#rc fixer

[carbon-corrie]

Day 7 (Alternate Prompt): I Love You

No matter what Fixer claims, he loves Stowaway.

@deltasquadweek

@loth-cat-nation Please accept another Tooka for your collection

[lonewolflupe]

Republic Commando - Delta Squad

Welcome to my latest obsession (I've been calling it my hyperfixation within a hyperfixation within a hyperfixation)! After finally playing Republic Commando (2005) for the first time, I can't get Delta Squad out of my head. And since we never got a face reveal for any of them, I decided to make my own design (since I'm planning on drawing them a lot more 👀). I'll try putting my thought process during designing down below, but before I continue I want to say I was heavily inspired by the following amazing Delta Squad designs, so please go give those some love:

@jaderavenarts (x)

@papanowo (x)

@leafdupe (x)

Alright, buckle up for some ramblings:

38 BOSS As squad leader, I felt like Boss had to look somewhat presentable, without too much self-applied adjustments (like tattoos or alternative haircuts). He has slightly longer hair than Rex, but he likes keeping it short. He does have some stubble on his jaw, because I also felt like he would slightly care about his appearance, but not that much. He has a scar on the left side of his face starting at his lower jaw going up across his cheek, and he has a scar on his right temple crossing through the end of his brow. His hair is the reg-like dark brown and he has the usual dark brown eyes.

40 FIXER I feel like Fixer would stick to the reg look, since he's a bit more into regulations than Sev and Scorch. I did give him slits through both eyebrows, because I thought it would fit with his slicing abilities. He is more careful than the others and wouldn't wrestle with some creature or ordnance (at least not without his bucket on). He does have a thin scar on his chin. I headcanon that he scratches or rubs his chin whenever he feels like he's taking too long slicing (like a tic), and maybe one day he accidentally tore open his skin with a sharp edge of his gauntlet plate; thus the scar on his chin. He has a reg haircut (dark brown) and his eyes are the usual dark brown.

07 SEV Sev, my fierce love.. I was doubting between a buzz cut or the mohawk. I ended up with the mohawk (with undercut) because it gave me the vibes of a hunter/predator. The mohawk is fairly curly at the front. Of course he has several scars, because he isn't afraid to come up close to any hostiles (whether it being enemies or feral creatures they encounter on their missions). The helix of his right ear is slightly torn on three places, like some creature took a bite from it. He has a scar crossing his left eyebrow and one across his lips, making the teeth behind it visible. His hair is the reg-like dark brown and he has the usual dark brown eyes.

62 SCORCH Wooo-ooh! BOOM! That might have happened in his face. You cannot convince me that there is no evidence of explosion-gone-slightly-wrong on this beautiful boy's face. He has a burn mark across the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks, around his right eye and through the middle of his right eyebrow. His right eye is slightly discoloured (lighter than the usual reg eye colour). I don't think it's completely blind, I just think looking at an explosion that close is very unhealthy. He has a bit of a mullet mohawk; broader than Sev's. It's pretty curly, especially at the front, leaving some playful locks dangling down his face. I loved all the partly blonde designs I stumbled upon, so of course I added some blonde streaks through those locks. Besides the streaks, his hair is reg dark brown. His left eye is the usual dark brown too, but as I explained before, the right one is lighter.

I love 'em all but Sev and Scorch are my precious babies but also Boss oh Maker, it's the Tem voice I tell you, I kissed him in my dream last night ahahaha (I'm down bad with the Delta Squad flu, folks). But Fixer is also really cute because he's so baby?? Alright, on to my next Delta Squad piece!

Taglist (read to join): @aknightreaderr @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @kotemf @thecoffeelorian @star-wars-lycanwing-bat @bixlasagna @dreamie411 @heidnspeak @earlgreyci @cyaretra

NPT because of RepComm content @orangez3st @kimiheartblade

[pandorademos]

prompt "tooka" for @deltasquadweek They're so cute! Not menaces at all!

[fierfek]

New photo from Hot Toys facebook page :3

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

D.E.L.T.A.S.

Daring. Effective. Loyal. Tactical. Aiwha-modeled. Skilled.

