20 BBY: Captured Umbaran Supply Base
The captured supply base had quickly been repurposed as the base of operations for the 501st. The clones were efficient, wasting no time in fortifying defenses and sorting through captured supplies. It was an impressive display of logistical adaptability, though I couldn't help but wonder how things were faring on General Kenobi's front.
Unfortunately, we had no way of knowing. The Umbarans had jammed all long-range communications, making it nearly impossible to contact them. Until we took the capital, we were limited to strategic communications often only relayed to the commander. That reality was unsettling. While I didn't always see eye to eye with General Krell, I had to assume he had a plan. He had, after all, led the successful capture of this base.
Colonel Valken, however, was less convinced. It was no secret that she was unimpressed—furious, even—with Krell's methods. Her distaste for the Jedi was palpable, though I had yet to understand just exactly why.
Speaking of, I hadn't seen her all morning. That was unusual. She was typically up before most troops, either studying intelligence reports or silently watching the battlefield from an elevated vantage point.
I decided to ask Commander Rex if he had seen her.
Stepping out of the barracks, I was once again greeted by the perpetual darkness of Umbara. The eternal night made rest difficult, as did the distant, unceasing rumble of warfare. Even now, the faint glow of long-range artillery fire illuminated the horizon. The Umbarans were launching strikes just outside our position—not quite hitting the base itself, but suppressing our forward position.
The clones paid it no mind, continuing their work with the disciplined efficiency I've come to expect from them. Some moved captured munitions into storage, while others performed maintenance on our equipment. I passed by a repurposed hangar—perhaps we could make use of the Umbaran vehicles left inside. It was worth looking into.
I spotted the ground command post near the edge of the base and found Rex overseeing the coordination of supplies. I approached.
"Commander Rex, have you seen Colonel Valken today?"
He turned slightly, his expression neutral. "I haven't seen her this morning."
"Do you know where she might be?"
He hummed in thought. "Not sure. But knowing her, she'll turn up."
"Thank you."
Returning his salute, I turned away, intending to check the barracks next. But before I got far, I spotted her emerging from the command tower.
One glance at her expression told me everything I needed to know—whatever had transpired had not been to her liking. Her posture was stiff, her gaze filled with irritation just barely kept in check.
I jogged over. "Lieutenant Voss reporting."
She barely glanced at me. Her irritation quickly dissipating. "Lieutenant, I'd like your analysis on something."
I straightened. "Of course, ma'am."
Valken pulled out her datapad, activating a holographic display of the surrounding area. "Now that we've secured this base, we've cut off the Umbarans' supply lines to the capital, correct?"
I nodded. "Yes. That was the entire purpose of taking this position. The capital should be completely cut off from resupply."
"Agreed. Then take a look at this."
She adjusted the hologram, zooming in on the Republic's current positioning. Red markers denoted the Umbaran forces, now completely encircled. There was no way in or out. And yet—
"They're still launching artillery," I murmured, realization dawning. "But if their supply lines were truly severed, shouldn't they be conserving their munitions for when we attack."
Tanya nodded in agreement. "Exactly. The Republic severed their supplies, and yet they continue their bombardment at full capacity. The Umbarans are not dumb. If their supplies have been cut off, then conserving them would be their logical move. And yet they employ a siege-breaking strategy."
Elara raised an eyebrow. "Siege-breaking?"
Tanya continued. "When a city is encircled, there are only a few ways to keep it supplied. The most effective is smuggling routes, hidden tunnels, or external reinforcements." She gestured to the map. "The Republic has them surrounded on all ground fronts, and we've taken their only accessible supply depot. So unless they've developed teleportation, the only logical answer is they're being resupplied from somewhere else."
Elara's frown deepened as she followed Tanya's reasoning. "That makes sense, so what are we missing then?"
Tanya flicked a hand toward the map, emphasizing the skies. "I believe the Umbarans are getting their supplies from the air—bypassing the Republic's ground blockade by keeping their supply lines over our head. And unless we cut off that supply, they will continue to hold out."
Elara shook her head. "Which means capturing this base was pointless if we don't deal with that ship."
"Correct," Tanya said, voice flat. "A classic mistake in siege warfare—assuming taking the supply depot alone starves out the defenders. But logistics doesn't stop just because one route is cut off. War is a battle of attrition. And the Umbarans are playing the long game."
Elara studied the orbital scans Tanya pulled up. "If we're right, and there's a supply ship in low orbit, why hasn't the Republic fleet done anything about it?"
Tanya's lips pressed into a thin line. She turned her datapad over, showing Elara the latest Republic comms logs. "I don't have access to Republic fleet intelligence. And since I haven't heard Krell acknowledge the issue, I can't be sure how the Republic will deal with this issue. That being said, while the supply ship is still in low orbit, we won't be able to make our attack on the capital if the Umbarans have enough supplies to keep us pinned here."
Elara's expression darkened. "This is quite the precarious situation."
Tanya glanced over at the hanger. "For now we need to further assess our situation and hold this position. We don't want the Umbarans taking it back." She paused, "I can't wait to hear what General Krell's master plan will be this time.
There was no doubt—the Umbarans are on the back foot. Cutting off their supply base has greatly reduced their access to critical resources, and under normal circumstances, this would have been the beginning of their collapse. A siege would quickly grind them down until surrender or annihilation became inevitable. That is, if they were truly cut off.
But, of course, they aren't.
I forget just how far military technological advancements have come in this world. The battle for this entire planet is just a speck on the battle map; the sheer scale of this war is hard to wrap my mind around. It expands tactical considerations in ways that I just haven't got accustomed to yet. I believe the saying goes, control the ground, and you win battles. Control the seas, and you win campaigns. Control the air, and you win the war. And here it is about who is controlling space. The Separatists understood this perfectly. Someone up the chain had decided that losing Umbara outright was unacceptable, and as long as the Umbaran forces remained supplied, their defeat was far from assured.
A supply ship in low orbit was keeping them fed, fueled, and armed. That much was obvious. The real question was—how much longer could they keep this up?
Their priorities are clear. Retaking this base was now their primary objective. The missile strikes hammering just outside our perimeter weren't just harassment fire—they were an attempt to keep us pinned down, limiting our ability to consolidate our hold. Classic suppression tactics. They were playing for time, a counterattack is inevitable at this point.
If we could eliminate the supply ship, then we could finally make a swift end to this battle. We'd hold every advantage while the Umbarans withered without resupply. But therein lay the problem—I have no intelligence on the current Republic fleet in orbit. Given how isolated we are, they most likely have their hands full elsewhere.
