"Sector Kesh", Tibrina Outskirts
327th Stormtrooper Corps, 358th Legion, Rancor Squad
Dawn
The coral sky cracked with thunder — but it wasn’t from the weather.
It was the drop.
From high above, Imperial drop barges tore through the cloud layer, their hulls glowing orange from reentry friction. The storm winds scattered the mist just long enough to reveal what they were carrying:
Three AT-AP Walkers, repainted in the stark black-and-white Imperial livery, descending on heavy grav-clamps. Their angular legs curled beneath them like spiders preparing to strike.
The once Republic-gold trim on their hulls was now gone — replaced by fresh Imperial insignias, cold and unapologetic.
The infantry dropships followed, punching through the upper atmosphere like falling blades, trailing heat and smoke. The first thing Patch noticed as his dropship descended was the light.
Tibrin isn’t like Csilla — no icy stillness, no gray-blue haze of logic and cold control. No, this place glows. The ocean stretches below like a living nebula, shifting with luminous tides of purple, cyan, and gold. Between the water rise coral towers, some higher than starcruisers, jagged as knife-blades and alive with darting creatures.
Beautiful. Until the first tower explodes.
The coral towers weren’t natural, not all of them.
Some were carved. Hollowed. Weaponized.
There were Separatist AATs, half-crashed tanks lodged into reef ledges, firing ion shells across slick terrain. The spire shakes as coral cracks beneath them.
As the three AT-APs touched ground their center mass cannons swiveled, locking onto Separatist hardpoints embedded deep in the reef clusters.
Boom-BOOM! Twin blasts rocked the seabed, vaporizing a jagged coral outcrop and whatever command nest had been sheltering inside it, allowing for the infantry to drop safely.
From the smoke and steam came Echo Squad — armor sleek, regulation-clean, every move textbook. Their formation was perfect as they disembarked from their gunship, rifles up, visors scanning.
Behind Echo came Wampa Squad, more ragged but heavier armed, carrying flamethrowers and sonic charges for reef-clearance. They didn’t bother with tight formations — they let the AT-APs do the talking.
Overhead, the new TIE recons screamed past, bathing the reef in searchlight beams that lit the phosphorescent water like a nightclub strobe.
The final squad's dropship rumbled like a dying beast, its underbelly scraping across the sea mist that clung to Tibrin like a shroud. The air inside was thick — with sweat, oil, nerves. Just four troopers packed in tight. Rancor Squad - what's left of it. All Clones. Except Patch. Rancor was due for some replacements.
Patch sat hunched in the corner, gloved hands fastening tourniquets on his armor for ease of access. Across from him, Lanks was bouncing his knee like a detonator on a hair-trigger.
"Hey Doc," Lanks grinned through his helmet, already half-jammed on his head. “You patch up fish guts? ‘Cause I’m betting seafood is on the menu today.”
Patch didn’t answer. Just kept working. The sound of plasma lapping against the hull outside was louder than Lanks’s voice anyway.
To his left, Jex leaned back with one boot against the wall, scope eye flickering red in the dark. He was humming — something low and mournful. Something Clone Wars vintage.
“You always hum that when we drop?” Patch asked quietly.
“Only when I expect it to go sideways,” Jex said, not looking at him. “Which is always.”
At the head of the squad, Sergeant Korl grunted into his helmet mic. His voice was graveled and aged. “First point’s a coral spine ridge, elevation twelve meters. Slippery, exposed. No cover but what you carve out. Stick close, fire smart, and if you see Clanker armor—don’t wait. Hit it fast.”
Patch met Korl’s eyes just long enough to see the doubt. The sergeant was good at hiding it. But not from someone who knew what pain looked like.
The dropship banked hard.
“One minute to insertion.”
Outside, the phosphorescent sea bloomed in blue-green halos. Jagged coral towers stabbed out of the water like the teeth of some sleeping god. The Shard Reefs. Designated Sector Kesh.
A flash lit the horizon — plasma barrage — then the ship jolted. A glancing hit. Lanks whooped. Jex tightened his chin strap.
Patch closed his eyes for one second. One breath.
“Go! Go! Go!”
The bay doors screamed open, wind and mist and blaster fire rushing in like a broken dam.
Patch leapt down onto the reef. His boots hit slick coral and skidded. Behind him, Lanks landed hard, took a sniper bolt to the shoulder plate — crack! — went down. Screaming.
“Got him!” Patch called, already dragging Lanks behind a glowing coral outcrop. His hands moved on instinct — bacta shot, pressure foam, stim. Lanks was cussing in four languages and singing in a fifth.
“Doc, that hurts like kriff!”
“It’s working,” Patch growled.
Jex took a position on an upper ridge, scoping targets. He painted a Separatist gunner nest with a laser marker. Korl barked orders through the comms, his voice cutting through the chaos like a lightsaber.