🔹@deltasquadweek entry - Day 5 - Brothers 🔹

Art taglist: @callsign-denmark @dreamie411 @dukeoftheblackstar @dystopicjumpsuit @lonely-day3636 + @msmeredithrose @returnofthepineapple @the-hexfiles

[FFF Masterlist] [Art Masterlist] [NEW Taglist]

[ladykagewaki]

The Baby Batch, Delta Babies, and Omega Tubies

@the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @ladykatakuri @marierg @thecoffeelorian @salubriousbean @bring-backup-99 @99tech99 @clonethirstingisreal @sunshinesdaydream @jane8675 @eclec-tech @noblelightfighter @nika6q @snowlotr @heidnspeak @ilovethebabybatch @alor-ika @orangez3st @skellymom @diamondluna2

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Caf Break”

Fixer (RC-1140) x Reader

Your caf shop wasn’t fancy.

One countertop. Four chipped booths. A sputtering holosign that read “CAF & CRUNCH – OPEN” with a flicker that hadn’t been fixed in years.

You didn’t get many clones here.

Too far out. Too quiet. The garrison was small, the rotations fast. They didn’t stay long enough to know your name.

Except one.

Helmet always on. Barely spoke. Green armor with white detailing, scuffed and battle-worn. He ordered the same thing every time: strong black caf, no sweetener, no conversation.

You didn’t know his name.

So you called him Greenie in your head.

And Greenie had come back five times in two weeks.

Fixer was not… sure why he kept returning.

He told himself it was logistical.

The caf was strong. No risk of contamination. The shop was unassuming—good line of sight to both entrances, windows provided 180-degree visibility, and the booths weren’t bolted down, making them usable as cover in case of attack.

It made tactical sense.

But when he sat there—helmet on, fingers curled loosely around the mug—he found himself… pausing.

Observing.

You always had a smudge of caf dust on your apron. You were quick with a smile, not pushy. Efficient. Clean workspace. Minimal chatter unless engaged first. He liked that.

And once, when he’d stood up too fast and knocked a napkin holder onto the floor, you’d just picked it up, smiled, and said, “Even commandos have off days, huh?”

He’d stared at you for three seconds too long. An eternity in commando time.

The next day, he came back.

And the next.

And today, too.

You slid the mug in front of him with a soft clink.

“Double strength, no frills. You’re predictable.”

He paused.

“…Efficient,” he corrected, voice metallic through the helmet.

You leaned against the counter. “So’s a vending droid. At least you tip better.”

He almost smiled.

Almost.

It became routine.

You worked mornings. Fixer showed up during early rotation hours. You made the caf before he even ordered it. He never told you anything—not his name, not his rank, not his mission—but he watched you like he was memorizing your movements. Not in a creepy way. More like… cataloging. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have the words for.

Like you were the tactical puzzle he couldn’t solve.

Once, during a light rain, you asked, “Ever thought of taking the bucket off?”

He tilted his head. “No.”

You laughed. “Figures.”

Fixer didn’t feel like he was capable of anything outside the mission.

That’s what being a commando meant. That’s what Skirata had hammered into them. That’s what the Kaminoans designed them for: purpose. Obedience. Kill and move. Survive and follow orders.

He didn’t know what to do with the warmth in his chest when he saw you slide him that caf with a smile.

He didn’t understand why he had memorized the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were annoyed. Or the way you sang—quietly, under your breath—when you thought the shop was empty.

He didn’t understand why your voice filtered into his mind even when he was on missions. Why he thought about what your laugh might sound like without the helmet filtering it.

So he stayed quiet.

He came back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

It wasn’t until the sixth visit that you reached over the counter with a datapad.

“Can I at least know what to call you? Something better than ‘Greenie’? Because that’s what I call you in my head and I’m not proud of it.”

He blinked under the helmet. “That’s… not mission-critical information.”

“You’re not on a mission right now.”

“I’m always on a mission.”

You leaned closer, arms crossed, smile playful but firm. “Even when you’re drinking caf?”

He hesitated.

“…Fixer.”

You raised a brow. “That your name or your function?”

“…Yes.”

You laughed, not unkindly. “Alright, Fixer. I’ll remember that.”

He nodded.

He didn’t say it, but he’d already memorized your name from the receipt tucked under the register. He knew your schedule. Your preferred blend. The way you wrote cursive Y’s when you took orders by hand.

He knew too much. But not enough.

⸻

A few days later, the war came closer.

There was an explosion not far from the marketplace. Distant but sharp. You flinched when it hit, spilling caf across the counter. Patrons ducked. One of the booths cracked.

And he was there—immediately.

Fixer pushed through the front entrance before the echoes even died out, blaster raised, visor scanning the room. He found you kneeling behind the counter, heart racing, but unhurt.

You looked up.

“…Fixer?”

He crossed to you fast, like the space between you was an obstacle to eliminate.