And Krell? He sure as hell wasn't going to tell me anything. If I even questioned his plan, he'd sooner throw me into the meat grinder alongside his own troops than acknowledge the need for a competent strategy. That left me with only educated guesses.
The Republic fleet hadn't resupplied us since our glorious charge down the main road. That meant one of two things: One, the fleet is engaged in a larger conflict elsewhere and can't spare assets to resupply us. Or two, the Republic is stretched too thin, and we aren't a logistical priority. Either way, we have to be careful. Supplies are not unlimited, and with the strategic importance of this base, wasting what little we have would be a catastrophic failure.
I need to know just what we are working with.
"Elara," I said, turning on my heel. "We're going on a tour."
She blinked but followed without hesitation. "What are we looking for?"
My boots crunched against the duracrete as we moved toward our first stop—the hangar.
"Just how much did the Umbarans leave behind? Their defenses were surprisingly light when we arrived, which suggests they weren't planning on holding this place for long. That means one of two things: Either they knew they were beaten and were just delaying us, or they were trying to get their supplies out before we got here."
Elara frowned. "You think they had an evacuation underway?"
"More like a last-minute scramble," I corrected. "I bet they probably underestimated us. After all, just a bunch of foot soldiers took out their heavy walkers. If they saw the writing on the wall, they'd have prioritized getting as many high-value assets out as possible. Weapons, vehicles, spare munitions—things they couldn't afford to lose. But that also means they didn't have time to take everything. Which means…"
Elara's eyes lit with understanding. "They might've left something useful behind."
"Exactly." I smirked. "Let's see what they were in such a hurry to abandon."
The hangar was eerily silent compared to the rest of the base. Unlike the constant movement of troopers hauling supplies or reinforcing defenses outside, this place felt… abandoned. It had the distinct atmosphere of a battlefield frozen in time.
Bright, bluish overhead lighting shone on the polished floors, casting long shadows over rows of sleek, alien-looking vehicles. The Umbaran fighters were lined up in neat rows along the far end of the hangar, their strange, curved designs standing in stark contrast to the utilitarian structure of Republic gunships.
My boots echoed against the floor as Elara and I stepped inside, scanning the scene. A few scattered crates, likely containing munitions or spare parts, had been cracked open, their contents rummaged through. It was clear that the Umbarans had been in a rush to leave, but just how much they abandoned remained to be seen.
Near one of the fighters, three clones stood around—Fives, Hardcase, and Kicks. They were deep in conversation, but the moment Elara and I approached, they straightened, recognizing the officers in their midst.
"Colonel," Fives greeted with a salute. "Didn't think we'd see you down here."
Hardcase smirked. "Did you come to admire the enemy's fine craftsmanship?"
I gave the fighter behind him a glance. "I wouldn't go that far," I remarked dryly. "Though I do think it's a shame to let these vehicles collect dust."
Fives sighed, his usual enthusiasm dimmed by obvious frustration. "I have to agree. Without air support from the Republic, these ships are even more valuable. Although, Krell has ordered us not to commandeer any of the Umbaran technology. Calls it 'too risky.' and a waste of time."
I narrowed my eyes slightly. Of course, he did.
"That makes no sense," Elara interjected, crossing her arms. "They're perfectly functional. Why not use them against the Umbarans?"
Hardcase scoffed. "You tell me. If it were up to us, we'd already be tearing through the enemy with their own tech. All we would have to do is crack their security codes and learn how to fly them."
I replied calmly, keeping my irritation in check. "I see…"
I needed to keep my discontent under wraps. Now that I have interfered in Krell's plan, I didn't want to be court-martialed for continually undermining leadership.
Kicks, ever the more level-headed of the bunch, shrugged. "I don't know, ma'am. I don't pretend to understand Jedi tactics, but I do know this much—he doesn't care how many troopers it takes to get the job done."
I turned back to the hangar, scanning the available equipment. The Umbarans had left plenty behind—too much to just ignore.
"What has he told you to do with the rest of the supplies?"
"On that point," Kicks responded, "he has allowed us to use the small arms and rations, at least. We've already gone through them here, but the rest are still being appraised."
I nodded, still deep in thought. "Thank you, troopers. I'll leave you to it."
Our tour around the rest of the base went relatively quickly. I'm surprised to hear that Krell let the troops use any of the supplies at all. A rare act of generosity. Perhaps he decided that starving his troops isn't tactically viable after all.
The other buildings had been repurposed into standard military outposts—makeshift barracks, ammo depots, and command hubs. Nothing out of the ordinary. The real headache was the supply ship. As long as it remained in orbit, the Umbarans wouldn't need to retake the base in full just yet—they could just keep skirmishing, draining our resources while they waited for the perfect moment to strike.
Our next stop is the frontline.
I took Elara with me to an elevated ridge just outside our forward position—one of the few vantage points that provided a decent line of sight through Umbara's perpetual gloom. The air was thick with fog, but from this height, we could at least get a better picture of the battlefield.
Pulling out my visor, I scanned the perimeter. We had barely locked onto our forward position when an explosion lit up the darkness in front of us. A firefight had begun.
"I hadn't expected them to attack this early," I muttered, adjusting the zoom. "Our forward position is holding them off for now."
Elara, visor lowered, tensed beside me. "Yes… but hold on. What is that?"
Her tone sent a jolt of awareness through me. I followed her line of sight, focusing deeper into the shifting fog. At first, I could barely make anything out—just shifting silhouettes and scattered muzzle flashes in the distance.
And then, I saw it.
A silhouette—no, a shadow—loomed within the mist. A towering mechanical beast. My eyes narrowed in as a metallic leg pierced through the fog, planting itself into the mud with the weight of heavy armour.
The fog thinned just enough to give me a clearer look, and I barely contained my shock.
It was massive. A towering monstrosity of durasteel, walking on thick, jointed limbs that resembled the legs of some grotesque mechanical arachnid. Its frame was reinforced with heavy plating, its core protected by a nearly seamless shell of armor. Twin heavy blaster cannons firing from what should have been its shoulders, humming with a deadly energy that promised instant destruction. And then there was its glowing red eye, piercing the fog and gazing over the battlefield.
I could hardly believe my eyes—it was fully equipped with a personal shield. Enclosed within a deflector shield generator, a shimmering, translucent barrier flickered around the machine, effortlessly absorbing small arms fire as though it were little more than a passing nuisance.
