforts to hold them in.

"Perdita," he whispered her name, his voice softer than he intended, but full of meaning. It was the first time he’d said her name, the first time since their reunion, and the sound of it seemed to cut through the thick, heavy air between them.

She sucked in a sharp breath at the sound of it, as if hearing it aloud was a jolt to her system. Wolffe noticed the subtle shift in her expression—the way her eyes softened, the way her breath hitched, as though his voice had pierced a wall she had so carefully constructed around herself.

For a brief moment, she looked like the woman he had once known, back when they were fighting side by side in the war. But then, the mask cracked just enough for him to see the depth of the grief she had buried inside. "I... I don’t remember you ever saying my name," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. It was almost as though saying it aloud brought the reality of everything they’d been through into sharper focus, forcing her to confront the distance that had grown between them.

Wolffe’s heart tightened at her words. He hadn’t meant to bring back those old wounds, but somehow, he had. He realized then that, for all the battles they had fought together, all the missions they had survived, they had never truly stopped long enough to talk, to heal. Back then, it had always been "General" or "General Halle" in the field. A title, a role. There had been no room for anything else. Since their reunion, he’d stuck to calling her by the nickname she had loathed, a habit formed from years of familiarity, but it had never been her. He had never truly seen her until now, in this fragile moment of shared silence.

“Sorry, Jedi aren’t supposed to be weak,” she muttered, her voice laced with self-derision. She reached up to brush the tears from her face, as though to erase the vulnerability she had just allowed herself to show. But before her hand could make contact, Wolffe stopped her, gently intercepting her movement.

“Perdita,” he spoke her name softly, his voice quiet but steady, “you aren’t weak.”

His hand found hers, but instead of simply holding it, he gently guided it away from her face. His thumb traced the delicate line of her cheek, his touch light, almost reverent, as though he was afraid of breaking something even more fragile than the tears she had shed. He had never been one to shy away from battle, from hard decisions, but this felt different. In that simple act, in that moment, he was offering something she had probably not had in far too long: tenderness.

The gesture wasn’t necessary, not in any practical sense. He knew she could wipe the tears away herself. But there was something inside him, something deep and unspoken, that made him want to help ease the burden she carried. And so, with each gentle sweep of his thumb, he felt a warmth spread inside him—an unexpected pride. This was not just about shielding her from the storm outside. It was about giving her the chance to fight the battles within herself, the ones she had been fighting alone for so long.

She had always been alone in this—carrying the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders, trying to make sense of everything that had been ripped away. But for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t have to do it alone. He was here, and he wanted to be here.

Her breath caught in her throat as he traced the scar that ran along her cheek. It was an old one, from long ago when she was a padawan, yet it was still part of her. It was a reminder of what she had survived. And as his fingers lingered there, a quiet admission slipped from his lips, barely above a whisper, but filled with meaning. “And you always were better than most of them in that Temple,” he said quietly, the words rolling out with the ease of someone who had seen the truth from the start, but had never said it aloud. “You were always different. You are different.”

The words hung between them, heavy with sincerity, and for a brief moment, it seemed as though time stood still. Perdita blinked, taken aback, her chest tightening as his words settled in. No one had ever said that to her—not like this, not with this kind of raw honesty. There was no judgment, no expectation. Only the simple truth, spoken with care.

She didn’t know how to respond. There had been so many voices over the years, so many opinions of who she was, what she should have been, who she had failed to become. But Wolffe wasn’t like the others. His words weren’t meant to fix her. They weren’t some hollow comfort, a fleeting reassurance to make her feel better. They were a quiet acknowledgment of everything she had been through, everything she still carried. It wasn’t just about the battles she’d fought or the scars she wore, inside and out. It was about who she was—the woman standing before him, still fighting, still surviving, despite it all. And for the first time in a long time, she felt as though she didn’t have to hide from it. 

Wolffe, who had seen her at her best and her worst, who had fought alongside her before and now when the galaxy was falling apart,  stood before her not as a soldier, not as a comrade, but as someone who saw her. Really saw her.

Her breath shuddered, but this time, the tears that welled up were different. They were not born of sorrow or loss, but of something more profound—a release. A moment of pure honesty, of being seen, of being understood.

For a long moment, she couldn’t speak, the words stuck in her throat, but she didn’t need to. Instead, she simply met his gaze, her hand reaching up to rest on his wrist, the quiet connection between them saying everything that needed to be said.

Wolffe, in turn, held her gaze with a quiet determination. He wasn’t going to push her. He wasn’t going to demand anything from her. He simply stayed there, his presence solid and unwavering, offering her the one thing she had always needed more than anything else: understanding.

“Thank you, Wolffe,” she whispered, her voice low and filled with gratitude. It wasn’t just for saving her, not just for the battles he had fought for her, but for something deeper—something she hadn’t realized she needed until now. Thankful for the way he had listened, how he had seen her when no one else had, and for the care he was offering so freely, without asking for anything in return.

How the Jedi had seen attachments like this as a danger showed Perdita just how misguided the order was. 

For a moment, everything else faded away. There was no war, no Empire hunting them down, no scarred past between them. It was just the two of them, standing in this fragile space where words didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Wolffe’s lips—one she hadn’t seen in what felt like ages, not since that last day at the Jedi Temple, before everything fell apart. A quiet, familiar expression, filled with that old, comforting confidence. It was a smirk that reminded her of the man she once fought alongside, and yet, there was something different about it now—something softer, something more.

Without warning, Wolffe leaned in, and the smirk, like a subtle, unspoken promise, grazed her skin as he pressed the lightest of kisses to her temple. It was brief, but it lingered in a way that left her breathless, like a gentle caress against both her skin and a part of her soul she’d not quite acknowledged before. She could feel the warmth of his lips, the softness, the tenderness in the gesture—a contrast to the rugged soldier she had always known him to be.

Her heart skipped a beat, and for the briefest of moments, it felt as though the world had slowed down, leaving only the quiet intimacy of the moment between them. She didn’t pull away, didn’t move, instead she closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of him there, so close, yet so carefully distant.

When he pulled back, his face softened, but the smirk was still there, like a secret they shared.

“Anytime, Princess,” he said, his voice low, but his tone teasing—though there was something more in it now. Something that hadn’t been there before. He called her “Princess” but now instead of in the heat of an argument, the word now carried a weight she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t a jest anymore. 

Her breath caught for a moment, and she found herself searching his eyes, as if trying to make sense of the moment, of the unexpected depth in his words, his touch. There was no pretense between them now—no shields, no walls. Just the raw honesty that had grown between them in the shared emotions of their joint situation.

She could see it now. The way he looked at her was different. Not with the same respect he had shown in the heat of battle, but with something warmer, softer—something that made her heart race a little faster. It wasn’t just the soldier standing before her anymore. It was Wolffe—the man who had always respected her and was grateful for saving his life. Now, as if trying to prove he was worthy of her by tossing away all he’d known to keep her safe.

“Wolffe…” Her voice trailed off, and she didn’t quite know what to say. There was too much between them now, too many emotions swirling in the space they shared, to fit into just a few words. She didn’t need to say it all out loud. He already knew.

His hand, still resting lightly on her shoulder, tightened ever so slightly, not possessive, but protective—gentle, yet firm. Her eyes, searching his face, spoke volumes—questions, uncertainties, and perhaps even a hint of something she wasn’t yet ready to name. He saw it all, the raw vulnerability behind her gaze, and yet, there was no fear in it. Just honesty. 

Wolffe knew she wasn’t the kind of woman to let herself need anyone, especially not someone like him. He had seen the way she fought alone, the way she carried the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders with the stoic grace of a Jedi. But now, in this quiet space between them, he could sense the shift. She didn’t need to say everything. He already knew.

Gently, as though allowing her the space to pull away if she needed, he moved his hand to tenderly cup her cheek, his thumb brushing against the smoothness of her skin. He wasn’t trying to push, only to offer her the quiet reassurance that he was there, unwavering. His fingers lingered at the side of her head, where the soft, shorn hair met her scalp. He hadn’t yet asked whether that style had been a choice, or a necessity born of their circumstances. They hadn’t been running long, but already, he’d grown unkempt—his face dotted with the beginnings of a beard, his hair far past regulation. Yet, there was something captivating about the contrast between her long hair and the one side she’d kept so short. It highlighted the delicate curve of her neck, leading down to her nape. As his fingertips brushed over it, he found himself mesmerized by the beauty in the unexpected—a striking blend of sharpness and softness that left him almost breathless. 