“Status?”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer. He just knelt in front of you, one gloved hand gently resting on your shoulder, scanning you for wounds like you were a member of his squad.

You put your hand over his. “I told you I’m okay.”

There was silence. Then—very slowly—he retracted his hand.

“I’m glad.”

You smiled, a little breathless. “You’re not supposed to get attached to civilians, you know.”

“I know.”

“You’re doing it anyway.”

“I know that, too.”

And this time, you reached for his hand. Not as a test. As an answer.

“Good,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond. Not verbally.

But he didn’t let go.

The warmth of your hand lingered in his glove longer than it should have.

Fixer didn’t move at first. Your fingers were still resting gently against his, your eyes steady on his visor, like you could see the man under the armor. Maybe you could.

But then—

“Fixer, move! We’ve got heat east side, half klick. Now!”

Boss.

Fixer’s helmet comm crackled with urgency. Nothing friendly. All business.

He stood abruptly, the shift from human to commando so clean it almost hurt.

You blinked. “Fixer—?”

But he was already backing away, rifle primed.

“Stay inside,” he said shortly. “Secure the back door. Bolt it.”

He paused just before turning to leave—like he wanted to say something else—but then Delta Squad’s comms lit up again.

“Scorch, get your shebs on the west flank. Sev, overwatch from the north tower. We’re drawing them in.”

Fixer was gone.

⸻

Outside, the air was sharp with smoke and ozone.

A low-flying transport had been taken out above the market square—probably a Republic one—and the Separatist droids were crawling from alleyways and downed cargo haulers like insects swarming a carcass. Civilians screamed in the distance. Blaster fire echoed in tight bursts. Close.

Fixer moved with precision, slipping into cover beside Boss, who was already giving orders like the leader he was.

“Sev’s in position. Scorch is making a mess—”

“Hey! Controlled chaos!” Scorch’s voice chirped over comms, followed immediately by a thunderous explosion and a cheer. “They loved that one.”

Boss didn’t flinch. “Fixer, tighten the east corridor. Thermal count says another squad’s flanking through the maintenance tunnels.”

Fixer nodded. “On it.”

“Wait, you came from the caf shop, right?” Scorch broke in again, teasing. “See your girlfriend?”

Fixer didn’t respond.

Sev’s dry voice cut in from the high perch. “Confirmed: Fixer’s still pretending he doesn’t care. Target rich environment out here, by the way.”

Boss sighed. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” Scorch muttered. “Focused on how Fixer only starts calling for backup after he’s finished checking on his civilian crush.”

“Mission protocol prioritizes non-combatant safety,” Fixer replied flatly, already sweeping a corner with his DC-17m.

“Oh sure,” Scorch drawled, “real tactical of you to hold her hand first.”

There was a brief silence on comms. Boss might’ve smirked behind his visor. Sev definitely did.

Fixer didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, he tapped a few commands into his HUD, redirected two proximity mines, and crouched behind a stack of durasteel crates near the alley entrance.

“Contact,” he said coolly.

The moment the droids stepped into range, his trap triggered—concise, brutal, clean.

Three droids dropped. One limped, firing blindly. Fixer silenced it with a single shot.

“Boring as ever,” Sev muttered from above, “but effective.”

“Hey,” Scorch chimed in again, still grinning. “You think if we all survive this, Fixer will ask her out? Or will he file a formal requisition request for feelings first?”

Fixer adjusted his grip on the rifle. “I’m removing your access to my armor diagnostics.”

“You’d have to admit you have emotions to do that, Fixer.”

“Scorch. Focus.” Boss’s voice was flat, but even he sounded amused now.

Delta moved like a single organism—tight communication, seamless roles. Boss pushed forward through the square, marking targets. Scorch covered left, laughing and setting a charge with a little too much enthusiasm. Sev picked enemies off from above with clinical detachment. And Fixer—silent, efficient—was always one step ahead, rerouting their tech, coordinating their intel, watching every back but never speaking unless necessary.

But even as he moved through the field, his mind flickered once—briefly—to the warmth of your hand. Your voice. The way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another armored shadow walking into fire.

It made him hesitate, just for half a heartbeat.

Enough for a B2 to round the corner and raise its arm.

The blaster charge lit up red.

Fixer ducked—too slow.

The bolt clipped his shoulder plate, sending him sprawling behind cover.

“Fixer, report!” Boss barked.

“Still operational,” Fixer said through gritted teeth, locking down the pain response. “Hit left pauldron. Armor held.”

“You good?” Scorch piped up.