I narrowed my eyes. That's not standard Umbaran tech.
And that meant one thing—the Separatists had just upped the ante.
Elara swallowed. "What is that thing?"
I exhaled slowly, suppressing the creeping sense of unease. "I have no idea."
20 BBY: Supply Base Command Tower
Captain Rex stood rigidly as the transmission from General Kenobi flickered out, his mind already working through the implications. Beside him, General Krell turned sharply on his heel, making a beeline for the elevator. Rex fell into step behind him.
"Captain, have the troops ready for an assault immediately. We strike the capital within twelve hours." Krell's voice was as unwavering as ever—no room for negotiation, only expectation.
Rex choose his next words carefully. "Sir, should I attempt to make contact with General Kenobi? Coordinating our attack with his forces could—"
"General Kenobi has his hands full," Krell interrupted, not even sparing him a glance. "It is our duty to press the attack. We cannot allow that supply ship to continue reinforcing the Umbarans."
Rex exhaled slowly. The general acknowledged the supply ship—but, of course, he planned to deal with it in the worst way possible: by ignoring it. "Sir, with all due respect, we'll be walking straight into an Umbaran artillery net."
Krell stopped and turned, fixing Rex with an unwavering glare. "Captain, I know you may not agree with my strategies, but I trust you are loyal enough to follow orders." His voice was dangerously even. "Now, prep the troops. We attack in twelve hours."
Rex stiffened, holding back the urge to argue. He didn't like this. None of this felt right. But the Republic was all he knew, and soldiers followed orders.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, frantic voice crackling through his commlink.
"Mayday! Mayday! Separatist heavy armor has broken through our perimeter! We need anti-armor support ASAP — repeat, we need anti-armor now!"
Without even looking at Rex, Krell growled, "Dispose of these assailants captain. Then prepare the troops."
Rex could barely process Krell's words before the transmission dissolved into a chaotic mess of static and blaster fire. Just before it cut out, he caught something—just enough to make his stomach sink.
That voice.
Rex's blood ran cold.
Colonel Valken.
This can't be good.
The outer perimeter had been shredded. The Separatists sent the Umbarans an express delivery of overwhelming firepower, and judging by the speed at which our defenses were crumbling, it wasn't a bulk shipment of droid parts.
I don't need a tactical briefing to know we are in serious trouble. The thunderous boom of heavy blaster fire, and the sharp whine of missiles streaking through the air made that abundantly clear. Vegetation ignited in bursts of green and orange, thick plumes of smoke curling into the already oppressive atmosphere. The Umbarans aren't just pressing the attack—they are covering their approach.
Textbook combined-arms assault.
Infantry alone wouldn't be able to breach our defenses—not while our position was fortified. But thanks to the Separatists' generosity, they've got new armored toys. The Umbarans were keeping our troopers occupied with suppressive fire, forcing them to hunker down while their big guns rolled in. The worst part? It was working.
And speaking of big guns—
I caught the glint of more durasteel cutting through the fog, moving with the unsettling grace of a predator.
It moved with slow, deliberate steps, its sheer bulk piercing the ground. Its shield flickered faintly in the smoke, absorbing every bolt thrown at it like the entire concept of damage was beneath its consideration. A walking fortress. It didn't need to rush—just advance while we wasted our ammunition trying to scratch it.
"Elara, we need to move. Our position is compromised—we can't stay here."
"Yes, ma'am. Let's go."
Thankfully, we hadn't been spotted. Our vantage point had given us a clear view of the approaching forces, but that also meant staying any longer was suicide.
We sprinted back, keeping low as we moved between smoldering debris, the acrid scent of burning thick in the air.
I tapped my commlink, forcing my voice to remain calm despite the chaos unfolding around me.
"Mayday! Mayday! Separatist heavy armor has broken through our perimeter! We need anti-armor support ASAP — repeat, we need
anti-armor now!"
No response.
I gritted my teeth. I didn't have time to wait for a response. We needed to keep moving to stay out of the line of fire. I sure wasn't going to get killed out here. Especially under General Krell, I wouldn't be able to forgive myself.
"Elara, let's keep moving. We need to make contact with the base and get them our intel."
She nodded in quiet understanding. I sometimes forget she's technically a tactical officer. So far, she's held up well under fire — but her baptism is far from over.
Captain Rex hadn't expected the Umbarans to organize a counterattack this quickly. The base had only been captured forty-eight hours ago. Their forces should still been reeling from the loss, scrambling to regroup while the Republic's southern front pushed toward the capital.
So how the hell were they already launching a full-scale counterattack?
That question would have to wait—right now, the battle unfolding in front of him took priority.
Rex sprinted toward the second line of defense, where Republic troops had barely managed to throw together E-Web emplacements and a network of hastily dug trenches. Hardly ideal, but it was better than nothing. He dropped into the trench, landing next to a trooper gripping his rifle tightly, eyes locked on the incoming chaos.
"Trooper, what's the situation?"
The soldier snapped to attention despite the encroaching enemy. "Sir, the enemy has broken through the outer perimeter. We're holding position, awaiting our retreating forces before we engage their advance."
Rex nodded, scanning their defenses. The setup was rudimentary; they hadn't had enough time to properly set it up, but it would have to do.
What concerned him more was the lack of anti-armor.
He activated his commlink, voice sharp. "Where's that anti-armor? We don't have much time here."
The response came swiftly, though static already crackled through the channel.
"Here, sir. Moving into position at Grid Three-Seven-Niner—determined by approaching enemy fire."
"Good. Get those PLX-1 launchers up immediately. We're gonna need that firepower."
"Copy that."
Rex turned his visor toward the retreating Republic forces, catching sight of their retreating squads spilling over the ridge. Troopers, exhausted and battered, scrambled for cover in the trench. He stepped forward, grabbing the nearest one and pulling him in.
"Get these men to the medics! We'll handle it from here."
As the retreating clones were dragged to safety, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he spotted Colonel Valken and Lieutenant Voss moving toward him with urgency, their expressions grim.
Tanya didn't waste time. "Captain Rex. Glad you got my message."
Rex exhaled, already knowing what was coming. "Barely. Comms are a mess. Just what did you see out there?"
Tanya jumps down into the trench. "We have a major problem. The Umbarans aren't just throwing infantry at us—they've deployed a new asset."
Rex frowned. "Define 'new.'"
