THREE WEEKS AFTER GEONOSIS
REPUBLIC ASSAULT SHIP RESOLUTE
SOMEWHERE IN HYPERSPACE
Marcus Chen—Scorch, CT-7829, formerly deceased Cheeto enthusiast and currently very confused clone trooper—had discovered something deeply unsettling about his new existence.
He was good at this.
Not just "competent enough to survive" good. Not just "flash-training doing its job" good. He was terrifyingly, inexplicably, this-shouldn't-be-possible good at being a soldier.
In the three weeks since Geonosis, he had participated in four separate engagements against Separatist forces. He had survived all of them. He had, in fact, done more than survive—he had excelled, racking up a kill count that had his squadmates alternating between impressed and slightly concerned.
The first engagement had been a mop-up operation on Geonosis itself, clearing out droid holdouts from a network of underground tunnels. Marcus had walked point, his DC-15S carbine sweeping the darkness ahead, and every time a Battle Droid had appeared, his blaster had been firing before his conscious mind even registered the threat. He had destroyed thirty-seven droids in that tunnel system. Blackout had counted.
The second engagement had been a boarding action against a Separatist supply ship. Marcus had been part of the breaching team, and when the airlock had blown and the droids had come pouring through, he had... well, he had done something that he still couldn't fully explain. His body had moved like water, flowing between blaster bolts, his weapon firing with a precision that felt almost supernatural. He had cleared the entire corridor by himself while his squadmates were still taking cover.
The third engagement had been a ground assault on a Separatist communications relay. Marcus had hijacked a damaged AAT—an Armored Assault Tank, the kind that the Trade Federation used—and driven it straight into the enemy formation, using its main cannon to devastating effect before the thing had finally given up the ghost and exploded. He had walked away from the explosion without a scratch.
The fourth engagement had been yesterday.
He didn't like to think about the fourth engagement.
(Forty-three droids. Two Super Battle Droids. One Droideka that he had somehow destroyed by throwing a thermal detonator through its shield at the exact moment the shield flickered during its firing cycle. He still didn't know how he had timed that.)
The point was: something was wrong with him.
Or something was right with him.
He wasn't sure which possibility was more terrifying.
"CT-7829. Designation: Scorch."
Marcus snapped to attention, his boots clicking together with parade-ground precision, his spine straightening into the rigid posture that his flash-training had drilled into his muscle memory. He was standing in the Resolute's main briefing room, a cavernous space dominated by a massive holotable and lined with viewports that showed the swirling blue tunnel of hyperspace.
The voice that had spoken his name belonged to Admiral Wullf Yularen—a stern-faced human officer with a precisely trimmed mustache and the kind of bearing that suggested he had been born standing at attention. Marcus recognized him instantly from the Clone Wars animated series, though seeing him in person was... different. More real. More intimidating.
"Sir," Marcus responded, because that seemed like the appropriate thing to say.
"At ease, trooper." Yularen's eyes flicked down to the datapad in his hand, scanning whatever information it contained. "Your service record since Geonosis has been... impressive. Sergeant Blackout speaks highly of you. As does Commander Tano."
Marcus blinked behind his helmet.
Ahsoka had spoken highly of him? When had that happened? They had barely interacted since the command ship—just a few brief encounters in passing, a nod here, a "good work, trooper" there. He hadn't thought she'd even remembered his designation.
"Thank you, sir," he said, because he still didn't know what else to say.
"Don't thank me yet." Yularen set the datapad down on the holotable and fixed Marcus with a look that could have cut durasteel. "I'm promoting you. Effective immediately, you are being elevated to the rank of Corporal and reassigned to Torrent Company, 501st Legion, under the direct command of Captain Rex."
Marcus's brain performed a brief system error.
Captain Rex.
He was being assigned to serve under Captain Rex.
The same Captain Rex who was one of the most beloved clone characters in all of Star Wars. The same Captain Rex who would eventually remove his inhibitor chip and fight alongside Ahsoka during Order 66. The same Captain Rex who would survive the Clone Wars, survive the Empire, and still be fighting for freedom decades later during the Battle of Endor.
That Captain Rex.
"I—" Marcus started, and then had to stop and collect himself. "Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."
"See that you don't." Yularen's expression softened fractionally—not quite a smile, but something close to it. "The 501st is one of our best units, Corporal. They've earned that reputation through blood and sacrifice. You'll be expected to uphold their standards."
"Understood, sir."
"Good. Captain Rex is expecting you in Hangar Bay Four. You're dismissed."
Marcus saluted, turned on his heel, and walked out of the briefing room with as much composure as he could muster.
The moment the door closed behind him, he slumped against the nearest wall and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Corporal.
He was a Corporal now.
He had a rank.