Then came the AATs — one rising out of the misty trench like a sea beast.
“Tank! Left flank!”
“Charge team — now! Move!” Korl shouted.
Two troopers from Wampa Squad scrambled toward the arch beneath it. Patch watched the reef collapse under the charge — the tank plunging into the abyss — but not before it fired.
The blast hit the ledge near Jex. Shards of coral rained down. Someone screamed over comms. A moment later, silence.
Patch’s gut twisted. He couldn’t tell who it was.
“Rancor, regroup on me!” Korl’s voice was iron. “We push now!”
The mist lit up in strobing pulses as blaster bolts scorched through it. The air smelled of burnt coral and blood. Lanks was moving again, teeth gritted. Jex covered the flank. Korl advanced like a machine.
Patch followed — medical satchel rattling, boots splashing through bioluminescent seawater.
They didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
They were Rancor Squad, and this was what they did:
Drop. Bleed. Survive. Repeat.
The battle is chaos, comms flickering in and out. Korl receives broken orders via his helmet's commlink, signaling to the rest of his troopers that they were moving to a new sector.
Rancor Squad turned a corner — and nearly tripped over her.
An Ishi Tib woman, barely out of adolescence, pinned beneath a collapsed coral strut. Blood slicked the reef beneath her. Her eyes met his — wild with pain, but conscious. No uniform. No weapon.
“Please—help me. I can’t move my legs—”
Patch dropped to a knee before he realized what he was doing. She was young. Civilian. His medscanner beeped an urgent warning — internal bleeding, crushed pelvis. Not long left.
"I can save her!" Patch rattled, looking expectantly at the rest of his squad.
"We have a job to do," Korl reminded him. "We need you. The rest of you, clear your sectors. Plasma barrage hits this area in 10. We need to move!"
Patch looked between them as the rest of the squad continued on mission.
The Ishi Tib girl’s hand wrapped around Patch’s wrist — fingers slick with blood and sea brine.
“Please… I don’t want to die here.”
Patch’s hand trembled on the medkit clasp as he stared down at her. She wasn’t screaming anymore. Just breathing shallowly. Waiting for a verdict. Hoping mercy still lived somewhere in the Empire.
He stood up.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Quiet. Mechanical.
He closed the medkit. Holstered his blaster. Turned. Didn’t run. Didn’t hesitate. Just walked.
His boots crunched over broken coral and bone. He didn’t look back.
Not even when she started screaming again.
Not even when the plasma barrage lit the sky in a blinding bloom — a flood of burning light that painted the reef red.
Patch regrouped with the others — his armor scorched, his voice gone.
Lanks cracked a joke about fish guts again. Jex didn’t say anything, but he looked at Patch a little too long. Korl gave him a curt nod — just a soldier doing his duty.
The reef burned behind them, glowing with residual heat and bioluminescence. Patch’s ears still rang from the barrage. Salt stung every cut. His gloves were sticky with drying blood — none of it his.
Rancor Squad regrouped in a natural coral cavern — one of the few places dry enough to strip helmets and breathe unfiltered air. The walls glowed faintly from embedded reef-worms, casting long shadows across armor and faces.
Patch sat with his back against the wall, staring at the flickering field report on his wristpad. Not reading. Just… staring.
Lanks was reclined on a coral ledge, helmet beside him, humming some off-key spacer tune as he cleaned gunk off his forearm plate.
Korl stood at the mouth of the cavern, eyes on the reef horizon. Still in full armor. Always vigilant.
And Jex — Jex had been quiet the whole time.
Until now.
He stepped forward, helmet tucked under one arm, the other gesturing vaguely to the reef beyond.
“She was a civvie,” Jex said. Voice low, but sharp. “Didn’t even have a weapon. We left her to burn.”
Nobody answered at first. Just the faint dripping of seawater and the occasional sizzle of a dying plasma scorch on coral.
“Orders,” Korl finally said. Flat. Distant.
“Yeah. I remember the last time that excuse was popular,” Jex muttered. “Back on Umbara. Or was it Mygeeto?”
Patch’s head lowered slightly, jaw tight.
Then came TK-1189.
The Clones gave him the nickname “Numbers” — not out of cruelty, but as a way to strip the illusion of individuality the Empire pretends to grant. To them, he’s a reminder that identity is being erased from the military — that soon, all soldiers will just be numbers.
He stepped out from the shadowed alcove, where he’d been rechecking power packs. His armor was pristine — cleaned, repainted. Not a scratch on it. His helmet stayed on, voice modulated and clinical.
“That civilian was in a designated barrage zone. We were instructed to clear it. Stopping to help would’ve risked the mission. And all of you.”
“You weren’t even there,” Jex growled.
“And yet I know the correct call was made. Emotional compromise has no place in Imperial operations.”
Jex took a step forward. Lanks paused his cleaning, suddenly alert.