Her breath caught, just a whisper of a sound, as his touch lingered against her skin. Her eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, as though afraid that if she opened them, the softness of the sensation would slip away, leaving nothing but the cold reality of their world.

"I like this," he confessed, his voice low, tinged with a quiet warmth. His fingers brushed over the short hair again, the gesture casual, yet it carried a weight he hadn’t expected.

Wolffe couldn’t quite understand it—the way his stomach fluttered at something so simple, so seemingly trivial. To touch her hair, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips—it was enough to make his heart race, to stir a feeling deep inside him that he couldn't place. It was a strange blend of yearning, of wanting more, and yet, at the same time, a quiet anticipation that left him breathless, as though this moment was something more than he could put into words.

Perdita let out a soft scoff, the sound tinged with an edge of frustration. "I didn’t really have much choice in the matter," she said, her voice quiet but resolute. The puzzled furrow of his brows seemed to silently demand more, urging her to explain. With a reluctant sigh, she did. "Hair got caught trying to escape not too long ago. It was easier to just cut myself free and deal with the consequences later," she confessed, the words coming out heavier than she intended. There was a fleeting vulnerability in her tone, one she quickly buried beneath the weight of practicality.

Inside, she knew it sounded ridiculous. The Jedi had always taught her that vanity was a frivolous concern, something beneath the greater mission. It was one of the reasons she had always kept herself veiled. She had listened to the council’s recommendation to cover herself in fear of leading her peers to stumble with their own vows, as many women at the temple did.

But standing here now, with Wolffe's gaze lingering on her, she felt a sudden self-consciousness she hadn’t expected. There was something raw in the way his eyes held her—something that seemed almost hungry. And in that moment, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of uncertainty about the simplest of things: the unexpected and frankly unwanted cut made her worry about his opinion. It seemed so trivial, yet she couldn’t help but wonder how he would view it. 

Wolffe’s hand remained at her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin with a slow, deliberate rhythm. He watched her carefully, the softness in her eyes, the faint tension in her posture as she spoke. There was something about the way she seemed so conflicted over something as trivial as an unwanted haircut that made him smile. But it wasn’t just any smile—it was a smile filled with admiration, warmth, and, surprisingly, a bit of boldness.

He took a deep breath, his gaze locking onto hers with a playful intensity, as though testing the waters before plunging in. "I’m about to say something that would’ve definitely landed me in hot water when you were my superior..." His voice was low, steady, and there was a subtle weight to his words that hinted at something more. "But the truth is, you’re an incredibly attractive woman. I always noticed things—like how the faint shape of your body would show through those robes, or how your eyes, no matter how stoic, could still be so captivating."

He paused, meeting her gaze. There was no sense in pretending anymore. They had too little to lose, and he knew she'd likely sensed his thoughts already. This confession, he decided, needed to come from his lips, not his mind.

He leaned in slightly, the intensity of the moment drawing them even closer. “But right now? In this filthy swamp, covered in blood, sweat, and tears?” He let out a quiet chuckle, one that mixed affection with something deeper, more genuine. "Even with your... unique hairstyle," he teased with a warm smile, "you’re damn enticing, if you ask me."

The words hung in the air between them, charged with honesty and something far more intimate than he'd expected to reveal.

She blinked at him, the comment catching her off guard, and for a second, Wolffe thought she might blush. Instead, she quirked an eyebrow at him, her lips pulling into a teasing smirk.

“Well, aren’t you the smooth talker,” she replied with a sarcastic, yet amused tone, trying to cover the way her heart fluttered at his words. She tilted her head, studying him for a moment before responding with a slight chuckle of her own. “If I’m being honest, I’ve kind of gotten used to the scruffy look,” she teased, her eyes lighting up with playful mischief. “I think it suits you. We’ve both seen better days, after all. It kind of fits this whole... runaway, no-one’s-gonna-catch-us vibe we’ve got going on.”

Wolffe let out a low laugh at that, the sound rich and genuine, and his thumb brushed across her cheek one more time before he dropped his hand. “Scruffy, huh?” he mused, his lips curving into a sly grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Perdita shrugged, her expression shifting into something softer, more genuine beneath the teasing facade. “I’m just saying,” she added, her voice quieter now, “there’s something... enticing about someone who’s lost the need to keep up appearances.” She repeated his choice of words back to him.

He studied her for a moment, taking in the lightness in her words and the warmth in her eyes. He could see the change in her—the way she let down the walls just a little bit more, the way she let herself be a little more real with him.

“You’d better get used to the scruff. No guarantees we’ll be able to find razors anytime soon, so it’s going to be this for the foreseeable future,” he warned, referring to his own appearance. 

Perdita’s lips curved into a playful smile, her eyes glinting with amusement as she regarded him. “Oh, trust me, I think I can handle it. It's not like I’m exactly looking pristine myself,” she teased, gesturing toward her own disheveled state. “Besides, if I’m going to keep surviving this runaway life, I’ll have to learn to appreciate the little things. Like scruffy Wolffe,” she added with a wink, the teasing tone in her voice softer now, the playful banter offering a shield, but beneath it was something more sincere.

Wolffe chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, and his gaze lingered on her a little longer than before, not just taking in her teasing words but the subtle way her posture had shifted, the quiet vulnerability that had seeped into her demeanor. She leaned into his hold, and at some point he hadn’t noticed that she’d settled her hands on his waist. There was something refreshing about the way they could still find humor in all of this, despite the chaos surrounding them.

“I’m not exactly worried about my looks right now,” he admitted, his voice quieting just a touch, something more serious weaving through. “But if you think I look good this way, then maybe I should hold onto it a little longer.” He raised an eyebrow, the playfulness still there, but now it was paired with a flicker of something deeper, something that hadn’t been there before.

Perdita tilted her head, studying him closely. Her expression softened, and the teasing edge from earlier seemed to fade, replaced by something more sincere. “I’ll admit... there’s something more real about it. It's like the soldier is finally disappearing, and what's left is just... Well, Wolffe.”

“Well, good to know Princess…” he said. Perdita raised an eyebrow, her expression a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Princess again?” she asked, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “You really can’t let that go, can you?”

Wolffe grinned, his eyes glinting with mischievous humor. “What can I say? It suits you. You’ve got that royal vibe, even when you’re covered in dirt and mud.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “Royal vibe? Please, I’m far from royalty.” She gave him a nudge with her shoulder, her voice light but laced with curiosity. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

He let out a chuckle, the sound warm and genuine. “I don’t know... I guess it’s just suited to you at the moment. If I didn’t know who you were, I’d assume someone as pretty as you would be royalty.”

Perdita blinked, her expression softening. “Well, I don’t know if that’s true,” 

Wolffe’s grin deepened. “Don’t sell yourself short, Princess. You’ve got a lot more going on than you give yourself credit for.”

She shook her head with a smile, the playfulness in her eyes still dancing. “Alright, alright. But I’m not letting you off the hook for that nickname anytime soon.”

He shrugged with an exaggerated nonchalance, though there was a glint of warmth in his eyes. “Sorry but you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Perdita’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the teasing faded, leaving something more honest, more vulnerable behind. “You know,” she said quietly, “even though it’s been... insane, I don’t mind these moments. The ones where we can laugh, forget the world for a little while. And hey, we’re not screaming at each other for once.”

Wolffe met her gaze, his smile slipping into something more genuine, a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “I get what you mean,” he said softly. “But just so you know, I’m still going to argue with you. Count on it.”

Perdita raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at her lips. “Oh yeah? You’re not done with that?”

“Of course not. You’re easily the most vexing woman I’ve ever met,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Vexing?” she repeated, a mischievous glint in her eyes before she shoved him playfully. The sudden motion caught him off guard, and he stumbled backward, sinking deeper into the murky water than he’d planned.

“Oh, you are not getting away with that one, Princess.” Wolffe scoffed, reaching for her, but his hand froze mid-air, caught in some unseen force. He blinked, startled, as Perdita flashed a sly grin and wiggled her brows at him.

“Sorry, what was that?” she teased, her voice light as she turned to walk away. “Can’t hear you over being this vexing.”

Wolffe stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, before finally feeling the hold around his hand loosen. As she started walking, he could still feel the playful tug of her teasing energy. She glanced back over her shoulder, tossing him a look that spoke volumes—like maybe, just maybe, things could be okay if they kept going down this path.