Three weeks ago, he had been a thirty-two-year-old basement dweller whose greatest achievement was getting a hundred upvotes on a Reddit post about why the Yuuzhan Vong invasion arc was actually underrated. Now he was a non-commissioned officer in the Grand Army of the Republic, assigned to one of the most elite units in the entire military.
"This is fine," Marcus muttered to himself, pushing off from the wall and starting toward Hangar Bay Four. "This is totally fine. I'm just going to meet Captain Rex. And probably Anakin Skywalker. And definitely Ahsoka again. This is fine."
It was not fine.
HANGAR BAY FOUR
The hangar bay was a controlled chaos of activity—clone troopers moving with purpose, astromech droids rolling between parked gunships, pilots running pre-flight checks on LAAT/i transports that would carry soldiers into their next battle. The air smelled of lubricant and ozone and the particular metallic tang that Marcus was beginning to associate with "places where war happens."
He found Captain Rex standing near a row of weapon racks, engaged in conversation with two other clones whose armor bore the distinctive blue markings of the 501st. Rex's helmet was off, tucked under one arm, and Marcus got his first real look at the face that had launched a thousand pieces of fan art.
It was Jango Fett's face, of course—the same face that Marcus now wore, the same face that every clone in the galaxy wore. But there was something different about Rex. A weight behind his eyes. A set to his jaw that spoke of experience and loss and the kind of hard-won wisdom that couldn't be flash-trained into existence.
This was a soldier who had seen things. Done things. Lost brothers and kept fighting anyway.
Marcus felt a sudden, fierce surge of respect that caught him completely off guard.
"Corporal Scorch, reporting as ordered, sir," he said, snapping to attention in front of Rex.
Rex turned to face him, and for a long moment, he just looked—his eyes scanning Marcus's armor, taking in the scorch marks and carbon scoring that had earned him his nickname, assessing him with the practiced eye of a commander who had seen too many shinies become statistics.
"At ease, Corporal," Rex said finally, his voice carrying that distinctive Jango-but-not-quite accent that all the clones shared. "I've read your file. Impressive work on Geonosis. That thing with the Super Battle Droid—that took guts."
"Or a significant lack of self-preservation instinct, sir," Marcus replied before he could stop himself.
Rex's lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "Those aren't mutually exclusive in this army." He gestured toward the two clones beside him. "This is Sergeant Coric, our senior medic, and Corporal Echo, one of our communications specialists. They'll be your squadmates for the foreseeable future."
"Corporal," Coric said, nodding in greeting. He was a bit older-looking than the average clone—or at least, he carried himself with the weariness of someone who had seen too much.
"Welcome to Torrent Company," Echo added, his voice carrying a hint of warmth. "Try not to die in the first week. It's bad for morale."
"I'll do my best," Marcus said, and meant it more than they could possibly know.
"Good." Rex replaced his helmet, the familiar T-visor sliding into place with a soft click. "Because we've got a briefing in ten minutes, and I have a feeling you're going to want to hear this one. The General's got a new mission for us."
"The General, sir?"
Rex's helmet tilted slightly—the clone equivalent of a raised eyebrow. "General Skywalker. You'll be meeting him shortly." A pause. "Try not to stare. He gets enough of that from the shinies."
General Skywalker.
Anakin kriffing Skywalker.
Marcus's internal screaming reached a pitch that only dogs could hear.
"Understood, sir," he said, his voice somehow remaining steady. "No staring."
"Good man. Follow me."
THE BRIEFING ROOM (AGAIN)
Marcus had seen Anakin Skywalker in movies. He had seen Anakin Skywalker in television shows. He had seen Anakin Skywalker in video games, comic books, and approximately nine million pieces of fan-created content ranging from "surprisingly well-written" to "what the kriff did I just read."
None of it had prepared him for the reality.
Anakin Skywalker was tall—taller than Marcus had expected, with broad shoulders and the kind of athletic build that came from years of lightsaber training and general Jedi nonsense. His hair was the distinctive sandy brown that Marcus remembered from the movies, though it was longer now, falling past his ears in waves that looked like they hadn't seen a proper grooming in weeks. A thin scar traced a line down the right side of his face, bisecting his eyebrow—a souvenir from some battle that Marcus couldn't quite place in the timeline.
But it was his presence that was truly overwhelming.
There was something about Anakin Skywalker that drew the eye, that demanded attention, that made the air around him feel somehow denser. It wasn't just charisma, though he had that in spades. It was something deeper, something that resonated on a frequency that Marcus couldn't quite identify.
The Force, he realized with a start. I'm sensing the Force.
That... that shouldn't be possible.
Clones weren't Force-sensitive. It was one of the fundamental facts of Star Wars lore—the Kaminoans had specifically engineered the clones to be Force-null, to avoid any possibility of a rogue clone developing Jedi-like powers. Marcus had read articles about it. He had participated in forum discussions about it. He knew this.