“Focus on the droids,” Fixer snapped.

But he wasn’t angry.

Not really.

He was… rattled. Not by the injury. By the distraction.

You.

⸻

Back inside the caf shop, the attack faded into muffled blasts and distant fire.

You stayed behind the counter, just like he said, listening. Waiting.

And worrying.

He had said he was always on a mission.

But now, you were his distraction.

And whether that was a danger or something more… you weren’t sure.

Not yet.

But you planned to find out.

The front bell above the caf shop door gave a soft ding as it opened, and you were already halfway around the counter before you even saw who it was.

Fixer stepped in, pauldron scorched, boots heavy with ash and grime, but otherwise unscathed. Your eyes immediately snapped to the dark blast mark burned into the green-painted armor at his shoulder.

“You’re hit,” you blurted, crossing to him fast. “Are you—?”

“It didn’t breach,” Fixer said flatly, already raising a gloved hand as if to calm you. “Armor held.”

You frowned. “Then why is it black?”

“Because that’s what happens when you’re shot,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Smartass,” you muttered under your breath, then caught yourself and looked up at him. “You scared me.”

He hesitated.

The visor tilted slightly—just enough for the gesture to feel human.

“…Didn’t mean to,” he said.

You exhaled and reached toward the damaged armor before pausing. “May I?”

He nodded once.

Your fingers ghosted over the edge of the charred plate. “I don’t see any cracks. Must’ve been a glancing shot.”

“It was close.” A beat. “Got distracted.”

You looked up. “By what?”

He paused.

“…By nothing,” Fixer said quickly, though even he knew it wasn’t convincing.

The moment stretched—almost something there between you, something unspoken—until the door slammed open again behind him.

Ding!

“Oh, look who’s still alive,” Scorch called, already marching in and tracking mud across the floor like it was a personal hobby. Sev followed, glowering at the bell above the door like it had offended him.

Scorch spun toward you with a grin. “Hope you’re not charging for emotional trauma because this one’s racked up a tab.”

You stifled a laugh as Fixer’s shoulders stiffened.

“Don’t you have ordinance to prep?” he said, still facing you but clearly addressing the clowns behind him.

“We did that already,” Sev said dryly. “Between Scorch’s interpretive dance through the war zone and your heroic trip back here.”

“Very heroic,” Scorch added, sauntering toward a table in the corner and dropping heavily into a chair. “He braved fire for caf and companionship. That’s love.”

Fixer didn’t even look at them. “I will incapacitate you both.”

“That’s the most romantic thing he’s ever said to us,” Scorch said, placing a hand on his heart. “He cares, Sev.”

“Threats of violence are usually how I express affection,” Sev stated, sitting across from his brother and immediately flipping over the sugar jar to poke at it with a spoon.

You tried very, very hard not to laugh.

Fixer finally turned, slowly, helmet tilting in their direction. “If either of you speaks again before I walk out of this shop, I’m initiating lockdown protocol in your armor suits.”

“Oh no,” Scorch gasped, hands in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare run a diagnostic loop on my HUD in the middle of a firefight!”

“Or reroute his targeting overlay to display motivational quotes,” Sev added blandly. “‘You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.’”

“‘Live, laugh, lob a thermal.’”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. A laugh escaped, bright and warm.

Fixer turned back to you, somehow looking both flustered and resigned despite the expressionless helmet.

“Sorry about them,” he said simply.

“I kind of love them,” you said. “In a ‘please don’t ever leave them unsupervised with anything explosive’ way.”

“Too late for that,” Sev said, deadpan. Almost staring into Scorch’s soul.

Scorch waved. “Tell him how much you love him, too! It’ll be great. Cathartic. Might even make his audio receptors short-circuit.”

Fixer sighed audibly through the comm, a long-suffering sound. “I’m going to detonate your ration packs.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t already eat explosives.”

Sev nodded. “He does. It’s a problem.”

Fixer shook his head and leaned just a little closer to you, as if to reclaim some fraction of normalcy.

“You’re okay?” he asked again, quieter now.

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

He shifted slightly on his feet. “…I’ll check in again before we redeploy.”

“Looking forward to it.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. And then, with the softest rasp of durasteel, he stepped back, already preparing to rejoin the chaos he’d walked away from.

“Don’t worry,” you called after him, grinning as Sev and Scorch stood to follow. “I’ll keep your seat warm.”

Scorch stopped beside you, stage-whispered, “He likes you,” and ducked just in time to avoid a light punch to the helmet from Fixer.