With a quiet chuckle, he followed her, the promise of more moments like this could make his decision worthwhile. It wouldn’t be easy. They’d still clash. Danger was always there, lurking in the background. But if life on the run could be this... chaotic, but somehow enjoyable, he was more than willing to take on a little more conflict.

Tag List: @leenathegreengirl @asgre @badbatch-bitch @cw80831 @heidnspeak

[leenathegreengirl]

THESE ARE BEAUTIFUL!!! What a lovely and creative way to go into such depth with these wonderful characters/relationships!!! I love every one of them SO MUCH!!

What If… || ClonexOCWeek2025

Rex & Mae || Wolffe & Perdita || Tech & Marina

Author’s Note: Hi friends! For day 6 of @clonexocweek I thought I’d better convey some of the things I associate with my OC’s and their copy/paste men… so I had fun with a little social media aesthetic prompt! Below you will find one for each character, as well as a little glance at how I see each couple as a unit visually speaking. So for “what if…” it’s “what if they were a color (for example). Anywho, this was a prompt more to show how I see these characters and help people feel as connected to them as I do. Reminder this all exists within my friend @leenathegreengirl ‘s AU! All art of my oc's is by her!

Pairings: Captain Rex x OC Mae Killough | Commander Wolffe x OC Perdita Halle | Tech x OC Marina

Masterlist

Animal

Lion: Rex is fierce, he is a bold protector and he is powerful. He works best by leading others. But at his core, he truly is a wonderful soldier.

Red Fox: Foxes are typically known for and associated with resourcefulness, cunningness and cleverness. They often have a shy but playful disposition. Mae has had to rely on herself for so long, that her ability to adapt to survive through her intelligence makes her more aligned with a Fox than just the similar color of their hair/fur…

Place

Mountainous Body of Water: Usually bodies of water near mountains are carved out by glacier activity. Strong erosions over time that create a pristine and enriching space. Rex has seen many things through his life, but he is resilient.

Misty Mountains: Mae has a tumultuous past and her homeworld replicates that of our world’s climates like Scotland or Ireland. The lack of sunlight mixing with the peaks to some would seem depressing, but to others the calm they bring is aligned with her more subdued nature of being - which I’d say is a less flashy kind of beauty.

Plant

Succulent: Succulents are desert plants, that learn to survive on little resources. They tend to weather lots of mistreatment and still maintain their ability to persevere. Rex has been through much in his life, and he continues to keep fighting the good fight.

English Ivy: This vine plant grows very quickly, can grow virtually anywhere and is known to help remove toxins from the spaces they occupy. Mae is quick to adapt, keep her morals aligned despite her upbringing with a crime family, and she left upon her first chance at freedom.

Character

Li Shang: He is a leader. He’s a strong warrior. He tends to be more reserved, maintaining what he can on his own. Initially he is by the book and has to learn to adapt. That sounds an awful lot like Rex to me… we will gloss over Li Shang’s initial sexism though…

Anna: The Princess can be quite awkward. She is also optimistic, caring and free-spirited. I honestly do see more of Anna’s tendency to be a bit clumsy aligning well with Mae. Early on I do think that Mae was a bit sheltered from real life, kept away from some of her siblings and that aligns a lot with Anna’s growth from willing to marry the first man she met to being Queen of the kingdom. (With a handsome blond near her side!)

Season

Summer: Summer is warm. It’s bright. It is the peak of likelihood. It’s when we are closest to the sun. The days are longer. Rex has a lot of light to him so often forgotten by his struggles. He was born to be absorbing the suns rays with a drink in his hand.

Autumn: A brisk chill in the air leads to the heartiness that goes on in one’s home in fall. I always have seen Mae as a large pot of soup with a fireplace as the leaves outside begin to fall.

Hobby

Surfing: One of the first times Rex directly interacted with Mae was on one of her rare days off. She grew up in a large mansion by the sea, but the kind of cold, rocky shorelines were not build for surfing. When she moved to Pabu, her appreciation for the calm that life by the water increased, and the locals showed her how to appreciate them in a harmonizing way. When she taught Rex, he found the physicality enjoyable, and the relaxation it provided through bonding with the doctor to be the kind of reprieve he needed. With time, her favorite hobby, became a pastime of his as well

Color

Blue: 501 Blue does go so well to describe Rex. Loyalty, honor, stability, and calm describe him so well, but at this point the shade is so closely associated with the captain, I’d be remiss not the say Blue.

Forest Green: While Mae frequently dons soft blue, I think green fits her much more. Green is a nurturing color, associated with nature, and one’s ability to adapt. It’s a color that subconsciously relaxes. Her home being a safe haven for many is more attuned to this shade.

Crystal/Stone/Gem

Sea Glass: Given the narrative connections run so deep here, I won’t elaborate as I already have in “Something About You”, but Rex is much alike the kind of beauty that comes from transformation through hardship.

Pearls: Mae used an alias while she initially was working for the Republic Aid Relief - another translation or meaning of her name - Pearl. Pearls are associated with luxury but also new beginnings. There’s a Devine feminine energy of something that comes from the sea and has the subdued brilliance of pearls.

Food

Pot Roast: Rex just seems like the kind of man who wants to come home to a hearty, slow cooked meal that’s rich and warms the soul

Waffles: They are sweet, and they are compartmentalized. Mae, while a kind person, has her quirks. She likes to sort things out on her own.

Together, they are both a mix of very striking differences on the outside, but the kind of people they are - the kind that would give you clothes off their back or work so hard to help those in need since it’s the right thing to do - make Mae and Rex one of my favorite couples to write for. She isn’t a gun wielding badass, but she’s a spitfire. She’s bold when she needs to be. She’s refreshingly honest. The two have a similar mind of putting others first, themselves second. Finding someone like that, helps you maintain a love in which you care for the other person’s needs in a beautiful and calm light. Mae brings Rex stability. He brings her security. With that comes smiles into cups of caf and the jovial times of those who began as friends first. His appreciation for her endearing sweetness and respect for her strength hopefully will allow these two to survive virtually whatever throws their way. I see their dynamic to be one that is timeless, and soft.

Read their stories here:

Key: Flashback ★

Introduction : "Spitfire" | 4.9 (SFW) | collab for @clonexocweek day 1! ★ 1.Peace | 6.5 (SFW) | Ao3 Link 2. Something About You | 8.8k (SFW) | Ao3 Link \_> "Tag" | 5.9k (SFW) | collab for @clonexocweek day 2! \_> "A Quiet Hum" | 1k (SFW) | Tunesgiving Event \_> Life Day 2025 Event: "Operation Life Day" | Ao3 Link(Fanart & Story) 3. Touching Revelations | 5.5k (NSFW)

Animal

Wolf: I mean. I don’t feel the need to explain this one…

Arctic Fox: solidarity creatures, raised in harsh climates that still - despite all odds - are loving and playful. Monogamous, and maintaining loyalty to one mating partner for life, they are willing to cross the tundra for the one they love. Perdita’s time with the Jedi created a solidarity which she has to learn to overcome, but the loyalty she feels towards Wolffe is finally bringing out the more playful and inquisitive side of her that shows there’s so much more to life than the Jedi Order she may have been neglecting…

Place

Open spaces under a night sky: Wolffe has a stillness about him. Don’t assume it makes him weak, but he has a nature that seems just on the outskirts of things. The stillness of night is something that he often feels connected to. Especially given his life almost ended in an escape pod, adrift amongst the stars. The ability to feel the ground below, seeing them from a distance, is where he feels the most at peace.

Caves: Growing up under the Quarzite surface, in the intricate system of caves, Perdita has many aspects associated with her people. Some may find the hollowed out spaces to be eerie, vacant, but with them comes security and a sense of protection.

Plant

Pine trees: Woody, strong and also… comforting. Pines have many associations of tradition and the warmth that accompanies celebrations of the winter. Wolffe has a traditional undertone to him that feels aligned with the strength and comfort of a pine.

(Redacted) Russian Purple Variation: So, keep with me… but a certain substance often used recreationally for health benefits definitely aligns with the more odd aspects of the Jedi, and their tendency to prioritize meditation and connecting to the force… as for the Russian purple variation of this plant… it is grown in HARSH climates, just like the environment Perdita came from.

Character

The Winter Soldier: Left under mind control at the hand of a regime that saw him as a tool not a person? Check. A badass with a cybernetic element? Check. Associations with Wolf (later the White Wolf)? Need I say more?