And yet.
And yet.
There was something stirring in his chest, something warm and electric and utterly alien, and it was responding to Anakin's presence like a compass needle swinging toward magnetic north.
What the kriff is happening to me?
"Ah, you must be the new transfer," Anakin said, his voice carrying a casual warmth that immediately put Marcus on edge. In his experience—his fictional experience, he reminded himself—Anakin Skywalker being friendly was usually a prelude to something exploding. "Corporal Scorch, right? Rex tells me you're something special."
"I—" Marcus's voice came out as a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm just a soldier, General. Nothing special about that."
Anakin's eyes—blue, impossibly blue, the kind of blue that featured prominently in romantic poetry and also preceded galaxy-altering acts of violence—fixed on Marcus with an intensity that made him want to take a step backward.
"Funny," Anakin said slowly. "That's not what your record says. Forty-three confirmed droid kills in a single engagement? A Droideka takedown that our tactical analysts are still trying to figure out?" He smiled, and it was the smile of a predator who had found something interesting. "You're either very skilled or very lucky, Corporal."
"Bit of both, sir," Marcus managed. "Mostly luck."
"I don't believe in luck," Anakin said. "I believe in the Force."
Oh no, Marcus thought. Oh no no no no no.
"And the Force," Anakin continued, his smile widening, "seems to like you, Corporal. I can sense it."
Marcus's brain went completely blank.
He could what?
Before Marcus could formulate any kind of response to this absolutely terrifying revelation, the briefing room door slid open and two more figures entered.
The first was Ahsoka, her presence immediately recognizable—the orange skin, the blue and white montrals, the twin lightsabers hanging at her belt. She looked more confident than she had on Geonosis, more settled in her role as Padawan, though there was still a youthful energy about her that spoke of someone who hadn't yet had all the optimism beaten out of them by the galaxy.
The second figure was—
Oh.
Oh, this is actually happening.
Obi-Wan Kenobi walked into the room like he owned it, his Jedi robes flowing around him with the kind of casual elegance that should have been illegal. His beard was immaculately trimmed—of course it was, this was Obi-Wan Kenobi, the man probably had a dedicated meditation routine for facial hair maintenance—and his eyes carried the weight of wisdom and experience and barely concealed sass that had made him one of the most beloved characters in the entire franchise.
"Anakin," Obi-Wan said, his voice carrying that distinctive Coruscanti accent that made everything he said sound vaguely disapproving. "You're starting the briefing without me? I'm wounded."
"You're late," Anakin shot back, but there was no heat in it—just the easy banter of two people who had known each other for years.
"I was meditating."
"You were napping."
"I was meditating horizontally. There's a difference."
Marcus watched this exchange with the wide-eyed wonder of a man who had just realized that his favorite fictional characters were not only real but also exactly as entertaining as he had always imagined.
"If you two are quite finished," Ahsoka interjected, her voice carrying a long-suffering tone that suggested she had witnessed this exact interaction approximately nine thousand times, "we do have a mission to discuss."
"Right, right." Anakin waved a hand, and the holotable flickered to life, displaying a rotating image of a planet that Marcus didn't immediately recognize. "Intelligence has identified a Separatist manufacturing facility on Kothlis. They're producing a new variant of Battle Droid—something with enhanced armor and improved targeting systems. Command wants us to shut it down before they can bring the new units online."
"Kothlis," Obi-Wan mused, stroking his beard in a way that Marcus found unreasonably distracting. "That's Bothan space. Neutral territory, technically."
"Technically," Anakin agreed. "Which is why we're going in quiet. Small team, surgical strike, in and out before anyone knows we're there."
"And when has one of your 'quiet' operations ever actually remained quiet?" Obi-Wan asked, his eyebrow raising in a way that conveyed approximately seventeen different layers of skepticism.
"There's a first time for everything, Master."
"I believe you said the same thing before Christophsis. And Teth. And—"
"The point," Anakin interrupted, "is that we need soldiers who can handle themselves when things go sideways. Rex, you're bringing your best. That includes our new Corporal here." He nodded toward Marcus. "I want to see what he can do in the field."
Every eye in the room turned to Marcus.
He resisted the urge to run away screaming.
"Understood, General," he said, his voice somehow remaining steady. "I won't let you down."
Anakin's smile returned, sharp and knowing. "I'm counting on it, Corporal. The Force has plans for you—I can feel it."
The Force has plans for me, Marcus thought, a chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the ship's environmental controls. That's... that's not ominous at all.
MEANWHILE
SOMEWHERE THAT WAS SIMULTANEOUSLY VERY FAR AWAY AND NOT
A PLACE BETWEEN PLACES
A REALM OUTSIDE OF TIME
The Father opened his eyes.