“You call it emotional compromise. I call it a soul.”
“That ‘soul’ you’re defending could’ve cost us four more troopers if Patch had hesitated,” Numbers replied, tone still robotic. “Collateral is unfortunate. But necessary.”
Jex’s eyes flared. For a second, Patch thought he might hit him.
“We’re soldiers, not murderers,” Jex spat.
“We are enforcers of order,” Numbers corrected.
Silence again. Heavy. Burning.
Then, Korl broke it — but not with a reprimand. Just a quiet command:
“Cool it. Both of you.”
He looked at Jex. “You think I liked leaving her? You think any of us did? But it wasn’t your call. It was mine. And I made it so you’d live long enough to argue about it later.”
That shut the room down. Even Jex.
After a long moment, Korl turned and walked outside.
Lanks exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. Numbers resumed inventory — untouched.
Patch didn’t move.
Because he had made the decision. Not Korl. Korl had ordered him forward, yes. But he had walked away. With his own legs. His own heart.
Jex looked at him once. Just once. Then walked to the edge of the cavern and sat down, gazing out at the burning reef.
A few hours later in the Outer City of Tibrina
The suns blaze over Tibrina, casting long, jagged shadows across the coral towers and shattered skyline of the capital. Tibrin's three suns paint the battlefield in surreal hues — pale orange, deep blue, and flickering white — like a storm of fire and ghostlight has washed over the city.
Rancor Squad moves through the ruins of the Tibrina outskirts, securing their sector as the battle escalates. Thunder from AT-AP walkers echoes through the canyons of twisted coralcrete, their artillery pounding into Separatist-held bunkers and heavy weapon nests. The once-beautiful city is now a smoking ruin — alien spires scorched, phosphorescent reefs shattered into knifelike debris, sand transformed to shattered glass.
The Separatists aren't using droids here — not anymore. What they do have are tanks and repurposed artillery. The city was a vault for leftover Clone Wars tech, and they’re making Rancor Squad fight for every meter of ground.
Patch scrambles behind cover as another cannon round slams into a nearby tower, sending coral shrapnel raining down. His helmet is off — broken in the blast. His blue face a stark contrast to his white armor. Blood runs down the side of his temple, but he’s moving. Focused. His medkit is already open.
Korl and Jex press forward under covering fire, laying into a fortified checkpoint with thermal detonators and rifle bursts. Lanks calls in coordinates for walker support.
Numbers takes point on the breach, crouched behind a pile of rubble, eyes scanning for snipers. “Target uplink acquired. Walker firing pattern should neutralize their flank,” he calls out. His tone is sharper now — clipped, driven, zealous.
Korl slams into cover beside him. “You always talk like you’re reading a damn field manual.”
Numbers doesn’t miss a beat. “Manuals are written by survivors.”
The street ahead erupts into fire as one of the AT-AP walkers lays waste to the barricade. A tank cooks off in a shriek of flame and smoke.
Rancor Squad pushes forward into the remnants of the Separatist holdout, clearing what’s left. Bodies lie scattered — both enemy and Imperial. It’s chaos, but they’ve broken the line.
And then — amidst the smoke, rubble, and mangled coral — Patch hears it.
A cry.
High-pitched. Weak. Not a soldier.
He turns, scanning — and finds a small Ishi Tib boy crawling out from a collapsed alley, his skin slick with dust and blood, clutching a torn satchel.
Patch’s heart stops.
“I’ve got a civilian!” he calls.
Jex whirls. “Kid? Out here?!”
Korl moves to cover, raising his blaster. “This could be bait.”
Patch is already moving. “Or he’s just a kid who’s about to die.”
The moment stretches — and then a blaster shot cracks through the air. No one sees where it came from. It could be Separatist, it could be friendly. Doesn’t matter.
The bolt sears through the boy’s side. He collapses.
“NO!” Patch dives forward, shielding him with his own body as more shots ricochet off nearby walls. “He’s alive — I need cover!”
Lanks and Jex throw smoke. Korl lays down suppressing fire. Numbers doesn’t argue — just moves to block the angle of fire with his own frame.
Patch’s hands are a blur — sealing the wound, injecting bacta, checking vitals. The boy’s breathing slows, stabilizes. His small, three-fingered hand grips Patch’s arm like a lifeline.
“He’s stable,” Patch says, breathless. “But I can’t move him far.”
Korl looks down at the kid, then at Patch. “We don’t have time.”
“I know.”
No one says it, but the silence answers for them.
Patch props the boy against the rubble, tucking a thermal blanket around him. He leaves a flare beacon beside the kid and one of his own rations.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Then he stands, heavier than before.
The squad moves on. No victory cheers. Just the sounds of war marching forward.
Behind them, the boy disappears into the ruins — warm and alive, but alone in the shadow of a dying city.