Daenerys: Both Perdita and Daenerys were the victims of situation, where their power was often wielding without their consent or against them. They are both inquisitive, but also have a vengeful streak. The more Perdita becomes distant from the Jedi, the more she is willing to see how wrong they are. But, unlike Daenerys she learns to confront it and accept it. Calm, levelheaded and regal these women both have a grace about them.

Season

Winter: Both Wolffe and Perdita have a coldness about them that radiates with winter. Perdita, from repressing emotion so long, and Wolffe with his regrets and rigid soldier tendencies.

Hobby

Music: With time, I see Wolffe appreciating music. Perhaps a quiet melody played only for himself, but the dedication to learn an instrument seems like something he’d do in private.

Strategy Games: At the temple, Perdita often excelled with logical games that related on strategy. I think this ability to shift things around her through intuition is something she continues to enjoy

Color

Grey : His color during the war, and he still feels the pull to associate with it now, Wolffe enjoys the tranquility associated with the color. Although, now with the addition of Perdita to his life, he prefers the mixing of a misty teal and grey, as the colors harmonize in a serenity he enjoys.

Dark Green/Teal: A color of communication and sophistication, Perdita is open and gentle in nature.

Crystal/Stone/Gem

Dalmatian Jasper: Grounding and loyal. This stone is said to bring about renewal. A visual representation of the darkness Wolffe is still trying to process.

Clear Quartz: A crystal for purifying and cleansing other stones. Translucent and strong.

Food

Coffee: Black. No frills. Chugged while scalding. On Pabu I think he’d get WAY too into espresso and making good espresso.

Tacos: Not sure why but I love the thoughts of a Perdita that is safe, and just pounding some street tacos on Pabu.

There is so much strength, determination and above all… trust. They fight hard for one another. Are likely unhealthily attached to one another. They defied all odds - a Jedi Survivor and a Deserter Clone. There is not a thing these two would not do to keep the other safe. And in that, something beautiful emerged. A tension which lead to a fierce love and respect. Like a dog guarding its home almost, Wolffe would not stop at anything to keep her safe. Despite everything their love is so rich its intensity goes without words. Both transformed by the harshness they endured , picture them like Coal, so impressed upon it eventually turns to diamond. Not to mention the lovely symmetry in which they exist. Reflections of one another in so many ways, and yet a strong contrast of light and darkness. And… despite all the jokes he really does see this former Jedi as his “Princess”, worthy of love and admiration.

Read their stories here:

Key: Flashback ★

The Introduction: "Now we are even"| 5k (SFW) Part 1 : " The Rescue "| 13.5k (SFW) ★ Part 2: "Princess" | 6.8k (SFW) | collab for @clonexocweek day 3! Part 3: "Lessons in Intimacy" | 7.7k (mostly SFW) | @clonexocweek day 4! Part 4: "Mercy Mission" (Coming Soon!) ★

Animal

Silver Foxes (Brown): Fast, intelligent, resourceful. Silver Foxes specifically have associations with being hunter for sport and worn by royalty. They tend to be more antisocial creatures, but once they grow to trust, they are very friendly. Fierce hunters and adaptable creatures, Tech is intelligent and good at problem solving.

Sea Turtle: Having long lives and being an integral role in the marine ecosystem, turtles are resilant. From hatching, to a life of solidarity, they are always finding ways to adapt and survive. Graceful and strong. Marina has faced hardships but she continues to survive.

Place

Misty Ocean Cliffside: Tech seems the type to appreciate the softeness of an overcast down overlooking the water. No harshness of the sun, but taking in the splendor of the strength of the ocean.

Oceanside: In a more generalized sense, Marina is very connected to the ocean. Her work, her livihood, even her name are tied to a connection with the ocean. She particularly enjoys diving to view reefs.

Plant

Mint: fresh, clean, and cool. Mint is a plant with beneficially properties and a plesant taste/aroma that is mild. Tech radiates practicality and keeping a calm head about most things.

Marine Alage: A part of the reef ecosystem, sea alage is very unique in terms of the genetic structture and physical makeup. They do not act as normal 'plants', not having a vasualar system or structure. In a similar way, Marina is very unique both physically and socially.

Character

Milo Thatch: loyal, well intending... and awkward. Milo is very intelligent and respectful of people regardless of background. Plus, we are not blind... Milo girlies are now Tech girlies.

Elizabeth "Lizzie" Bennet: Name me a more independant, intelligent and witty woman. I'll wait. But in all seriousness, Elizabeth has much that she has to grow and learn with time - same as Marina needs to learn to allow herself to be cared for once again.

Season

Summer: A time for long days filled with many activities. Warmth and outdoor time. Summer is often associated with both a productive time and a time to unwind. Tech and Marina spend an awful lot of time around the ocean, so summer just feels like a fitting season for them both. The only differnce I see - Marina is a mid day swim, and Tech is a relaxing summer evening after a long day.

Hobby

Diving: What kind of Marina biologist doesn't enjoy diving and exploring? Marina's work is also her enjoyment, and with time becomes something she shares with him. The physicality of it, paired with the curiousity is the perfect blend of fun and educational for both these lovely scientists.

Color

Orange: Orange is a color of confidence and warmth. Often seen in nature and connected to creativity. Orange was the first color Tech 'chose' to identify with himself after Order 66 and the Batch repainted their armor.

Navy Blue: A color associated with dependability and calm. A color Marina has decorating her skin in the intricate lines of her tattoos.

Cyrstals, Stones, Gems

Ammonoidea fossil: Tech and Marina both share a love of research, and I do feel that fossils would hold interest for both. Aquatic based ones would provide a look at the past that they both find intriguing.

Food

Fish and Risotto: Something about the light filling nature of a nice grilled, citrus fish and risotto feels like a meal Tech would enjoy. It's got a practical comfort to it.

Salad: Healthy, fresh and limitless options for filling. Marina feels like the kind to actually enjoy a nice salad with homemade dressing.

Tech and Marina are the definition of a well oiled machine. Practical, sensible, and speaking a similar language without actually needing to speak at all. Academically minded people who genuinely care for the other's interest, they spend so much quality time in deep discussions on life, theories and hypotheticals. These two will never grow bored of each other. A story both of loss, and rebirth, they learn to move in a unified song and dance through life that contradicts everything people previously assumed about them. Marina brings out a lightness in him he never knew was there. Tech shows her that it's okay to be taken care of. Not to mention... a hidden spiciness brimming below the surface. Their love is one that says "I already did that dear-", since their strong atunement towards each other's needs is so strong, it often outweighs their own.

Read their story here:

1. "Someone New" | 10k (SFW) | Part of "Between Hearts and Ruin" Event

[leenathegreengirl]

💕💜AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THIS IS SOOOOOOOOOOOO SWEEET!!!💜💕

💕💜I LOOOOVVVEEEEE THEMMMMMMM!!!💜💕

"Lessons in Intimacy" || Wolffe x OFC Perdita || Clone x Clone OC Week 2025

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x OFC Perdita Halle (Bio HERE)

Word Count: 7.7k+

Rating: SFW with MILD NSFW for kissing

Warnings: some smooching (but def more on the PG/PG 13 side, illusions to Wolffe being a horny boy

Author's Note: Day 4 of @clonexocweek! Keeping the Wolffe and Perdita train rolling! I always just imagined they would have little/no reservations regarding how they feel given the gravity of their situation. As always, this story exists within @leenathegreengirl 's AU and she is responsible for helping bring Perdita to life!

Previous Work || Masterlist

Since that day in the swamp, an undeniable shift had occurred between the two of them. It wasn’t just the lingering tension of being a clone deserter and a Jedi survivor—though that alone created its own weight. The sleepless nights, the scarce meals, and the constant danger served as grim reminders of how unstable everything had become. Yet, amidst the chaos, they had somehow found more moments of reprieve. They weren't grand gestures, nor were they marked by any overwhelming event. Rather, these were small, quiet instances of connection that neither had expected.

Perdita might have lost the Jedi Order, but the teachings, the discipline, and the inner strength they had instilled in her remained firmly etched in her being. The same could be said for Wolffe, whose identity had long been intertwined with military regulation and the unwavering sense of purpose it provided. Without the army, though, a quiet isolation tugged at him—a feeling that didn't go away even when he was in close proximity to her. And not just any woman, but someone who had become undeniably alluring in ways he hadn’t anticipated. The tension between them was palpable, a silent understanding that neither knew how to navigate fully.

Wolffe thought he knew what intimacy was. He'd learned it in the dim-lit corners of the 79s, where his brothers often treated him to a drink or arranged for an entertainer to spend time with him just to lift his spirits before another deployment. To him, intimacy was simple—something physical, a way to fulfill one’s primal needs. He saw it as nothing more than a release of built-up tension, a temporary escape from the demands of war.