He had been meditating—as he always did, as he had done for millennia, maintaining the delicate balance between Light and Dark that kept the galaxy from tearing itself apart. The monastery on Mortis was silent around him, its ancient stones humming with power that predated the Republic, predated the Sith, predated everything that the mortal galaxy considered history.
But something had disturbed his meditation.
Something new.
"You felt it too," the Daughter said, materializing beside him in a shimmer of golden light. Her form was radiant, beautiful, suffused with the pure essence of the Light Side of the Force. She looked... intrigued. "A new thread in the tapestry. One that wasn't there before."
"I felt it," the Father confirmed, his voice resonating with the weight of ages. "A soul that does not belong. A consciousness from... elsewhere."
"Another dimension," the Son added, stepping out of the shadows with a smile that promised nothing good. His form was dark, angular, radiating the cold hunger of the Dark Side. "A mortal who has seen the shape of things to come. Who knows what the galaxy's future holds." His smile widened. "How... interesting."
"You will not interfere," the Father said, his tone carrying a warning that made the very air tremble.
"Interfere?" The Son laughed, the sound echoing through the monastery like breaking glass. "Why would I interfere? This is fascinating. A being with foreknowledge, thrust into the middle of the Clone Wars, wearing the body of a soldier bred for obedience?" He spread his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. "I simply want to watch."
"As do I," the Daughter said, her voice softer but no less intense. "This soul... it burns brightly. More brightly than it should, given its vessel. The Force has touched it, Father. Touched it deeply."
The Father was silent for a long moment, his ancient eyes staring into distances that mortal beings could not perceive. He saw the threads of fate, the countless possibilities branching out from this single anomaly, the ways in which the galaxy's future could be altered—for better or for worse—by the presence of this single, impossible soul.
"Yes," he said finally. "The Force has claimed this one. Given it gifts that no clone should possess." His eyes narrowed. "The question is: why?"
"Does it matter?" the Son asked. "The Force does what it wills. We are merely its servants—however unwilling."
"It matters," the Daughter countered, "because this soul carries knowledge that could change everything. The fall of the Jedi. The rise of the Empire. The chosen one's destiny." She turned to the Father, her expression troubled. "If this mortal uses what it knows—"
"Then the galaxy will be forever altered," the Father finished. "Yes. I am aware."
"So what do we do?" the Son asked, and for once, his voice carried genuine curiosity rather than malice. "Do we guide this wayward soul? Destroy it? Ignore it and hope it doesn't break anything too important?"
The Father considered the question.
The Force, he knew, did not act without purpose. If it had plucked this soul from another reality and placed it in the body of a clone trooper, there was a reason. A plan, however inscrutable it might seem.
And the gifts it had bestowed upon this soul—the sensitivity to the Force, the enhanced reflexes, the instinctive connection to the energy that bound all living things—those were not accidents. The Force wanted this being to have power. Wanted it to be able to act on its knowledge in ways that a normal clone never could.
"We watch," the Father said finally. "We observe. And when the time is right... we make contact."
"Contact?" The Daughter's eyes widened. "You would bring a mortal to Mortis?"
"Not yet. Not until we understand what role the Force intends for this one to play." The Father rose from his meditation, his form seeming to grow larger, more imposing, filling the chamber with his presence. "But mark my words, children: this soul is significant. The Force has chosen it for a purpose—and we would be wise to understand that purpose before it unfolds."
The Son's smile returned, darker than before. "A clone trooper with the potential of a Jedi. With knowledge of the future. With the ability to change the destiny of the galaxy itself." He laughed softly. "The Chosen One is going to have competition."
"This is not a competition," the Daughter said sharply. "This is—"
"This is the Force's will," the Father interrupted, silencing them both with a gesture. "Whatever this soul is meant to be, whatever role it is meant to play, it is not our place to judge. We are the guardians of balance. Nothing more."
"And if this soul upsets the balance?" the Son asked.
The Father's expression did not change.
"Then we will do what we must."
The three beings of Mortis fell silent, their attention turning outward, across the gulf of space and time, to a single clone trooper aboard a Republic assault ship who had no idea that he had just become the most interesting thing in the galaxy.
BACK ON THE RESOLUTE
Marcus sneezed.
It was a violent, full-body sneeze that rattled his helmet and made Ahsoka jump about a foot in the air.
"Bless you," she said, looking at him with an expression of mild alarm. "Are you okay, Corporal?"
"Fine," Marcus said, rubbing his nose through his helmet—which was completely ineffective but made him feel better anyway. "Sorry. Don't know where that came from."
"Probably dust in the ventilation system," Rex offered. "Maintenance has been behind since Geonosis."
"Yeah," Marcus agreed, even though something in the back of his mind was whispering that the sneeze had nothing to do with dust and everything to do with the fact that someone, somewhere, was talking about him.