Tanya tapped her datapad, bringing up a rough visual from her visor's recordings. A hulking, scorpion-like walker lumbered through the dense fog, its dual laser cannons unloading relentless barrages while its shield absorbed return fire effortlessly.
"This thing isn't in the Republic database," Tanya continued. "It's impervious to small-arms fire, and our troopers barely made a dent in it before the perimeter collapsed."
Elara chimed in, her voice laced with concern. "Our best guess is that it's some sort of new advanced Separatist siege unit. We know it's heavily shielded, meaning conventional weapons won't cut it."
Rex studied the footage, his jaw tightening. "Great. Just what we need—another walking fortress."
Rex studied the recording with a grimace. "That thing's a monster. It's shield looks just like a droideka's—it won't be easy to take down."
Tanya folded her arms. "No such thing as indestructible. Everything has a weakness."
Rex gave a short nod. "Droidekas have a flaw in their shields. They seem impenetrable to blaster fire, but if an object is moving slowly enough, it can pass through. Maybe this shield operates on the same principle."
Tanya tilted her head slightly, considering. "It's worth testing. But unlike a Droideka, this thing's a walking fortress. We don't exactly have the luxury of just rolling a grenade in its path."
Elara pulled up the tactical map, scanning the terrain. "If we can lure it into a confined space—somewhere its maneuverability is limited—we might be able to exploit that."
Tanya narrowed her eyes at the battlefield ahead. "The problem is execution. Comms are being jammed, and we don't have time to test theories while it turns our defenses into scrap metal."
Rex sighed, sinking into thought.
Tanya's gaze flicked back to the recording, analyzing the walker's lumbering stride and the thick vegetation surrounding their position. Then, an idea struck.
"The vegetation." She muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
Elara looked at her. "What about it?"
Tanya's lips curled into a small smirk. "That thing moves slow, but it's big. The jungle here is full of obstacles—if we time it right, we can bring the trees down on top of it. If the shields work like we think, the weight of the debris might get through."
Rex's expression shifted, gears turning in his head. "If we use our anti-armor to take out the right spots, we could bury the damn thing alive."
Tanya nodded. "At the very least, it'll stall it. At best? We crush it outright."
Rex gave a rare, crooked grin. "I like those odds. Now, how do we make 'em reality?"
Our plan required patience and precision—two things rarely afforded on the battlefield. The engagement had already begun, Republic and Umbaran infantry exchanging fire from their positions. Elara and I took position at a vantage point just outside where the battle was taking place, ready to signal the anti-armor teams once the walker moved into position. A single flare would mark the moment to strike.
The battlefield was devolving into chaos. More Umbaran infantry poured in by the minute, using the thick vegetation and swirling smoke as natural cover. Our E-Web emplacements kept them at bay, but barely—we weren't cutting them down, just keeping them suppressed. And they knew it. They didn't need to break through; they just had to hold the line and keep that walker covered long enough for it to carve another path through our defenses.
If we lost this position, the base would be wide open. If the base fell, the campaign was as good as lost.
The firefight dragged on for what felt like an eternity before I finally spotted the beast lumbering forward through the smoke. It moved at a deliberate, mechanical pace, its silhouette cutting through the chaos like a walking fortress. A moment later, its weapons came to life, their deafening blasts drowning out the smaller arms fire around us.
And just like that, casualties spiked.
The impact of each shot was ridiculous—bodies thrown back, trenches caving in under the concussive force. But the walker wasn't in position yet. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to wait. We only had one shot at this, and mistiming it would mean throwing away our best chance at stopping this thing.
Elara shifted beside me, clearly uneasy. She was right to be nervous—this was high-stakes. But I had been through worse.
A few agonizing moments later, the walker finally stepped into position. I fired off the flare.
The PLX-1 launchers roared to life, sending missiles streaking into the base of the towering trees. The explosions severed them exactly where needed, gravity doing the rest. With a thunderous crack, the trees collapsed onto the walker, their massive trunks crashing down onto its armored shell. The entire battlefield seemed to pause for half a second as the impact sent a shockwave through the ground, dust and debris obscuring the wreckage.
The Umbarans, clearly not expecting their prize war machine to be buried alive, hesitated. Without its firepower covering them, their formation wavered. The clones took full advantage, cutting through the disorganized enemy ranks with brutal efficiency. We were finally pushing them back.
Now was the time to capitalize.
I fired off another flare—the signal to press the attack. The clones surged out of their trenches, E-Webs laying down suppressive fire as they advanced. The Umbarans, already on the defensive, started to break. Some retreated in full, others scrambled for cover, their cohesion falling apart.
Then, of course, the wreckage rumbled.
Because nothing is ever that simple.
I zoomed in with my visor, my jaw tightening as the massive droid forced itself upright, sheer mass alone shoving the fallen debris aside. Its heavy blasters whirred back to life, firing wildly—not in precise shots, but in pure suppression, keeping anyone from getting close while it steadied itself.
I sighed.
"Well," I muttered dryly, lowering my visor. "That would've been too easy."
I caught a glance at Elara—visibly shaken, though doing a commendable job of keeping it in check. Good. Keeping your nerves steady under pressure is the mark of a real soldier. Panic gets people killed.
But now, with its infantry support gone, this thing was vulnerable. Size isn't always an advantage—if anything, it worked against it. The larger the target, the easier it was to outmaneuver. We could run circles around it until we found a way to bring it down.
The clones fired off another volley of PLX-1 rockets, this time aiming directly at the droid. The missiles streaked through the air, colliding with its energy shield in a spectacular display of uselessness. The blasts dissipated harmlessly, the shield shimmering for a brief moment before stabilizing again.
I couldn't help but chuckle.
Elara looked at me with what almost seemed like concern.
"Colonel…?"
Meanwhile, the Annihilator continued its advance, its dual heavy blasters tearing through our lines with horrifying efficiency. Anyone caught in its sights was eliminated instantly. Even those lucky enough to avoid a direct hit were thrown back by the sheer force of the explosions.
I had to give credit where it was due—the engineers who designed this thing were geniuses. A complete nightmare to fight against.
"Let's see what these clones are really made of."
Commander Rex was ecstatic—or at least as much as a battle-hardened soldier could afford to be in the middle of a warzone. What had seemed like an unwinnable fight just moments ago had suddenly shifted in the Republic's favor. The Umbaran infantry was routing—their morale shattered.
It made sense. Their overreliance on Separatist heavy armor was their downfall. Without their walking fortress to hold the line, the Umbarans were just another force of flesh and blood—and flesh and blood could be broken.