But soon, he discovered that intimacy could be far more than that.

Intimacy, he learned, could take on a softness he had never anticipated. It wasn’t always the loud, demanding force he once thought it to be. Sometimes, it was the gentle stroke of a hand on his shoulder, a quiet gesture that pulled him from sleep without the harsh jolt of a brother’s shake, warning him of impending danger. It was a tender invitation to wake, a peaceful pull toward the world of the living, rather than the constant tension of war.

It was in the quiet words exchanged in moments when the world outside seemed too loud to bear. Simple, soft-spoken affirmations that settled deep in his chest, offering comfort when it was most needed. It wasn’t about grand declarations, but the small, deliberate acts of care—like passing him something he needed without having to ask, an understanding shared in the absence of conversation. These actions didn’t demand recognition, but they carried with them a sense of being seen, of being valued without expectation.

Intimacy was also found in the unspoken—those fleeting moments when their eyes met, and everything he needed to understand was written in the depths of her gaze. Her green eyes, always so full of life, seemed to flicker with every emotion under the sun, each spark and flash a silent conversation between them. And in those brief exchanges, he found himself captivated—not just by the fire in her eyes, but by the way her very presence made him feel as if he were staring at the stars themselves, their brilliant glow far more radiant than anything he’d ever seen on a battlefield. In those moments, everything else faded, and the world, for just a heartbeat, felt right.

Perdita had grown more comfortable touching him, just as he had with her. But even as the distance between them shrank, there remained a certain innocence in her actions that he couldn’t ignore. Her hands always hovered just out of reach of anything that could be construed as inappropriate, lingering in spaces that could easily be mistaken for friendly affection. But to Wolffe, it felt like an unspoken tease, a maddening restraint that never allowed him the release he desperately craved.

Occasionally, she would rise onto her toes, pressing an uncertain kiss to his cheek, or let her hands rest just a breath away from his, their fingers touching but never quite connecting for more than a few seconds. That small, simple proximity was enough to send a wave of heat flooding through him, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t the kind of touch he was used to—the hurried, frantic brushes of a soldier’s world, or the fleeting, almost empty encounters that filled his past. No, this was something else entirely. It was slower, more deliberate, and infinitely more frustrating.

With every innocent gesture, Wolffe found himself tightening. His body responded instinctively, a flare of desire mixed with tension, but it was a hunger he couldn’t fully satiate. He longed to pull her closer, to deepen the contact between them, but he couldn't bring himself to cross the invisible line that she had unknowingly set between them. Her hesitation, her sweetness, only made his need more unbearable. It felt as if she didn’t fully understand the effect her closeness had on him—the way his breath would catch when her fingers brushed against his, or how his pulse would race when her lips hovered so close to his skin. 

He was becoming painfully aware of every inch of space between them, of the unfulfilled longing simmering just beneath the surface. Every moment her touch lingered near his skin, yet not on it, was like a cruel tease—an agonizing reminder of what he couldn’t have. He could feel his muscles tightening, his hands twitching with the urge to reach for her, to close the gap that seemed so small yet felt like an impossible chasm. Her innocence in these moments only heightened the tension within him, pushing him to the edge of something he didn’t know how to express.

If Wolffe had to make a guess, he was almost certain that Perdita had no clue just how much her seemingly innocent, friendly touches were affecting him. It wasn’t as if he could blame her for it—after all, her gestures were so natural, so effortless. She was kind, affectionate even, but completely unaware of the undercurrent they stirred in him. Wolffe doubted the Jedi Order ever went into detail about physical relationships—hell, he was certain they actively discouraged them. The notion that Perdita might be entirely oblivious to the effect her proximity had on him gnawed at him. But it wasn’t just her casual touches that kept him awake at night, it was the creeping realization that if she ever became aware of how close she was to unraveling him, it might be too late.

She had a way of drawing him in with her subtle presence—when they found those rare, quiet moments of peace amidst the chaos of war. Lately, she had taken to meditating with him, her calm voice guiding him to stillness as they sat together on the cold durasteel floor. The simple act of her hand gently tugging at his wrist, encouraging him to join her on the floor, had become a ritual that hypnotized him, a pull that made him feel anchored even as the chaos raged on around them. And in those moments, the space between them felt like more than just physical distance—it felt charged.

His worry that she might one day sense the depth of his longing never fully left him. That ever-present fear lurked in the back of his mind, a constant reminder of how fragile everything was. But at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel a certain indifference toward it. After all, they could both die at any moment. The weight of the Empire was always with him, heavy and undeniable, and that gnawing fear of regret—of never fully living—pushed him forward. It was why, despite his internal conflict, he allowed himself to feel the warmth of her presence without pulling away.

So there he was, eyes closed, sitting against the cold durasteel floor, breathing in time with her. A former soldier, hardened by years of battle, now beside a Jedi, breathing in the calm of the Force, as though it was enough to quiet the turmoil inside him—enough to hold off the flood of emotions that threatened to overtake him. In that shared silence, in the simple act of sitting together, there was a connection that spoke volumes, even if they never dared to acknowledge it aloud.

"You seem troubled," she spoke calmly, her voice a soft murmur that floated through the stillness between them. Her eyes remained closed, her posture serene and unbothered by the tension that had crept into his own. Wolffe could feel her awareness like a weight on his chest, a quiet pressure that knew him better than he knew himself. The very moment he tried to suppress the thoughts racing through his mind, tried to push them back into the recesses of his mind, they exploded to the forefront, impossible to ignore. And as if on cue, Perdita’s words landed with surgical precision, cutting through the fragile defenses he'd tried to erect around himself.

He hadn’t expected her to notice. No, he had hoped she wouldn’t. But that calm voice of hers—so attuned to the smallest shifts in energy—had felt his unrest. The realization was jarring. He had never been good at hiding things, but he had hoped he could at least keep the weight of his emotions buried, just for a little while longer.

"Nothing to report, Princess," Wolffe muttered, offering the lie with the same practiced ease he'd used countless times. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew how hollow they sounded. Lying to a Jedi was a fool’s errand—a truth he'd learned long ago. They could feel it, sense it, and even without reading his mind, Perdita could likely see the cracks in his facade. It was frustrating, infuriating even, but beneath it all, there was an undeniable pull he couldn't ignore, a desire to be seen, even in his weakest moments.

Perdita’s brow barely twitched, and her lips curled into the faintest of smiles, the kind that always seemed to dance just beyond the reach of his understanding. She wasn’t fooled. She knew better, and her unwavering patience was the only thing keeping him from crumbling completely under the weight of his own silence.

“Wanna try again?” she asked, her voice gentle but insistent, a quiet challenge hidden within her calm words. There was no judgment in her tone, no forceful pressure, only a gentle invitation to speak, to open up—to stop hiding from the inevitable.

Wolffe’s chest tightened as the walls he had built around himself slowly began to crack. He sighed, a low, resigned sound that echoed in the emptiness around them. The soft hum of the ship’s engines was the only other sound in the room, a constant reminder of their vagabond existence. He could feel the familiar, bitter taste of frustration rising in his throat, but beneath that, there was something else—something raw and unspoken. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to say it, whatever it was, until this very moment.

His eyes, which had been cast downward, now rose to meet hers. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t look away. There was no mask, no hardened soldier in this moment—just a man on the edge of something far more complicated than he had ever been willing to admit.

"I..." His voice faltered, unsure of how to even begin. How did you explain this, this deep, unshakable pull, the frustration that was gnawing away at him? How could he put into words the need that thrummed through his every vein, the longing that tightened in his chest every time she was near? But there were no easy words for that, no neat explanations for the mess of emotions tangled inside him.

She waited in silence, her presence warm and steady beside him. Her gaze never wavered, always patient, always understanding. Perdita didn’t push. She simply waited—and that, in itself, made him feel like he might be able to breathe again.

"I don’t know what to say," Wolffe finally admitted, his voice a strained whisper, almost drowned out by the stillness around them. The words hung between them, fragile and uncertain, as if speaking them aloud made the tension in the room more real, more undeniable. His gaze dropped to the floor, unwilling to meet hers for fear of what she might see in his eyes. "I don’t know how to make sense of any of this," he continued, the weight of his own admission pressing on his chest.