He shook off the feeling and focused on the briefing, which had continued despite his unexpected nasal interruption. Anakin was outlining the infiltration plan—entry through an old mining tunnel that Republic Intelligence had identified, a quick strike against the factory's main power generator, and extraction via gunship before the Separatists could mount an effective response.
It was a solid plan.
It was also, Marcus knew with absolute certainty, going to go horribly wrong.
Because nothing involving Anakin Skywalker ever went according to plan.
KOTHLIS
SIXTEEN HOURS LATER
"Well," Obi-Wan said, his voice carrying the particular brand of resigned acceptance that Marcus was beginning to realize was his default setting, "this could be going better."
Marcus wanted to laugh. He also wanted to scream. He settled for firing his blaster at the wave of Battle Droids that was currently trying to kill them all, his bolts joining the chorus of blue energy that filled the corridor with strobing light.
The mission had gone wrong approximately seventeen minutes after they'd landed.
First, the mining tunnel had collapsed—not by accident, but because the Separatists had known they were coming and had rigged the entrance with explosives. Three clone troopers had died in the initial blast, their screams cut short by tons of falling rock.
Second, the "small contingent of security droids" that Intelligence had promised had turned out to be a full battalion, complete with armored support and—because the universe apparently hated them—a pair of IG-100 MagnaGuards that had nearly killed Ahsoka before she'd managed to cut them down.
Third, and most problematically, they were now trapped in a corridor with no exit, surrounded by enemies, with their extraction gunship shot down somewhere in the factory's outer perimeter.
"Less talking, more fighting!" Anakin shouted, his blue lightsaber a blur of motion as he deflected blaster bolts back at their sources. "Rex, I need options!"
"Working on it, General!" Rex called back, his twin pistols barking in rapid succession. "Scorch! Can you do that thing you did on Geonosis?"
"What thing?!" Marcus yelled, ducking behind a support column as a burst of blaster fire scorched the air where his head had been.
"The thing where you destroy all the droids!"
"THAT WASN'T A THING, THAT WAS PANIC-FUELED VIOLENCE!"
"WELL, PANIC VIOLENTLY IN THEIR DIRECTION!"
Marcus was about to respond—probably with something sarcastic that would have been completely inappropriate for the situation—when something happened.
He couldn't explain it afterward. He couldn't even properly describe it. One moment, he was crouched behind cover, his blaster hot in his hands, his heart pounding with the familiar terror of combat. The next, there was... a shift. A change in the air, in the energy around him, in the very fabric of reality.
The world went quiet.
Not silent—he could still hear the blaster fire, the shouting, the mechanical whirring of droid servos. But it was muffled, distant, like sounds heard through deep water. Everything seemed to slow down, individual blaster bolts becoming visible as discrete packets of energy moving through space, the movements of droids and troopers alike becoming a languid dance that Marcus could observe and predict with perfect clarity.
What, he thought, the actual kriff.
And then his body moved.
He stepped out from behind cover, and his blaster came up, and he fired.
Not randomly. Not desperately. Precisely.
Each bolt found its target with surgical accuracy—photoreceptor housings, joint mechanisms, the vulnerable seams where droid armor plates connected. He fired and moved, fired and moved, his body flowing through the chaos like water through rapids, never staying in one place long enough to present a target but always positioned perfectly to deliver the next shot.
A Super Battle Droid turned to face him, its wrist blasters spinning up.
Marcus was already inside its reach, his hand closing around the barrel of its weapon, twisting with strength he shouldn't have possessed, tearing the blaster assembly free in a shower of sparks. The droid stumbled, off-balance, and Marcus shoved it—pushed it, with something that wasn't quite physical force—into the path of an oncoming B1, both droids toppling in a tangle of metal limbs.
He spun, his blaster rising again, and three bolts stitched across the chest of another Battle Droid in a perfect diagonal line.
Spin. Fire. Move. Fire. Duck. Fire.
The world narrowed to a single point of focus—the next target, the next shot, the next step in the dance. His fear was gone, replaced by something cold and clear and utterly terrifying in its intensity.
When the last droid fell, Marcus stood in the center of a corridor strewn with sparking wreckage, his blaster still raised, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that had nothing to do with exertion.
The silence stretched.
"Well," Obi-Wan said finally, his voice carrying a note of something that might have been shock, "that was... unexpected."
Marcus turned to find every single person in the corridor staring at him.
The clones were frozen in place, their weapons half-raised, their postures speaking of soldiers who had just witnessed something they couldn't quite process. Echo's mouth was hanging open behind his helmet—Marcus couldn't see it, but he could somehow tell. Coric was already moving toward him, the medic's training overriding his shock as he prepared to check Marcus for injuries.
Rex was staring with an intensity that made Marcus want to check if he'd suddenly grown a second head.