"Men, move up! We take the fight to them!"
With the Scorpion droid distracted and their initial plan failing to destroy it, it was time for Plan B. But the charge forward wasn't without cost. Good soldiers—good men— made the ultimate sacrifice for their cause.
"Go! Move!"
Rex led his troops forward, using the droid's singular focus on the Republic's main position to flank around its blind spot. He needed to take this thing down now.
Pulling out a set of EMP grenades, he closed the distance and rolled them carefully through the shield.
The grenades detonated in a burst of energy. Sparks flickered for a brief second—and then nothing.
"I should have guessed."
The droid remained completely unfazed. Its shield absorbed the blast as if it were a light breeze, and all the attack accomplished was grabbing its attention.
Rex's stomach tightened. The beast stopped firing and began to slowly rotate toward him, absorbing every shot the clones fired at it.
Think, Rex. Think.
Then it hit him. The eye. If he could take out its primary sensor, it would be as good as blind.
Risky, but better than nothing.
The Annihilator continued its slow turn, its massive frame shifting, its cannons adjusting. It was preparing to fire.
Rex steeled himself. One shot. He had one chance.
Keeping his movements deliberate, he carefully pushed his blaster through the shield. If he moved too fast, the energy barrier would react and deflect it. Years of marksmanship and battlefield precision guided his aim.
There.
The glowing red optical sensor locked onto him.
He pulled the trigger.
"Unbelievable."
The sheer recklessness of these clones never ceased to astound me. Bravery, loyalty, self-sacrifice—admirable qualities, certainly. But there was a fine line between bravery and programmed obedience, and these soldiers had crossed it without even a second thought.
The Republic's cloning program wasn't some noble initiative. It was the mass production of human beings for the sole purpose of war. Every clone was bred for combat, raised on military doctrine, trained not just to fight, but to die. And they did it so eagerly, so unquestioningly. No different from the droids they so bitterly fought against.
It was the same principle the Separatists applied to their machines—create an army, throw them at the enemy, and let them break themselves upon the battlefield. Only difference was, the clones bled. They felt pain, fear, and loss.
I couldn't help but wonder—just how different are they, really?
Both were manufactured for war. Both had their lives defined by numbers instead of names. Both followed orders without question.
And yet, the clones insisted they were men.
The Jedi, who used them as little more than tools, marched them into battle after battle. They treated them like expendable pawns, and when they died, they were lauded as heroes. But where was the respect for their lives? Where was the recognition that, for all their bravery, they were no more than tools in someone else's war?
The Separatists discarded their droids like broken machinery, no different than a discarded tool. The Republic, on the other hand, called their fallen "heroes," but the truth was the same: They were still just weapons, disposable, expendable. The Jedi's speeches about sacrifice didn't change the fact that the clones' deaths were as meaningless as the droids' deactivation.
So, who really was the hero in this war? The clone who followed orders without thought, dying for a society they were never apart of? The Jedi who use them and send them to their deaths with little regard for their lives? Or the Separatists, who created armies just to throw them into the fire with no regard for anything but victory?
The result is the same.
Both armies are tools—designed, shaped, and ground to dust by a war dictated by forces far beyond their control. Forces that didn't care whether they lived or died. Forces that only saw them as means to an end.
In that end, I couldn't decide which fate was worse: To live as a tool, knowing you were nothing but a pawn on the board. Or to die without even the dignity of being remembered, discarded as soon as you were no longer useful.
20 BBY: Supply Base Barracks
The battle from yesterday was the final leg of my rotation. It had been exhausting.
By the time I collapsed into bed, my body throbbed with the dull, relentless ache of prolonged exertion. Sleep was my only escape—though fleeting, it was the only reprieve I could afford. Reality would be there waiting the moment I awoke.
The next morning, I stirred and slipped into the rigid rhythm that had become second nature. My movements were automatic: the clasping of my uniform, the straightening of every crease, the ensuring of every detail pristine. Presentation mattered. An officer must always look the part.
As I adjusted my cap, a thought slithered into my mind.
How long has it been?
It felt like lifetimes. A never-ending cycle of orders, battlefields, and war.
Ever since Being X had chosen to meddle with my existence, he'd tied my fate to the damned military. Damn him. His Jedi pawns followed orders so obediently, leading their armies in a senseless war with no end, no purpose, beyond feeding his insatiable thirst.
And I stood ready to tear it all down.
Did he really think he could control me? That I would simply fall in line like the rest of his puppets? He should've let me die that day. Letting me live would be his last mistake.
I exhaled sharply, pushing the thought away.
Yawning, I opened the door and stepped into the corridor, my fingers absently scrolling through my datapad, skimming reports. I barely registered the world around me. There was no coffee to shake the fog from my head, so I just kept moving. I walked toward the exit—until something stopped me cold.
I did a double-take, my eyes narrowing as my screen flashed an unfamiliar message.
Krell's latest orders.
I stared, rereading the details, as if I could will the words into making sense. Fatigue was playing tricks on my mind, surely. But no. The message remained the same.
A full-scale assault on the capital. All in. Throwing everything we had in one uncoordinated, reckless push. No mention of the supply ship. No coordination with the other fronts. Just the same meat grinder approach. No regard for attrition, no logistics, no contingencies.
My hand instinctively went to my forehead.
I can't wait for this damn campaign to be over.
I'd dealt with poor leadership before, but even Germania had some semblance of competence and dignity when waging war. This? This felt like playing at war—no real strategy, just pointless bloodshed to satisfy some twisted need.
Do these Jedi even understand the war they're fighting?
I kept walking, irritation simmering just beneath my otherwise cold exterior. As I passed the hangar, something caught my eye—something wrong.
The blast doors were torn open. A jagged hole ripped through the reinforced durasteel.
I stopped short.
I hadn't slept that long, had I?
Umbaran ships littered the hangar, scattered and damaged, some barely holding their position. What in the hell had happened here?
Had we been attacked again?
I scanned the troopers moving about the base. They didn't seem to be reacting like we were under siege. No heightened alert, no frantic scrambling—just their usual disciplined efficiency.
I reached for my visor, scanning the wreckage. What happened here?
The steady thump of marching boots echoed behind me, catching my attention. I turned—and there they were.
Two clones. Shackled. Being escorted away.
I frowned.
I had more questions than answers.
This day was already shaping up to be another long one.
"You have willfully disobeyed General Krell's orders. For your insubordination, you are sentenced to execution by firing squad. Do the prisoners wish to be blindfolded?"