He let out a slow breath, trying to steady himself, but the frustration was still there, swirling in the pit of his stomach. This—whatever this was, this feeling that refused to be ignored—was something he hadn’t been prepared for. It wasn’t just the endless longing that tugged at him when she was near. It wasn’t just the moments of closeness that left him craving more. No, it was everything about her, about the way she made him feel, something he couldn’t fully comprehend, let alone explain.

His mind raced, searching for a way to push it all back, to bury it under the guise of duty and professionalism. He cleared his throat, trying to force the words out as if they would somehow make the entire mess easier to understand. “It’s... certainly not appropriate, if you understand what I’m referring to—” he trailed off, hoping that by keeping his words vague enough, by steering the conversation into safer waters, she might not catch on. Perhaps her innocence, her unawareness of the deeper implications of his feelings, would give him a way out. If he could only keep it distant, keep it impersonal, maybe she wouldn’t realize the depth of his struggle.

But even as the words left his lips, he knew it was futile. Perdita wasn’t the type to let things go unsaid, to let him retreat behind a wall of half-truths. He could see it in her eyes, that quiet patience, the way she studied him as if she already knew what he was trying to hide, what he was afraid to confront. The more he tried to distance himself from his emotions, the more she seemed to close the gap between them, her presence an unspoken invitation for him to be honest.

And yet, Wolffe couldn’t quite bring himself to say it—couldn’t bring himself to fully face what this was, what she was making him feel. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them, thick and uncomfortable, hoping that she would either let it go or perhaps misunderstand, so he wouldn’t have to say the words he feared would change everything.

“You just seem… frustrated. Is there something I have done, or...?” Perdita asked, her voice soft, careful, as if she were stepping around something fragile, afraid of shattering whatever quiet peace they had managed to maintain between them.

Wolffe exhaled a deep, frustrated groan, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “It’s more about what you haven’t done, Princess,” he muttered, unable to keep the edge of irritation from his tone. His words felt heavier than he wanted them to, as if they were a burden he’d been carrying for too long, and now it was spilling out uncontrollably.

Perdita’s brow furrowed, her lips parting slightly in confusion. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice still measured but filled with a hint of concern. It was clear she didn’t fully understand what he was getting at, and the uncertainty in her eyes only deepened his frustration.

Wolffe ran his fingers over his face, trying to find the right way to explain it, to put into words the twisted mess of longing and restraint that had been consuming him. “I mean...” He hesitated, unsure how to continue without making himself sound even more ridiculous. He gestured vaguely to himself, hoping the meaning would be clear without him needing to spell it out. “Well, I’m a...” He motioned to his chest and arms, hoping she would understand what he meant, that he was referring to being a man, to the physical nature of who he was. But the words felt clumsy, incomplete, a poor substitute for the weight he was carrying.

He looked at her—at Perdita—and then gestured toward her, his hand sweeping in the air as if to illustrate the undeniable truth of her beauty. She was graceful, radiant, every movement filled with a quiet strength that was impossible to ignore. He didn’t need to say the words; he hoped she could read the message in his body language. “And you are…” he trailed off, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to finish the sentence. He motioned toward her as if to say, You’re everything I’ve been craving in the most basic, physical regard—but of course, the words wouldn’t come.

Perdita blinked at him, her expression still unreadable. She tilted her head slightly, the confusion only deepening. It was clear that his cryptic, roundabout attempt to explain himself had only made things murkier, not clearer. The more he tried to simplify it, the more complicated it seemed to become.

Wolffe cursed under his breath, frustrated by his own inability to make sense of the chaos inside him. He had hoped that by being vague, he could avoid truly confronting the tangled mess of desire, attraction, and hesitation. But now, standing there with her, so close and yet so far, he couldn’t hide from it any longer.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he muttered, running his hand over his face again. “I’m trying to tell you that... you don’t see it, how hard it is for me to just be around you. How much I have to hold back every damn second, because—because you’re you, and I’m... I’m me. And everything between us feels like this endless pull, and I don’t know what to do with it.” His voice dropped to a near whisper by the end, as if he were confessing a secret he had never meant to share.

For a moment, there was a silence—an almost suffocating pause where Wolffe wasn’t sure if he had said too much, or not enough. He could feel his pulse quicken as he waited for her response, the air thick with unspoken words and feelings neither of them could quite wrap their hands around. He had expected her to recoil, to pull away, to be confused or even annoyed. But instead, all he could do was hope that, somehow, she would understand.

Perdita’s eyes softened as she watched him, the confusion slowly clearing from her expression. For a long moment, she said nothing, but her gaze didn’t waver from him. There was something in the way she looked at him—something that told him she wasn’t judging, wasn’t dismissing his words as incoherent ramblings. She was processing, trying to understand, trying to hear him despite not fully understanding.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost as if she were carefully weighing each word before she let it slip into the space between them. “Wolffe,” she said, her tone gentle, “I never meant to make things... complicated. I know that with proximity and attraction, the effect it can have.” She paused for a breath, meeting his eyes with an intensity that made him feel like she was seeing straight through him. “But I didn’t choose to make this difficult for you. I just… I don’t know how to navigate this either.” Her hands folded neatly in her lap, betraying the calm exterior she was trying to maintain.

Wolffe opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. He hadn’t expected that—he hadn’t expected her to admit that she, too, was feeling the strain of this unspoken tension between them. It was a relief of sorts, but it also left him feeling exposed, as if the very thing he’d been trying to keep buried had finally been laid bare between them.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he muttered, the words laced with frustration. He didn’t want to hear her apologize. He didn’t want to hear her backpedal and reassure him. He just wanted her to understand what he was struggling with. “It’s not your fault, it’s just…” His voice trailed off as his hands dropped to his sides in defeat. “Everything feels like it’s always hanging on the edge of something—like the line between what’s acceptable and what isn’t keeps shifting. One moment, you’re here, and the next, it’s like I can’t breathe, because I can’t touch you, can’t—” He broke off, frustrated, not sure what he was trying to say anymore.

Perdita’s face softened even more, her expression turning contemplative. “Wolffe…” she began again, more slowly this time. “You don’t have to hold back everything. We don’t have to pretend we don’t feel the tension, the pull between us.” She leaned closer to him, her gaze steady, as though she was trying to show him that there was no need to be afraid of the things that had been left unsaid for so long. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t figure this out without rushing. Because you’re not the only one. I feel it too. But this—whatever this is—doesn’t have to be something that’s defined by a single moment of impulse.”

Wolffe’s chest tightened, and he found himself struggling to form words. Her words were exactly what he had been afraid to admit to himself, but there was something different in the way she said it. There was no judgment, no rejection, just an understanding. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t feel like the weight of his feelings was something he had to carry alone. But it didn’t make the tension between them disappear. It didn’t make the gnawing hunger go away, either.

"But it still doesn’t make sense," Wolffe muttered, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The words felt heavy, the frustration mixing with a deeper, more aching confusion that gnawed at him. "It’s like I’m caught in two places at once. The soldier part of me tells me to fight it, to ignore it, to keep everything in line, to control myself. But the man inside me—" He paused, swallowing hard before lifting his eyes to meet hers, a raw honesty in them now. "The man inside me says... a lot of things I probably shouldn’t say out loud."

Perdita didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She stood there, still and steady, her gaze focused on him with a quiet intensity, like she was taking in every word he spoke, every emotion that colored his tone. Her eyes softened, the corners of her lips twitching upward slightly, but not in mockery. There was no judgment, no hesitation—just a kind of understanding that left Wolffe wondering if she already knew what was hidden beneath his words.

"I honestly do not think I understand what you mean," she said gently, her voice barely a whisper now, carrying a calmness that was almost too much for him to handle at this point. She stepped closer, her presence a gentle force, one that both anchored and unnerved him. "But... I am open to you enlightening me."

The invitation hung in the air, heavy with possibility. For a moment, Wolffe felt the room close in around him, the walls pressing against him from all sides. Her proximity only seemed to amplify the turmoil inside him, the confusion, the heat that had been simmering beneath his skin. And, despite himself, he felt his words spilling out before he could rein them back in.

"I need you to tell me," Wolffe said, his voice growing more strained, "if that is some really roundabout way of telling me I can kiss you properly. And if it’s not, and you still have some sort of boundary from the Jedi code—well, that’s one thing. But…" He paused, almost breathless, the vulnerability of it all pressing down on him like a weight. "I just need you to tell me, Perdita, what I’m supposed to do here. Because I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it. I can’t keep fighting this—this thing that’s growing between us."