Ahsoka's eyes were wide, her lekku twitching in a way that Marcus's limited knowledge of Togruta body language suggested indicated extreme surprise.
And Anakin...
Anakin was smiling.
"I knew it," the Jedi said, his voice carrying a satisfaction that made Marcus's blood run cold. "I knew the Force had plans for you." He deactivated his lightsaber and strode toward Marcus, closing the distance between them in three long steps. "That wasn't just training, Corporal. That wasn't luck. That was the Force."
"I—" Marcus started, but his voice wouldn't cooperate. His throat felt dry, his tongue thick and clumsy. "I don't—"
"You're Force-sensitive," Anakin continued, and the words hit Marcus like a physical blow. "Somehow, against all odds, you're a Force-sensitive clone. Do you have any idea how impossible that should be?"
"Anakin," Obi-Wan said, his voice carrying a warning, "this isn't the time—"
"It's exactly the time!" Anakin turned to his former Master, his expression animated with an excitement that was frankly alarming. "Obi-Wan, think about it. A clone with Force abilities—with the potential to be trained as a Jedi. This changes everything."
"It changes nothing," Obi-Wan countered, moving to stand beside them. His eyes were fixed on Marcus with an intensity that matched Anakin's but carried a very different energy—not excitement, but concern. "Whatever abilities Corporal Scorch may possess, he is still a soldier of the Republic. Any discussion of his potential should wait until we're no longer surrounded by enemy territory."
"Master Kenobi is right," Rex cut in, his voice sharp with command authority. "We need to move. Factory's secondary security will be mobilizing, and I don't want to be here when they arrive."
The moment broke, practicality reasserting itself over wonder. Anakin's expression flickered with frustration, but he nodded, turning away to survey their surroundings. "Fine. But this conversation isn't over, Corporal."
"Looking forward to it, sir," Marcus managed, the words coming out as barely more than a whisper.
Force-sensitive, he thought, his mind spinning. I'm Force-sensitive. That's... that's not possible. That's literally not possible. The clones were specifically designed to be Force-null. It's in the lore. It's in the—
Oh.
Oh.
He wasn't really a clone.
He was Marcus Chen, a human soul from another dimension, shoved into a clone body by whatever cosmic force had decided to make his death interesting. The body might have been engineered to be Force-null, but the soul—the consciousness, the essential spark of being that made him him—that hadn't come from Kamino.
That had come from somewhere else entirely.
And apparently, wherever he had come from, the Force had decided to tag along for the ride.
I'm a Force-sensitive clone trooper, Marcus thought, the reality of it settling over him like a weight. I have powers that I don't understand. The Jedi are going to want to study me. The Kaminoans are going to want to dissect me. And somewhere out there, Palpatine is manipulating everything, and if he finds out about me—
"Scorch." Rex's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "You with us?"
Marcus shook himself, forcing his mind back to the present. There would be time to panic later. Right now, they had a mission to complete—or at least salvage from the smoldering wreckage of their original plan.
"With you, Captain," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "What's the play?"
Rex was silent for a moment, his visor fixed on Marcus in a way that suggested he had a lot of questions that he was deliberately choosing not to ask. Then he nodded, once, sharply.
"We push forward," he said. "Factory's power core is still our primary objective. If we can shut it down, we cripple their production capabilities and give ourselves a window for extraction." He gestured toward the corridor ahead. "Scorch, you're on point."
"Me, sir?"
"You." Rex's voice brooked no argument. "Whatever just happened to you, whatever's going on—you're our best shot at getting through whatever's waiting up ahead. So move out, Corporal. Show us what you can do."
Marcus looked at the corridor—dark, foreboding, almost certainly filled with more droids and traps and things that wanted to kill him. He looked at his squad, the brothers he had only known for a few weeks but who were already starting to feel like family. He looked at Anakin, whose eyes were still bright with that unsettling excitement, and at Obi-Wan, whose concern was almost palpable, and at Ahsoka, who was watching him with an expression that he couldn't quite read.
He took a deep breath.
"Yes, sir," he said, and started walking.
THE NEXT FORTY-FIVE MINUTES WERE THE MOST INTENSE OF MARCUS'S NEW LIFE.
And that was saying something, because his new life had included Geonosis, which remained the high-water mark of "intense" by any reasonable standard. But Geonosis had been chaos—blind, desperate survival in the midst of a battle that was too big to comprehend.
This was different.
This was focused.
Marcus moved through the factory like a ghost, his newfound connection to the Force guiding his steps with an instinct he didn't understand but couldn't deny. He knew when droids were around corners before he saw them. He knew when traps were waiting before he triggered them. He knew, in a way that defied explanation, exactly where to be and when to be there to cause maximum damage to the enemy while minimizing risk to himself and his squadmates.
