Tup stepped forward next, his fingers already twitching with anticipation. Without waiting for a cue, he sprang into action — a blur of motion.
He moved with uncanny speed, faster than any clone had a right to be. His twin katanas, forged of pure beskar and enhanced with vibrotech, danced through the air with lethal grace.
One by one, the concrete targets were sliced clean in half, falling apart with surgical precision.
As the dust settled, Tup turned toward the others with a proud, almost boyish grin stretching across his face.
"Like I said before," Nyx chimed in, clearly impressed, "those blades are full beskar. Vibrotech built into the core. That's not just a sword — that's art made for war."
Tup gave a slight bow, acknowledging her words with quiet satisfaction.
Then her gaze shifted to Dogma.
"And now… Dogma. As for your arm — it's best if I show you."
She walked over calmly, gripping his left forearm with practiced ease. With a quiet hiss of pressure, she detached it from his shoulder, revealing the connection socket beneath.
Dogma didn't flinch — he knew what was coming. They'd all seen the schematics. But part of him still wondered why the switch flesh to steel had been made.
Nyx, as always, anticipated the question before it could be asked.
"You're wondering why we replaced your arm," she said, setting the old limb aside. "Why the rest of your enhancements use eighty-percent purity alloys… while that arm is only ten-percent beskar, the rest durasteel."
She glanced back at the limb lying on the table. "That one's for appearances. Day-to-day functionality. You'll draw less attention with something that looks civilian."
Then she lifted a second arm — the real one — gleaming with chromed beskar alloy, sculpted like the gauntlet of a demigod.
"This," she said, attaching it to Dogma's frame with a click, "is your weapon."
Dogma flexed the new arm — then, at her gesture, balled it into a fist and drove it forward. The concrete target before him shattered like brittle glass, reduced to dust and chunks in an instant.
"This arm houses a micro-launcher," Nyx added. "Explosives. One neural command, and boom."
As she spoke, a launcher unfolded from the underside of Dogma's arm with a soft mechanical whirr. His HUD flickered to life — crosshairs locked. Nyx stepped back.
"I'd move if I were you," she told the others with a smirk.
Dogma fired.
—BOOM—
A section of the range exploded in a storm of fire and debris.
Before the smoke could settle, Nyx kept going. "But my favorite feature? The claws. Hydraulic. Vibrotech-enhanced. You could tear through a durasteel with these."
Dogma activated them. Five sleek claws slid from his fingertips, glowing faintly blue at the edges. He slashed downward at a target — the concrete peeled open like soft fruit.
"And lastly," Nyx said, walking around him, "the remote control feature. Detach the arm."
Without hesitation, Dogma disengaged the limb. It dropped to the floor with a thud — then sprang to life, its fingers flexing, claws extending, the launcher rising as if still attached to him. It moved with eerie synchronicity, responding to his every thought as if it were still part of his body.
"Damn," Echo muttered, watching in awe. "Now I'm jealous."
The others nodded in silent agreement, eyes gleaming with the possibilities. Dogma simply raised an eyebrow, his beskar fingers curling into a satisfied fist.
"What about us?" Kix asked, hopeful. "Commander hook us up with anything sweet?"
The spark in his voice instantly lit a fire of expectation in both Fives and Echo.
Nyx crossed her arms, leaned back casually, and said with a perfectly timed pause, "You three? No."
Their faces dropped like malfunctioning servos. But before despair could settle, she smirked and tapped the last unopened crate beside her.
"But… I might have something that'll pique your interest."
With a hydraulic hiss, the crate unlocked and opened wide. Inside was a deadly arsenal—sleek combat knives, high-tech pistols, submachine guns, modified assault rifles, heavy blasters, and enough explosives to level a small city block.
The three clones stepped forward, eyes wide.
Fives picked up a rifle and turned it over in his hands. "Wait… these are all slugthrowers?"
"Sharp eye," Nyx nodded. "But not the primitive ones you're used to. These are smart weapons—next-gen tech. Like your bodies, these aren't simple tools. Try it."
She handed him an HJKE-11 Yukimura—a sleek, brutal-looking rifle humming faintly with energy.