His words tumbled out faster than he intended, the raw, desperate edge to them unmistakable. His pulse quickened, and a small part of him wanted to shrink back, to disappear from the weight of his own confession. As the last syllable left his lips, he felt a deep flush rise to his face, a hot wave of embarrassment flooding him. His heart raced, and he wanted to bury his face in his hands, to run and hide from the vulnerability that now lay between them like an exposed nerve. The realization that he had just begged, in his own broken way, for clarity was almost more than he could bear. Yet, he couldn’t take it back. He couldn’t reel in the need that had burst from his chest, the burning desire for her to just—say it.

Perdita’s eyes widened slightly at Wolffe’s admission, her face flushing a deep pink. She blinked, clearly caught off guard by his openness, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. She opened her mouth to speak but quickly shut it, her gaze falling to the floor between them, as though the weight of the moment had suddenly become too much for her to bear.

“I...” Her voice trembled slightly, betraying the nerves that were starting to bubble up inside her. She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, unable to meet his eyes. “I’ve never been kissed, Wolffe.”

The words came out in a rush, almost like she was apologizing for them. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, the vulnerability of the confession weighing heavily on her. She couldn’t believe she had just said that—couldn’t believe she had admitted it out loud, especially after everything they had been through. The idea of someone as experienced as Wolffe, a soldier with his likely scandalous shoreleaves, teaching her how to kiss seemed absurd, even more so when she realized how much she wanted to be closer to him, to feel that connection.

Wolffe blinked, his mouth slightly open as he tried to process her words. For a split second, he thought he had misheard her. “Wait... you’ve never?” he stammered, his mind momentarily short-circuiting.

Perdita quickly nodded, biting her lip, her eyes avoiding his as if the admission alone was too much to face. “I know, it’s... it’s probably ridiculous, given everything, but I’ve never had the chance,” she said softly, her voice almost drowned by the beating of her own heart. “I mean, with the Jedi way and everything, we—well, it’s complicated.”

“I didn’t think it would be like this,” he muttered under his breath, his nerves suddenly bubbling up like a boiling pot. “I don’t know what I’m doing either, Perdita. I’m... I’m not some expert. I’ve messed around on occasion but, not this.” The uncertainty in his voice was clear, and he couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him—a nervous, self-deprecating sound.

Perdita’s blush deepened at the idea of him being the one to guide her in something so personal. It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about it, even fantasized about it, but the reality of it suddenly felt so overwhelming. She looked up at him, and for the first time, there was something in her eyes—something more than just curiosity. There was a spark of hope, of wanting, despite the embarrassment tightening her chest.

“I don’t expect you to teach me,” she said quietly, almost too softly. “I mean, I... I want to try. If... if that’s okay with you.” She let the words trail off, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure if she should even continue. She wasn’t sure if she was making a huge mistake, or if she was somehow pushing them both too far too quickly. But she couldn’t take back what she had said. The desire, the tension between them, was undeniable now.

Wolffe swallowed hard, unsure of what to say, the realization of the situation sinking in. He had always been a leader, someone who was expected to take charge, to make decisions without hesitation. But this—this—was different. He was no expert in tenderness, in softness. He had no clue how to navigate this delicate, fragile moment with her, especially when it was so loaded with expectations that he wasn’t sure he was ready to handle it.

“I don’t want to... make you uncomfortable,” Wolffe finally admitted, his voice low, betraying his uncertainty. “I mean, I don’t want to mess this up for you, or make it feel wrong.”

His eyes met hers then, and for the first time, he saw the flicker of something shared between them. A longing, yes, but also a kind of raw need to connect—to figure out what this all meant. They were both walking blind into this, but neither of them was willing to pull back.

Perdita stood still for a moment, her hand subtly reaching out, fingers brushing his wrist as if to reassure him, to show him that she wasn’t afraid. The touch sent a shock of warmth through his body, and suddenly everything seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them standing there, suspended in time.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’m nervous too. But maybe that’s... okay.”

Wolffe’s heart hammered in his chest, his breath shallow. He never thought he’d be in this position. The soldier, the battle-hardened warrior, unsure of how to make this moment right. But as he looked at her—so vulnerable, so open, yet still holding that quiet strength—he realized that maybe, just maybe, this was something worth figuring out. Together.

Taking a deep breath, Wolffe finally nodded, the weight of his own nerves pushing him to make a decision. He stepped closer, his hand trembling slightly as it reached out, just brushing her cheek. “We take it slow,” he murmured. Perdita nodded, her eyes shining with something that was half hope, half uncertainty. But she trusted him, and somehow, in that moment, Wolffe felt as if he might actually have the courage to trust himself, too.

Wolffe took a deep breath, his hand still hovering near her cheek, fingers trembling ever so slightly. The tension between them was palpable, the unspoken weight of what they were about to do hanging in the air like a delicate thread that could snap at any moment. He felt the world around them fall away, the sounds of the ship’s engine fading into nothingness as he focused solely on her—the softness of her skin, the warmth of her presence.

Perdita’s eyes locked with his, her gaze steady, her lips parted slightly, waiting. Waiting for him to take the next step, to close the gap between them. She wasn’t pulling away. She wasn’t retreating. She was there, right in front of him, trusting him. And that trust, as simple and as complex as it was, made his heart race.

For a long moment, Wolffe stood there, his thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty, and yet, beneath the chaos, there was a sense of clarity—something that told him this was right. He didn’t need to have all the answers. He didn’t need to be perfect. He just needed to be here, to be present with her.

His fingers brushed her cheek again, this time lingering just a little longer, his touch gentler than he ever thought possible. Perdita’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and Wolffe took it as a silent permission, as a quiet acknowledgement that she was ready, too.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Wolffe leaned in, his breath warm against her face. He could feel the pulse at her throat, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, and it grounded him. This was no battlefield. This wasn’t a mission with clear orders and sharp objectives. This was just him and her. Two people, unsure but willing to take the plunge.

And then, just before his lips met hers, he paused—just for a heartbeat. A brief moment of hesitation, a final flicker of doubt, but it quickly passed as he saw the same uncertainty mirrored in her eyes as they reopened for a moment. She was nervous, too. They both were.

Finally, with a soft exhale, Wolffe closed the distance, pressing his lips to hers in a gentle, tentative kiss. It wasn’t a kiss born of desperation or need. It was simply a kiss, quiet and careful, a tender connection shared between two people who had no idea what tomorrow would bring but knew that this—this moment—was worth every ounce of vulnerability it took to get here.

The kiss was soft, almost shy, as if they were both learning what it meant to be this close, this open. Wolffe felt the warmth of her lips against his, the sweet pressure of her mouth, and in that small, simple exchange, something inside him shifted. The nervousness faded, replaced by a quiet sense of peace, a feeling that maybe they were both exactly where they needed to be.

When they finally pulled apart, it was just as slow and tender, neither of them in a rush. Wolffe’s forehead rested gently against hers, their breaths mingling as they shared a quiet moment, letting the world around them come back into focus. His nose nudged hers playfully as he looked down.

Perdita smiled, a shy, soft curve of her lips that made Wolffe’s heartbeat a little faster, though he didn’t quite understand why. There was no pressure, no expectations. Just two people who had stepped into uncharted territory together, uncertain but trusting.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she whispered, her voice a little breathless, her eyes still closed as she kept the tender closeness between them.

Wolffe chuckled softly, his thumb gently tracing the line of her jaw. It was almost endearing that she felt the need to confirm there was nothing off putting about the experience on his end. “No,” he agreed, his voice low, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It wasn’t bad at all.”

Wolffe’s heart was still racing, but it felt different now—lighter, softer. The tension that had been there, coiled tight in his chest, had unwound, leaving him with a warmth he couldn’t quite place. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so... present. So attuned to the moment. The world around them felt distant now, the noise of their lives faded into nothingness as they stood there, tangled in the quiet intimacy they had just shared.

Her lips parted just slightly, and Wolffe couldn’t resist brushing his thumb over them, as if imprinting the feeling of them on his skin, wanting to hold onto that tender connection. He didn’t speak immediately, just drank in the quiet beauty of her face, the delicate curve of her jaw, the way her hair fell softly around her face. It was all so new, so uncharted, but it was also so undeniable.

“I didn’t expect this,” Wolffe finally murmured, his voice low and hushed, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the delicate moment. “I never thought...”

Perdita’s fingers gently cupped his face, bringing him back to her. Her touch was a balm, soothing him even more. “Neither did I,” she whispered, her voice soft, but her eyes were full of that same tenderness. “But I’m glad it happened.”