Well. This is new.
I watch the scene unfold from a distance. Getting in the middle of this mess is the last thing I want right now. Instead, I pull out my visor to identify the prisoners. The moment their faces come into focus, I nearly do a double-take.
Kicks and Fives?
Ah. So that's what this is about.
Suddenly, the blown-up hangar makes a lot more sense. But why? Why had they done it? I couldn't imagine a clone—loyal to a fault—committing outright sabotage. Sure, they hated Krell, but they'd always followed his orders, albeit grudgingly. What changed? What could have broken their conditioning so completely that they willingly turned against their superior?
"Wait! This is wrong!" one clone cried, stepping forward. "The general is making a mistake, and we all know it! No clone should go out this way!"
Fives.
His tone wasn't just desperate—it was pleading. That was rare. He was a soldier through and through, the kind of leader who followed orders and expected his men to do the same. And yet here he was, begging for reason in a situation where reason had long since been discarded.
"We are loyal soldiers and follow orders, but we are not mindless droids! We must be trusted to make the right decisions—even when the orders are wrong!"
Ah.
There it was.
The change was unfolding right before my eyes. Clones were bred for obedience, but perhaps I was wrong about their blind obedience. Unlike droids, they can think for themselves—no amount of indoctrination could fully strip that away from a living being.
And Krell, in his infinite arrogance, had backed them into a corner where that realization was unavoidable.
"Fire!"
The order rang out, sharp and decisive. The clones raised their blasters—
A volley of blaster shots echoed, but something was off. None of the prisoners fell.
I focused on the execution squad. Their weapons still smoking, but their aim had been deliberately off—they'd missed on purpose.
Now that was interesting.
The clones were still pawns, but had been too quick to compare them to droids? A droid wouldn't hesitate. A droid wouldn't choose. But these men? They had made a choice.
I adjusted my visor, watching closely as murmurs rippled through the ranks. The execution unraveled entirely. Rex spoke up—though I couldn't make out his words from here, whatever he said was enough. The prisoners were released, and just like that, the execution was over.
Krell had lost control.
I still didn't have the full picture, but I'd seen enough. The clones' loyalty ran deeper than blind obedience to the Republic, the Jedi, or even to their own survival. It was to each other.
And Krell, in his arrogance, had shattered their illusion of unquestioning allegiance.
A commander like him destroys morale faster than any enemy could. In any past life, he wouldn't have even passed the most basic officer screening, let alone been entrusted with command. He lacked the fundamental ability to lead—to understand the limits of his soldiers, to push them without breaking them.
Kicks and Fives were good soldiers. My interactions with them had proven it. To discard men like them—trained, experienced, and capable—was a waste of human capital so staggering it bordered on sabotage.
I'd seen similar failures before.
The Soviet Red Army. Stalin's paranoia gutted the officer corps, purging competent commanders in favor of blind loyalty. Generals who questioned tactics were executed, leaving only sycophants who followed orders without hesitation—even when those orders led entire battalions to annihilation. The result? Catastrophic failures, with infantry divisions thrown into hopeless charges and thousands dying for nothing more than a leader's ego.
And with the Federation. Same mistake as the Soviets—purging their own military of its most valuable asset. Mages. My battalion owned the skies for months thanks to their idiocy. And now? Now I'm stuck playing along with an organization making a similar mistake.
I still don't know why they destroyed the hangar, but I have a hard time believing that it would warrant these clones' execution. Krell wasn't leading. He was purging—removing anything and anyone who didn't conform to his absolute authority. And in doing so, he was ensuring his own downfall.
The military does not tolerate waste.
I need to keep a closer watch on Krell. It's hard to believe this is just a coincidence—people like him don't wield power without an agenda. I hadn't uncovered what that was yet, but there was something deeper at play, and I intend to find out. Once I submit my report to Tarkin, Krell's days in command will be numbered. The Republic already has little patience for Jedi leadership—and he would never be allowed to remain in this position commanding like this.
Krell's latest order had arrived during my sleep. Another full-scale assault, this time directly on the capital.
I sighed, rubbing the exhaustion from my eyes as I scanned the details. This strategy may have worked against the Umbarans in the field, where supply lines were thin—but a direct assault on the capital using the same approach? My instincts as a tactical officer screamed disaster.
A frontal assault on an entrenched enemy? With only our forces? That wasn't strategy—that was wishful thinking.
Back when I served aboard the Vigilant, a CR90 corvette assigned to skirmish operations, we had an admiral who believed in aggressive maneuvering. He once ordered a direct charge at a Separatist Munificent-class frigate, thinking we could outflank them in a close-range engagement. The result? A brutal slugging match that left us crippled and barely limping back to friendly space. We survived only because another fleet group happened to respond to our distress call. The lesson was clear—raw aggression wasn't a strategy, it was a gamble.
And Krell? He was gambling with an entire legion.
I shut off the datapad and prepared to leave my quarters, already dreading the battle ahead, when I noticed something unusual. A note, slipped under my door.
I picked it up and read the short message.
"Find me at Hangar D3."
It was signed Colonel Valken.
I exhaled through my nose. What does she have in store for me this time?
Tanya Valken was unlike any officer I have ever served under. She is the youngest commander I have ever followed, yet her presence demands attention. Calculating. Detached. Always steps ahead of everyone in the room. And yet, despite her age, she had more control over herself than officers twice her senior.
I still wasn't sure what to make of her.
I never planned for a career like this, although I made the choice to serve. I volunteered, thinking that working in fleet command as a tactical officer would keep me away from the front lines. After all, numbers, maps, and fleet logistics made more sense to me than charging into battle, and my age didn't help. But war had a funny way of throwing you exactly where you didn't want to be.
And now, here I was—walking into whatever Valken has planned.
The first thing I notice when I arrived at Hangar D3 was the massive blast hole in the entrance.
I stopped in my tracks, staring at the charred edges of the durasteel door. What happened here?
Had we been attacked again? There was no way the Umbarans launched another counteroffensive so soon—not after what we did to their latest war machine. The base was still operational, and there wasn't an emergency alarm, which meant whatever happened was already resolved.
Or, at the very least, swept under the rug.
The clone presence here is minimal—most of them already preparing for the assault on the capital. That meant whatever had occurred here isn't a priority in Krell's mind.
I stepped through the wrecked doorway, the smell of scorched metal still lingering in the air. Debris was scattered across the floor, Umbaran fighters knocked from their positions, damaged but not beyond repair. This wasn't just an accident; this was intentional.