He fought.
Maker, did he fight.
A squad of B1 Battle Droids emerged from a side corridor, and Marcus was already firing, his blaster bolts tracing lines of blue light through the air with a precision that left the clones behind him gaping. Six droids, six shots, six kills—the last one dropping before the first one's body had even hit the ground.
A pair of Droidekas came rolling toward them, their shields already flickering to life, and Marcus—acting on an instinct he couldn't explain—reached out with something that wasn't quite his hand and pushed.
The Droidekas flew backward like they'd been hit by a speeder, their shields flickering and dying as they slammed into a wall hard enough to dent the metal. Before they could recover, Anakin was there, his lightsaber carving through their chassis with surgical precision.
"Nice work, Corporal!" Anakin called, his grin visible even in the dim emergency lighting. "You're a natural!"
I'm going to throw up, Marcus thought, but his body kept moving, kept fighting, kept doing things that his conscious mind couldn't fully process.
He threw a thermal detonator into a group of Super Battle Droids with a casual grace that suggested he'd been doing this his entire life. He slid under a barrage of blaster fire with a flexibility that his old body—the out-of-shape, Cheeto-fueled body of Marcus Chen—could never have achieved. He engaged a MagnaGuard in hand-to-hand combat, dodging its electrostaff strikes with a fluidity that seemed almost supernatural, and—when an opening presented itself—drove his vibroblade through a gap in its armor with a precision that spoke of years of training.
Training that he didn't have.
Training that he had never had.
The Force was guiding him. Using him. Flowing through him like electricity through a conduit, directing his movements, enhancing his reflexes, making him into something more than he had ever been.
It was exhilarating.
It was terrifying.
It was exactly what he had spent his entire previous life dreaming about.
And now that it was actually happening, all he could think about was how completely and utterly screwed he was.
THE POWER CORE
The factory's power core was a massive cylindrical structure that dominated the center of the facility, its surface crackling with contained energy, its hum filling the air with a vibration that Marcus could feel in his bones. It was also, predictably, very well defended.
"Fifty droids, minimum," Rex reported, his rangefinder sweeping the chamber from their concealed position. "Including at least ten Supers and... is that a tank?"
"That's a tank," Obi-Wan confirmed, his voice flat. "An AAT, modified for indoor combat. Wonderful."
"I can take it," Anakin said, and his tone suggested that this was not up for debate.
"You always think you can take it," Ahsoka muttered, but she was already moving into position, her lightsabers igniting with a distinctive snap-hiss that never failed to send a thrill down Marcus's spine.
"Scorch." Rex's hand closed on Marcus's shoulder, the grip firm through his armor. "You're with me and Echo. We hit the control station on the west side, shut down the power core's shielding, and give the Generals an opening. Think you can handle that?"
Marcus looked at the control station—a raised platform about fifty meters away, currently occupied by a dozen Battle Droids and accessible only via a catwalk that offered approximately zero cover from the army of hostiles below.
"No," he said honestly. "But I'll do it anyway."
Rex's visor tilted in what might have been approval. "That's the spirit. On my mark."
The battle that followed was, objectively speaking, completely insane.
Anakin led the charge, because of course he did, his lightsaber blazing a path through the droid formation like a comet cutting through atmosphere. Obi-Wan followed a heartbeat later, his own blade moving in tight, controlled arcs that spoke of a completely different fighting philosophy—precision where Anakin was power, defense where Anakin was offense, calm where Anakin was absolutely unhinged.
Ahsoka flanked left, her dual sabers spinning in the Jar'Kai style that she was still perfecting, cutting down droids with a youthful ferocity that made Marcus's heart clench with the knowledge of everything she would suffer in the years to come.
And Marcus...
Marcus ran.
His boots pounded against the catwalk, his blaster firing in a continuous stream of suppressive fire that kept the droids below from getting a clean shot. Echo was beside him, his rifle barking in controlled bursts, while Rex brought up the rear, his twin pistols dealing death in both directions.
A Super Battle Droid stepped onto the catwalk ahead, blocking their path.
Marcus didn't slow down.
He jumped.
Not a normal jump—a Force-enhanced leap that carried him over the droid's head, his body twisting in midair, his blaster firing three shots into the Super Battle Droid's back before he even landed. The droid toppled, and Marcus hit the catwalk running, not even breaking stride.
"Kriff me, that was amazing!" Echo shouted from behind him.
"LANGUAGE!" Rex yelled back, which struck Marcus as deeply ironic given that "kriff" was literally a swear word.
The control station loomed ahead, its twelve-droid garrison already turning to face the approaching threat. Marcus could see the control panel behind them—the access point for the power core's shield generator, the key to completing their mission.
He could also see that there was absolutely no way to reach it without going through the droids first.
Well, he thought, here goes nothing.