Wolffe let out a quiet laugh, the sound rich with relief, and maybe even a little wonder. “Me too.” His thumb traced the curve of her cheek again, slower this time, as if he was savoring every inch of her, committing the sensation to memory. Meanwhile he could feel the slight friction caused by her fingernails carding through his short facial hair.

The space between them had grown warmer, their bodies subconsciously inching closer. Wolffe’s heart, still beating a little faster than normal, was now attuned to the way her breath had slowed, in sync with his. There was no rush. No urgency. Just the rhythm of two people learning the quiet, tender dance of being close.

Perdita’s eyes lingered on Wolffe’s face, drawn to the intensity in his gaze, the way his expression softened with each passing moment. Her fingers traced the lines of his jaw, feeling the strength there, the firmness that had always been a part of him. There was a calmness in his presence that she had never fully noticed before—how steady he was, how rooted. She could see the soldier in him, the leader, the man who had faced countless battles, but in this moment, he was something else entirely.

His features were a captivating blend of rugged charm, etched with the marks of a life lived in battle. One eye, a striking bionic replacement, stood in stark contrast to the warmth of his natural one. A scar traced along his face, a silent testament to his bravery, while the slight crookedness of his nose hinted at an injury that had never fully healed. Yet, it was the softness of his lips and the flush of his skin that reminded her that these traces of struggle were merely fragments of the beautiful man he had always been. Perdita couldn’t ignore the way she’d frequently acknowledged it, even back then. But time had been wonderful to him, and the lack of regulation haircuts and their nomad lifestyle made him seem so much more handsome than she could’ve imagined.

Her breath caught as she slowly moved closer, her body instinctively seeking more of him. She rose onto the balls of her feet, but still, the difference in their height struck her. She had always known he was taller, but now, in the quiet intimacy of the moment, the disparity seemed more pronounced. Even on her toes, she was still a few inches below his chin, her forehead grazing the solid wall of his chest.

It was strange, how she had never realized just how much he towered over her until now. She could feel the heat of his body radiating, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his presence seemed to fill the space around them. The realization was both grounding and disorienting. He was a soldier, a protector, a force of nature. And here she was, the Jedi, with lithe build.

Perdita’s breath was shallow, but she didn’t shy away from the distance. She moved even closer, leaning up just a little further to close the space between them. Her hand rested gently on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath the fabric of his shirt. She was drawn to him in ways she couldn’t explain, needing to bridge the physical gap between them, needing to feel more of him, to share more of herself with him.

Wolffe shifted slightly, moving down a fraction, bending just enough to meet her halfway, though it was a delicate maneuver, given their difference in height. He could feel the warmth of her hand on his chest, and it made something inside him soften, some instinct pulling him to protect, to care for her, even in this quiet moment. He wasn’t sure what was happening between them, but he knew one thing—he didn’t want to pull away.

With a quiet exhale, Wolffe placed his hand on her back, gently drawing her closer. She fit against him in a way that seemed natural, her small form nestled against the width of his chest. He could feel her warmth, the delicate way she leaned into him, and despite everything—despite the uncertainty and the weight of his role—there was a calmness in the way they stood together.

"You're so small Princess," he murmured, his voice softer than he intended. 

Perdita smiled faintly, her face tilting slightly up to meet his eyes. "I’m not sure that matters, Wolffe," she whispered, her fingers curling into his shirt as if to anchor herself to the moment. 

Wolffe couldn’t help the way his heart skipped a beat at the playful energy between them, the way she kept inching closer, her presence so disarming. He had never quite expected this—this feeling, this subtle warmth that kept growing every time they were near each other. It was new, unfamiliar, but so very... right.

"You’re small but still dangerous, you know that?" he murmured, voice low and teasing.

She smirked, her lips just inches from his. "Only when I want to be."

Wolffe’s pulse quickened, the playful tension between them growing palpable. "Well," he said, his lips curling into a grin, "I guess I’ll just have to keep an eye on you, then. Wouldn’t want you causing any trouble." He leaned in just slightly, his lips brushing against the top of her head, lingering there a moment longer than necessary.

Perdita smiled softly at the gesture, her breath warm against his chest as she tilted her head to look up at him again. "I might keep causing trouble if you keep looking at me like that when I do," she whispered, her voice low and full of meaning.

Wolffe felt a shiver run through him at her words, his heart thundering in his chest. He was so close to crossing the line between playful banter and something deeper, but he didn’t want to pull back. Instead, he pressed a little closer, his hand moving from her back to gently tilt her chin up. "And how exactly am I looking at you?" he murmured, his voice thick with a mixture of amusement and something else—something far more intense.

Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at him, lips just a hair’s breadth from his. "Like you might kiss me."

The words hung in the air between them, the playful edge gone now, replaced with something softer, warmer. Wolffe’s heart skipped a beat, and without thinking, he leaned in just enough to brush his lips against hers, a soft, slow press. It wasn’t deep, but it was enough to send a jolt of heat through his body, enough to make him wish the moment would never end.

When they finally pulled apart, there was a brief but palpable silence between them, the air thick with the shared warmth of their closeness. Their breaths were just a little quicker, as if the lingering connection still had its hold on them, a soft pulse that refused to fade. Wolffe’s hand remained at the back of her neck, tender and steady, grounding both of them in the moment they’d just shared. His smile, slow and soft, tugged at the corners of his lips. There was something in his eyes—a quiet knowing, as though he’d found a piece of truth in her gaze that hadn’t been there before.

"I guess I might have been looking at you like that," he murmured, his voice lower, hushed by the weight of the moment. It was more than an admission—it was a quiet promise, a subtle invitation, as if he were daring the silence to speak more than words ever could.

Perdita’s eyes sparkled, and she let out a breathless laugh that sent a ripple of warmth through him. She didn’t look away from him, her gaze steady and full of a knowing playfulness. “I had a feeling,” she replied, her voice soft but tinged with the same quiet confidence that matched the depth of the moment.

Wolffe’s smile deepened, an edge of teasing in his voice as he hummed with amusement. "Can’t blame me," he said with a smirk, his thumb gently brushing the edge of her jaw, as if he was still tracing the contours of their shared connection.

Perdita raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a playful grin. "Oh yeah? And why’s that?" she asked, a mischievous note lacing her words.

Wolffe tilted his head slightly, as if considering her question. "Because you were looking at me like you wanted me to kiss you," he said, his voice steady, though there was something in it that was a little more raw, more honest than he'd intended.

Perdita's eyes widened slightly, the air between them thick with a tension that neither of them had fully realized was building. She felt a flutter in her chest, half-surprised by his bluntness, half-thrilled by how easily he was able to read her in return. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, and she took a small step closer, letting the warmth between them swell again.

“Well,” she said softly, her voice teasing but with an undercurrent of something much softer, “I guess you’re not entirely wrong.”

Wolffe chuckled, the sound warm and rich, tinged with both relief and a touch of nervousness, as though they were both teetering on the edge of something much bigger than either of them had expected. The air between them hummed with a quiet tension, a mixture of lighthearted teasing and an undeniable pull that neither of them could ignore.

"Well, if that’s the case," he said, his voice deepening just a little, taking on a hint of seriousness, though his lips still quirked with the faintest smile, "I guess I’d better be careful how I look at you next time."

Perdita raised an eyebrow, her gaze playful but still soft, like she was savoring the moment. "Next time?" she asked, her voice teasing, yet with an underlying warmth that made Wolffe’s chest tighten just slightly. "When might that be?"

Wolffe’s eyes sparkled with the challenge, the desire for more hanging in the air between them. He took a small step closer, his presence surrounding her, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade. "Hm," he mused, a mock-serious glint in his eyes. "Now?"

Perdita tilted her head, her lips curling into a slow, knowing smile. She took in a breath, her heart racing just a little faster now, the quiet confidence she wore in that moment a contrast to the vulnerability they had both shared earlier. "Right now?" she asked softly, her fingers brushing against the front of his shirt again, lingering just a little longer than necessary.

Wolffe didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he simply stared at her, as if taking in everything—the way her lips parted just slightly, the gentle curve of her neck, the warmth in her eyes that mirrored his own. The world around them, the expectations, the pressure—it all seemed distant. All that mattered was the quiet pull between them, the unspoken understanding that what they shared here, in this moment, was something worth exploring.

After what felt like a long pause, Wolffe spoke again, his voice softer now, a hint of tenderness coloring his words. "Yeah, right now,"