"Shoot that target," she said, pointing to a drone partially obscured behind a large boulder downrange.
Fives hesitated, raising the weapon. "That boulder's in the way."
Nyx grinned. "What you're holding links directly to your HUD. It's a smartgun. Tracks targets through walls, obstacles—whatever. Lock on."
As he aimed, his HUD flickered to life. Target silhouettes lit up in his vision, one locking red behind the boulder.
"Go ahead," Nyx said.
Fives pulled the trigger.
The rifle barked—and the bullet didn't just fly straight. It curved, arcing around the obstacle like it had a mind of its own. It struck the hidden drone dead-center, shattering it in a burst of sparks and metal.
"What the—" Fives fired again. And again. Each bullet bent mid-air, maneuvering around cover, zipping through tight angles, and hitting their mark without fail.
"Incredible," Echo muttered, watching in awe.
"These aren't just slugthrowers," Nyx explained, her voice proud. "They use micro homing tech. You could shoot blind around a corner and still hit your target. Cover's no longer a defense. There's nowhere to hide from this."
Kix let out a low whistle. "Now that's sweet."
---
Level 79.
Bathed in the neon afterglow of Coruscant's underbelly, Commander Thorn stood tall before the glowing sign that crowned the entrance—"The 79's."
Clad in full armor, helmet tucked beneath his arm, he was a striking silhouette against the city's perpetual dusk.
At the door stood a reprogrammed BX-series commando droid, its stance straight, posture precise—a relic of war turned sentinel of peace.
"Ah, Commander Thorn," it said with genteel cheer. "Do enjoy your time here at the 79's."
"Welk," Thorn greeted with a curt nod, stepping past the metallic bouncer and into the sanctuary of brothers.
Inside, the bar was a world of its own.
Soft red lighting pulsed in rhythm with the mellow tones of a live clone band on the small stage to the right.
The brass of the trumpet, the gentle stroke of strings—accompanied by clones singing heartfelt shanties—filled the air with haunting camaraderie.
To the left, a wall of remembrance stood in quiet dignity. Holographic portraits and etched names of fallen brothers glowed in solemn blues and golds, as clusters of clones gathered to pay tribute, some touching the wall, whispering the names, others lost in silent memories.
The heart of the bar pulsed with life.
Clones played holo-sabacc, gambling not only credits but favors and stories. Others danced clumsily, joyfully, letting the music and drink drown the weight of war. Laughter, cheers, and echoes of past missions filled the air, thick with the scent of spiced liquor and oil.
Thorn moved with calm purpose toward the bar, where a battle-scarred clone polished glasses beneath warm light. One eye glinted from behind a patch, his armor converted into a casual bartender's attire—an officer's undersuit with sleeves rolled and an apron tied with the ease of a veteran.
Thorn took his seat and set his helmet down with practiced grace.
"Skip," he said in low greeting.
The bartender gave a nod, his expression unreadable but familiar. "Commander. What'll it be tonight?"
"A CT-99… and an Order 65," Thorn replied, voice even.
"Right away," he said, turning to craft the drinks.
Suddenly, the seat beside Thorn shifted.
Sliding into view was a clone draped in crisp formal military attire—worn with the ease of a soldier who had seen too much, yet carried it with the pride of someone who refused to break. Thorn didn't need to look to recognize him.
Commander Cody.
"I ordered your favorite," Thorn said, his voice steady, a flicker of warmth behind the words.
Cody offered a small, knowing smile. "Isn't it a little early in the morning for you to be drinking, Thorn?"
Thorn gave a quiet laugh, eyes on the bar's polished surface. "The war's been dragging on for nearly four years. With Dooku finally dead…" He raised a brow, "…I'd say it's a drink well-earned."
As if summoned by fate, Skip reappeared, setting two drinks before them with the precision of a man who'd served officers in more ways than one.
Cody nodded in appreciation. "Now that's something I can drink to," he said—and without hesitation, the two brought their glasses together in a sharp, clean clink before downing the liquid in a single gulp.
Glass hit durasteel.
A silent pause.
"But it's not over yet," Cody continued, his voice low and edged with resolve. "Grievous is still out there."
His hand tightened into a fist on the bar, knuckles whitening—hope and vengeance balanced precariously on his grip.