And standing in the middle of it all, hands clasped behind her back, surveying the destruction with the cold detachment of a battlefield analyst, was Colonel Valken.
She had been waiting.
I straightened my posture and walked forward, my boots crunching against broken metal as I approached. If anyone knew what happened here, it was her.
"Colonel," I greeted, stopping at a respectful distance. "What exactly am I looking at?"
The air in the hangar was thick—stale with the lingering scent of charred metal and fuel. The blast hole in the door loomed behind us like an open wound, and the dim lighting cast long, twisted shadows over the wreckage. The usual mechanical hum of the hangar felt muted, suffocated under an unnatural silence.
Colonel Valken stood motionless in the center of it all, just staring at the destruction like a scholar observing the final proof of a long-theorized equation.
She hadn't even acknowledged my question.
For the first time since meeting her, I hesitated. I'd seen Colonel Valken in many states—analytical, cold, irritated even—but this? This was something else.
There was a certainty in her stance, a quiet, terrible certainty.
"Lieutenant." Her voice cut through the silence, even, measured. She still hadn't turned to face me. "What is your assessment?"
I stiffened. "Well… from the little I've observed, I find it hard to believe this was an attack from the Umbarans. I haven't seen any evidence to suggest that conclusion. I believe what happened here was done internally… and on purpose."
She finally nodded. "You're correct."
Her tone was almost... satisfied.
I swallowed, unsure if I wanted to hear what came next.
"There was an execution this morning."
My breath hitched.
I forced my face to remain neutral, but the weight of her words settled deep in my chest like ice.
"But there was something different about it," she continued, still refusing to meet my gaze. "The clone prisoners were lined up. When the executioners fired, they missed—intentionally."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"The clones disobeyed orders," she went on, her voice devoid of judgment. "General Krell's incompetence finally broke them. The loyal Republic soldiers who followed his every order, no matter how suicidal, have finally reached their limit."
The silence stretched between us.
I could feel the weight of realization pressing down on me, my own ignorance suddenly suffocating.
I had defended Krell's results, rationalized his leadership. I'd given him credit where I assumed credit was due. But I had failed to see what Colonel Valken grasped from the beginning—a leader is nothing without the trust of their troops.
And Krell? Krell had shattered that trust beyond repair.
I took a breath, forcing myself to meet her gaze. With a slight bow, I spoke the only words that felt appropriate.
"I apologize for my ignorance, Colonel. Please forgive my shortsightedness. I see it now."
At last, she turned.
For a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in her expression—satisfaction, perhaps, or relief that I had finally caught up to her conclusions.
"Lieutenant," she said, her voice low but firm. "What the clones have done here may have destroyed this hangar, but their sacrifice was well worth it."
Her eyes gleamed with something unreadable, something unnerving.
"I can tell the supply ship has been destroyed. They must have taken it into their own hands—against Krell's orders." Her tone was almost… amused. "If he had simply given them permission, this never would have happened. Their test flights could have been conducted outside, instead of inside the hangar."
I nodded, still processing everything. "Yes, Colonel… I'm sure you've seen Krell's orders to assault the capital?"
Her expression darkened. "I'm aware. Failure is almost certain. Even though the supply ship is gone, Krell has exhausted and abused this legion to their limits. And now he expects them to throw themselves at the capital with no support."
I clenched my fists. "We can't stop him?"
She shook her head. "I'm afraid we can't do anything at this point. I've already taken matters into my own hands once—I can't risk being sent to a firing squad for continued insubordination."
"So, what do we do then?"
Before she could answer, our coms crackled to life.
"Command, this is General Krell. The Umbarans are attempting to breach our lines disguised in stolen clone armor. My orders remain unchanged — the capital must fall. All units, engage and eliminate these insurgents immediately. Do not be deceived. Show them the price of underestimating us. We must thwart this attack at once."
A heavy silence fell between us.
Then, I saw it.
A slow shift in Colonel Valken's expression. The cold, calculating mask she always wore gave way to something sharper, something darker.
Her lips curled into the smallest of smiles—not one of amusement, nor malice, but of a cryptic understanding.
Like she had just seen the final piece of a puzzle fall into place.
"Let's find out what Krell is really after."
Blaster fire erupted through the thick Umbaran fog, streaks of light cutting through the perpetual gloom. The mist scattering the flashes, turning the battlefield into a surreal, nightmarish display—an endless war fought in darkness. The clones of the 501st had endured battle after battle, mission after mission, always pushing forward under orders, no matter how costly. But now, something was different. Now, their patience had worn thin.
Their so-called commander had sent them into another hopeless fight, this time against enemies wearing their fallen brothers' armor—mocking them, taunting them with the faces of the dead. As if the Umbarans somehow knew of their suffering and had decided to twist the knife even deeper.
Rex gritted his teeth as he pressed forward, visor scanning through the haze. The firefight was nothing but chaos. Both sides unloaded round after round into the fog, neither able to truly see their targets. Shadows moved in the mist, indistinct figures barely registering before another burst of blaster fire cut them down. Were they even hitting the enemy? It didn't matter—this was war. Reflex, instinct, and survival ruled the battlefield now.
More clones fell. Rex could hear their cries, their deaths lost in the relentless hail of artillery. Explosions pounded the earth, shaking the very ground beneath their boots.
"I see the targets," Rex called out over the comms, his voice steady despite the gnawing feeling in his gut. His visor locked onto enemy signatures. "Sure are in clone armor all right."
"Keep up the pressure, men!"
The blaster fire intensified, but something felt wrong. The enemy wasn't responding the way Umbarans should. Their movement patterns were too familiar, too rehearsed.
A gut feeling. An instinct. A warning.
Rex forced himself forward, diving behind a ridge of thick, alien vegetation for cover. His breath came heavy as he landed beside the body of a fallen trooper, his armor scorched and broken from the fight. But just beyond him—another figure. A slain enemy in clone armor.
Rex's pulse pounded in his ears as he crawled forward, his gut screaming at him that something wasn't right. His hand gripped the helmet of the "enemy" soldier and yanked it off.
He felt his blood run cold.
A clone.
A brother.
He didn't hesitate. Rex shot to his feet and sprinted toward the front line, waving his arms frantically.
"STOP FIRING!" His voice raw, desperate. "CEASE FIRE! WE'RE SHOOTING OUR OWN MEN! TAKE OFF YOUR HELMETS!"
No one moved. The battle still raged.