Tibrina will fall.
And Rancor Squad — like everyone else — left something behind in the rubble.
Later that night, after returning to Tibrina Outskirts, in a makeshift Imperial Outpost
Rancor Squad returns to Sector Kesh for the night for some hot chow and rest. Every Squad has earned it. It was just their turn.
They sit in the aftermath — bruised and bloodied, not just from the battle, but from what it all meant. The lamplight flickers like a dying star, casting long, crooked shadows against the canvas walls of the mess tent. The wind outside howls through the reef towers, making the structure creak with each gust. Inside, it’s quiet — not because there’s nothing to say, but because no one knows how to say it.
Korl. Jex. Lanks. Patch. Numbers.
One table. Five ghosts.
Steam curls up from tin ration trays. None of them are eating.
Korl breaks the silence first — not with words, but by sharpening his vibroblade again, slow and steady, the sound slicing between them like guilt.
Jex slumps in his chair, helmet on the table, arms crossed, eyes staring through the steam. His expression’s unreadable, but the muscles in his jaw twitch now and then. Like he’s biting back something sharp.
Lanks spins his spoon between his fingers, legs jittering. You can tell he's dying to speak — not because he wants to stir the pot, but because the silence is worse than the war.
Patch has his medkit open on his lap, pretending to clean his gear. But his hands have been fidgeting with the same gauze roll for the last ten minutes.
Numbers sits upright, posture perfect. Helmet still on. Rations untouched.
The silence cracks like a fracture.
"You ever think we’re the bad guys?" Lanks says it with a lopsided grin, like it’s a joke. But no one laughs.
"We didn’t used to be." Jex says. Soft. Bitter. He still won’t look at anyone.
"Didn’t used to matter." Korl retorts. He doesn't even glance up as he says it. Just keeps sharpening. The knife sings.
Patch sets the gauze down. "We should've saved that boy." His voice is low. Frayed. "We should have saved the girl."
Numbers finally moves — head turning toward Patch. His voice is calm, clear. No vocoder hiss. Just conviction.
"If we’d stayed any longer, we'd likely be dead too. You made the right call — at least the boy’s alive. That’s a win, Patch. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but everything else… that was risk accounted for."
Jex scoffs. "Risk accounted for? They were civilians, Numbers. You think that either of them signed up for this war?"
"Of course not," Numbers replies evenly. "But their presence changed the equation. You think I like this? I don’t. But pretending we can fight clean — that’s how squads die. Basic math."
Lanks slams his tray down. Not hard — just enough to break the rhythm. "That wasn’t math, man. That was us taking the easy way out."
Silence again.
Korl finally stops sharpening. Blade resting flat on the table. "You know what scares me?" His voice is quiet. Rough. "I don’t know what I’d do if it were my call again. When we left that girl behind, I told myself it was the right thing. I told myself we needed Patch more than she did. I still believe it. And I hate that I do."
Patch looks up. His eyes are tired. Like someone who’s been drowning slowly for days. "What if one day I stop feeling bad about it?"
No one answers.
The only sound is the distant roar of TIE engines over the sea, the faint crying of a child refugee looking for their mother, and the soft clink of Korl’s blade as it’s sheathed — not for battle, but like you’d put a ghost back into its grave.
They sit there a while longer, not saying much. The mess tent lights flicker again, casting their shadows onto the wall — tired men caught between duty and doubt, waiting for the next drop.
Waiting to find out what part of themselves they’ll have to leave behind next.
Later that night, Patch stands on the edge of the forward camp. Past the lights. Past the sentries. Just him, a ration tin half-eaten in one hand, the other resting on the medkit slung over his hip.
The breeze carries the distant screech of TIE patrols and the low thunder of walkers stomping the coral flats, but here… it's quieter.
Too quiet.
He exhales slowly, breath catching in the chilled air. Then kneels beside a gnarled reef outcropping — not much cover, but enough to disappear for a moment.
He pulls something from his satchel: a small scrap of fabric, wrapped around a metal shard. Twisted. Singed. Bloodstained.
The Ishi Tib girl's sash.
He doesn’t remember grabbing it. Maybe it caught on his armor. Maybe he just… took it, without realizing.
Either way, it’s here now.
He runs a gloved thumb over the pattern — it's faded, but still there. The ink swirling in oceanic loops. A family symbol, maybe. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. "I'm sorry," he whispers. To no one. Or maybe to her.
He tucks the scrap away. Carefully. Deliberately. Like it’s sacred.
Then he rises. Not taller. Not stronger. Just heavier.
Behind him, floodlights buzz. The squad’s tent glows faint in the distance.
Tomorrow is another day.
Another drop. Another fight.
Another chance to do the right thing — and still lose a piece of yourself.
Patch breathes in the sea air once more. Then turns, and disappears back into the shadows of war.
Meanwhile...
Continued below...