"I heard General Kenobi's been given the hunt," Thorn added, eyes narrowing.
Cody nodded. "Yeah. We move at first light tomorrow."
Their second round arrived, glasses set down with a soft clink. But neither man reached for the drink.
"Have you thought about what comes after?" Thorn asked quietly, his voice cutting through the noise like a whisper of fate.
"After?" Cody frowned, unsure. "You mean after this deployment?"
"No," Thorn said, eyes fixed ahead, heavy with something more. "After the war. When the fighting's done. When there's no more orders to follow. What will become of us? What will you do?"
Cody stared at him, the question hanging in the air like smoke. "I... I haven't thought about it," he admitted, his voice faltering. "I mean… we were made for this. I just assumed we'd keep doing what we always do—protect the Republic."
But even as he spoke, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. The words felt like armor—polished but thin, brittle against the truth they both felt but dared not name.
Thorn gave a low chuckle, not unkind. A glint of pity touched his expression. "Well, I've thought about it. And once this war ends… I'm done. I'm walking away."
Cody leaned in, his tone dropping to a harsh whisper. "What? You're not serious…"
"Serious as death," Thorn replied, unflinching.
"You're talking about desertion?"
Thorn turned to face him fully, a calm defiance in his gaze. "Desertion? No. I'm talking about a clean break. An honorable discharge—if such a thing even exists for us. We've done our duty. Bled for the Republic. Buried our brothers. We've earned the right to live."
"And where would you go?" Cody asked, his voice barely audible above the soft murmur of the bar. "What would you even do without a war?"
Thorn stroked his chin thoughtfully, then cracked a grin. "Sorgan."
Cody blinked. "Sorgan? That nowhere world? You plan on becoming a fisherman now?"
"Maybe," Thorn said with a shrug. "It's remote, off the grid. No patrols. No politics. Nobody asks questions, and nobody comes looking. It's perfect."
Cody smirked, taking a long pull from his drink. "Perfect for what? Starting a rebel cell?" he joked.
"Maybe," Thorn said again—this time with something darker, something serious behind the word.
Cody scoffed, shaking his head. He'd heard this kind of talk from Thorn before—ever since Scipio.
Ever since the mission where Thorn nearly died and came back a changed man. These days, his thoughts always skirted the edge of conspiracy, of quiet rebellion.
To Cody, it sounded like the ramblings of a soldier too long at war. But still… the seed was planted.
And it had a way of growing.
Hours drifted by in a haze of laughter and dim red lights until, eventually, two clone commanders stumbled out of the glowing doorway of 79's—arms slung around each other's shoulders, legs barely cooperating beneath them.
"Commander Thorn. Commander Cody," the reprogrammed BX-series commando droid at the entrance announced with polite cheer. "I trust your time at Bar 79's was… satisfactory."
The two men waved sloppily at the droid as they staggered off into the night, their footfalls echoing down the now quiet, lamp-lit street.
Then—beep.
Thorn's private communicator chimed. With a flick of his wrist, a small blue hologram sprang to life in his palm. Nyx's image flickered into focus.
"The upgrades are complete," she reported crisply. "All units have received their new gear."
"Understood," Thorn replied, his tone sharpening. "Prep the surgical table. I'll be there shortly."
Nyx nodded once before vanishing in a blink of light.
Cody blinked, swaying beside him. "Who… was that?" he slurred, words tangling together. "Surgical… table?"
But Thorn was no longer drunk.
His posture straightened. His eyes cleared. Every trace of intoxication evaporated in an instant, replaced by cold purpose.
Without a word, he veered sharply into a shadowed alley, dragging Cody with him by the arm.
"Thorn? Where we… going?" Cody mumbled, stumbling to keep pace, still caught in the haze of drink.
Then—a sharp sting at the base of his neck.
Pain flared, brief and blinding.
"Sorry, old friend," Thorn murmured, voice low and heavy. "This is for your own good."
Cody's legs buckled. His vision blurred.
The last thing he saw was the inside of a shipping crate—and Thorn's unreadable face.
"Thorn… wh—" he tried to say.
But the words never made it out. The darkness took him.