With a furious yank, Rex pulled off his own helmet, exposing his face. His breath came ragged as he continued running, waving his arms wildly. "LOOK! TAKE THEM OFF! THEY'RE CLONES!"
One by one, troopers turned, confusion evident in their hesitation before removing their helmets.. Across the battlefield, the other side—their side—began doing the same.
The gunfire slowed.
Rex tackled an "enemy" soldier, gripping his helmet and ripping it away.
Another clone.
The realization hit like a blaster shot to the chest.
And then—the firing stopped.
Silence.
Cold, suffocating dread spread through the ranks as every soldier—both sides—began to understand what had just happened.
They had been killing each other.
They had slaughtered their own brothers.
Men they fought beside. Men they trusted with their lives.
No enemy had done this to them.
Rex stood frozen, the battlefield eerily still around him. No words could mend what had been broken. No order, no mission, no justification could erase what had just transpired.
One trooper's voice finally broke the silence, hoarse and full of anguish.
"What have we done…"
The weight of those words settled over the entire battlefield.
Their faith in the chain of command had been shattered.
Their trust—gone.
Their obedience—gone.
All that remained was cold, resolute anger.
They would no longer follow a commander who saw them as expendable, who had orchestrated their deaths without hesitation, without remorse.
Lined up before him, the surviving troopers stood at attention, their faces steel, their minds made up.
Rex took a deep breath, his voice steady with grim determination.
"Troopers." His eyes swept over them. "We can no longer trust General Krell. What he has done here cannot go unanswered. What I am about to propose is treason of the highest order. If anyone wants to opt out, do it now."
Not a single clone moved.
Rex nodded.
His next words sealed Krell's fate.
"My orders are to arrest General Krell for treason against the Republic."
20 BBY: Supply Base
Countless clone troopers moved with unwavering purpose, their boots striking the durasteel floor in perfect rhythm. Their formation precise, methodical—every movement calculated. This was no chaotic battlefield skirmish. This was something far graver.
This was the moment they turned their weapons on their own commander.
The command tower loomed above them, its shadow stretching across the base like the hand of the very man they had come to depose. The clones lined up at its base, covering every possible escape route. There would be no hesitation. No mistakes. Krell would not slip through their grasp.
Rex led the arrest team—handpicked volunteers who knew exactly what they were doing. There was no need for words. They had fought together long enough to understand one another with just a look.
The elevator doors slid open. With disciplined precision, the squad stepped inside, weapons primed.
The press of a button sealed their fate.
The ascent was slow. Too slow. The hum of the lift filled the silence, a steady reminder of the moment they were hurtling toward. Each of them had faced death a hundred times over, but this… this was different.
This wasn't a battle.
This was justice.
And then—
Ding.
The doors slid open with a faint hiss.
The command tower was eerily silent. Holographic displays flickered in the dim lighting, casting shifting blue glows across the room. The air felt heavier here, oppressive in a way that had nothing to do with the perpetual gloom of Umbara.
At the far end of the room, standing before the wide window, was Krell. His massive silhouette framed by the distant flashes of battle. He didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge their arrival.
As if he still believed himself untouchable.
Rex and his men stepped forward, surrounding the general, blasters raised. Their movements were precise and disciplined—hoping for an arrest.
Rex spoke with determination. "General Krell, you're being relieved of duty."
Krell finally turned, his yellow eyes gleaming with something between amusement and disdain. "It's treason then," he rumbled, voice thick with condescension. "You march in here like a pack of wayward children. Tell me—do you truly believe you can place me under arrest?"
Rex stood firm. "General Pong Krell, you are under arrest for treason against the Republic. You will surrender yourself and come with us. Now."
Krell chuckled. A low, reverberating sound that rattled in his massive chest. "You have no authority over me, Captain." He spat the word like an insult. "You surprise me, Captain." His gaze swept over the clones, filled with utter contempt. "I didn't think you would figure it out. You're nothing but tools. Disposable. Replaceable. And now you think yourselves above me?"
The clones didn't flinch. But they hesitated.
Krell saw it. And he smiled.
That was all she needed.
Hiding in the shadows, concealing her presence in the Force, Tanya closed the recorder in her palm. Krell had damned himself. She had all the evidence necessary to clear herself of the crime she is about to commit.
She opened the vent and slid out. Then began to move with purpose in the Force, silent but deliberate, her boots barely making a sound against the durasteel floor as she stepped out of the shadows. The clones were fixated on Krell, their hesitation filling the room like a suffocating fog. The moment was slipping away. The longer they let him speak, the more doubt would creep in.
She wouldn't allow that.
In one fluid motion, Tanya threw off her cloak and drew her lightsaber from her belt, the blade humming to life. Without hesitation, she advanced on Krell, closing the distance before he could even react.
One fluid strike—clean, precise.
The blade hissed as it sliced through his thick neck, severing head from body in an instant. The weapon suddenly flared violently with a golden hue, as if feeding on the act itself, before dimming back into its steady, eerie green glow.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Krell's massive form swayed for a fraction of a second, his own lightsabers still clipped to his belt, untouched. His severed head hit the floor with a dull thud. His body followed soon after.
Dead before he even understood what happened.
Tanya stood motionless, blade still humming in the cold air.
The clones stared in shock—some stepping back, others gripping their weapons instinctively. Rex's mouth opened slightly, as if about to say something, but no words came out. With a sharp hiss, Tanya took off her mask, the sound slicing through the silence like a blade.
Finally, Rex found his voice. "Colonel Valken…?"
Tanya tilted her head slightly.
"What have you done?"
The tension in the air was suffocating.
"I merely terminated a traitor," Tanya said smoothly. "Surely you can see why this action was necessitated."
Some of the troopers exchanged glances, as if uncertain whether they should object or thank her.
Tanya met their gazes, calm and unreadable. "General Krell was a liability to the Republic war effort. He had already sentenced himself to death once he committed treason. Prolonging this with a trial would only hinder our progress further."
No one answered.
Because they all knew.
The clones wanted justice. But Tanya gave them certainty.
She extinguished her lightsaber, stepping over Krell's lifeless form as if he were nothing more than another obstacle removed from the battlefield.
"The capital still stands. We have work to do."
She shifted her gaze to the central hologram—a luminous map of Umbara's capital, pulsing in the dim light. Placing her hands behind her back, she straightened, standing at full attention.
The elevator dinged, signaling an arrival.
Tanya merely ignored it as if it were on cue. "It's time we finish this campaign."