Marcus reached out with the Force—still fumbling, still uncertain, still utterly untrained—and pulled.
The effect was not what he intended.
He had been trying to pull a single droid off the platform, to create an opening in their formation. Instead, he pulled all of them—every single droid on the control station, their metal bodies suddenly yanked toward him like they were connected to an invisible rope.
Twelve Battle Droids flew through the air, their limbs flailing, their processors unable to compute what was happening.
Marcus's eyes went wide behind his helmet.
"OH STANG—"
The droids crashed into him in a wave of metal and sparks, and Marcus went down in a tangle of mechanical limbs and increasingly panicked cursing. Blasters discharged randomly, limbs flailed, and somewhere in the chaos, Marcus's vibroblade found its way into his hand and started stabbing things with an enthusiasm that was entirely instinctive.
"SCORCH!" Rex's voice, somewhere above the mayhem. "SCORCH, ARE YOU—"
"I'M FINE!" Marcus screamed, driving his blade through a droid's photoreceptor housing. "I'M TOTALLY FINE! THIS IS COMPLETELY UNDER CONTROL!"
It was not under control.
But somehow—through luck, through the Force, through the sheer stubborn refusal to die that seemed to be his defining characteristic in this new life—Marcus carved his way out of the pile of droids and staggered to his feet, his armor dented, his helmet cracked, his entire body aching from approximately nine thousand impacts.
The control station was clear.
Echo sprinted past him, his hands already flying across the control panel. "Shield generator... disabling... now!"
The hum of the power core changed pitch, and Marcus saw the shimmering barrier around it flicker and die.
"GENERALS!" Rex bellowed into his comm. "CORE IS EXPOSED! HIT IT!"
What happened next was, Marcus reflected later, probably the single most impressive display of Force power he had ever witnessed in any of his lives.
Anakin and Obi-Wan moved in perfect synchronization, their lightsabers deactivating as they raised their hands toward the exposed power core. The air between them and the massive cylinder seemed to shimmer, reality itself bending under the weight of their combined will.
And then they pushed.
The power core—a structure that was easily twenty meters tall and weighed more than Marcus could estimate—crumpled like a tin can being crushed by an invisible fist. The metal screamed as it folded in on itself, energy discharging in wild arcs that scorched the walls and ceiling, and then—
BOOM.
The explosion was cataclysmic.
Marcus threw himself behind the nearest piece of cover, his arms covering his helmet, his entire world reducing to noise and light and shockwave after shockwave of concussive force.
When the ringing in his ears finally subsided, he looked up to find the factory's power core—and a significant portion of the surrounding structure—reduced to smoking rubble.
"Mission accomplished," Obi-Wan's voice came over the comm, somehow sounding perfectly composed despite everything. "All units, fall back to the extraction point. Our ride should be arriving shortly."
Marcus pulled himself to his feet, swaying slightly.
"We're getting a ride?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "I thought the gunship was shot down."
"It was," Rex said, appearing beside him and offering a hand to steady him. "But General Skywalker called in a favor. Apparently, the Resolute is bringing some friends."
"Friends?"
The answer came in the form of four LAAT/i gunships that descended through the factory's now-demolished roof, their laser cannons spitting fire at the remaining droid forces, their side doors already opening to receive the extraction team.
"Move it, people!" Anakin shouted, already running toward the nearest gunship. "We've got about two minutes before this whole place comes down!"
Marcus moved.
He ran through the chaos of the collapsing factory, his boots pounding against debris-strewn floors, his lungs burning with exertion. He leaped onto the gunship's deck just as it began to lift off, his fingers catching the safety rail, his body swinging wildly before Rex grabbed him and hauled him fully inside.
The doors closed.
The gunship climbed.
And Marcus collapsed against the interior wall, his chest heaving, his mind still struggling to process everything that had just happened.
"That," Ahsoka said, dropping into the seat across from him, "was insane."
"I know," Marcus managed.
"You pulled twelve droids at once. On your first try. Without any training."
"I know."
"That shouldn't be possible."
"I KNOW."
Ahsoka stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she smiled.
"We're going to need to work on your control," she said. "But seriously, Scorch—that was amazing."
Marcus closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall.
Amazing, he thought. Sure. Let's call it that.
Let's not call it "terrifying evidence that the Force has decided to use me as its personal plaything."
Let's not call it "a guarantee that Anakin kriffing Skywalker is now going to be intensely interested in my development."
Let's not call it "the beginning of a journey that's going to get me killed in approximately nine thousand different ways."
Let's just call it amazing.
The gunship soared through the Kothlis atmosphere, leaving the burning ruins of the Separatist factory behind.
And somewhere, in a realm beyond space and time, three beings of immense power watched and smiled.
The Force's new favorite toy was just getting started.
END CHAPTER 2