The three of them walked out, side by side, back into the fray.

And you watched them go, heart a little lighter.

[therainjumper]

Tech and Fixer!

I think Tech is Fixer’s successor in canon. What do you think?

[zealfruity]

So anyone remember when I drew faces for the clones we don’t know the faces of?

Gave Hound the Wolverine Hair and some neat piercings. I have specific reasons for a lot of the design choices here so if you want details, ask :))

Anyway I remade them because I’ve improved a lot and the designs have changed. They’re all so girliepop. Added Corrie!Dogma and my own headcanons relating to that (basically:

He was supposed to be reconditioned since he was a model soldier beforehand but it didnt work perfectly, which is why he has more than just the temple scars. the only thing he can remember about his name is that theres "dog" in it and he has the self hating belief that hes just a dog of the republic not worth much just smth to be pointed at so he can bite so hes like "oh of course thats my name" and he cant remember Umbara super well but he can remember that he betrayed brothers and that he betrayed the republic by killing a jedi and he doesnt know why he did any of it. he doesnt know why hes so lonely even though now he has a bunch of Corrie vode around (hes missing his bff twin bro Tup). "Dog" is part of Hound's team so he gets to work with the dog creatures. Yes this is silly. Yes Hound is absolutely delighted. Yes most of the rest of the k9 arf trooper unit ARE named canine related names and yes they know their unit name is also silly. Dogma in s3 when??

[carbon-corrie]

Day 3 (Alternate Prompt): I Dreamed About You.

@deltasquadweek

[lonewolflupe]

Republic Commando Intro

POV: you're Boss and Taun We insists on making a promotional holovid for the GAR, but you know exactly how many braincells you're dealing with

Nah I love them your honour. I love the RepComm intro so much, and I really wanted to redraw it (but obviously without helmets, because I wanted to see their handsome faces). I did struggle with Sev's DC-17m with sniper attachment, so (and I am truly sorry Sev) I decided to alter the pose a bit. Also not 100% content with how his face turned out, but sometimes I just need to practice different face angles I guess.

...Now, join your pod and embrace your destiny as their leader. Join Delta Squad. Delta Four-Oh, your foundation, a pure and uncomplicated soldier...

Six-Two, the heart and soul of your team...

And Oh-Seven, the fiercest hunter of all your brothers...

You are each a piece of a whole person. And the Republic will call you to defend and give your lives, if need be.

Ugh I can't get enough of them. I should draw Boss as he beholds his collection of braincells.

Taglist (read to join): @aknightreaderr @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @kotemf @thecoffeelorian @star-wars-lycanwing-bat @bixlasagna @dreamie411 @heidnspeak @earlgreyci @cyaretra @bulletproofskoll @alor-ika

[pandorademos]

prompt "dinner" for @deltasquadweek Just casual brotherly bullying on poor fixer while he's trying to eat.

[fierfek]

Snagged these off various Reddit threads. Hate that they’re in TBB style armor but love they’re eventually finishing out Delta Squad

[yarnspunmuse]

Did I make a blog just to participate in @deltasquadweek? Yes. Have I ever done this before? No. Is this being posted as close to the last minute as I could reasonably accomplish? Absolutely.

Day 1: Dinner

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66121738

Summary:

“‘40 do you have eyes on him? The kark is going on?”

He’s hoping for a standard sitrep. Clear, concise, necessary information. Fixer is good at those. Usually.

“Oh,” Fixer says, “There’s another one.”

What.

“What?!” Scorch screeches.

---

Or: The Deltas are bored until Scorch's legendary animal magnetism strikes and things get interesting. Fixer is infodumping. Sev is going feral. Boss just wants to lay down please.

[ladykagewaki]

The Baby Batch: Baby Allies feat. Delta Babies

@the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @ladykatakuri @marierg @thecoffeelorian @salubriousbean @bring-backup-99 @99tech99 @clonethirstingisreal @sunshinesdaydream @jane8675 @eclec-tech @noblelightfighter @nika6q @snowlotr @heidnspeak @ilovethebabybatch @alor-ika @orangez3st

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Tactical Sovereignty” pt.1

Delta Squad x Reader

The shuttle ride to Coruscant was smooth, but your stomach churned all the same.

Neutral or not, your planet had always walked a razor-thin line between the Republic and the Separatists. You'd kept your distance from the Senate's chaos, balancing diplomacy and independence with every word your advisors crafted. But that balancing act had finally cracked—threats were no longer whispers. Intelligence confirmed the Separatists planned to make an example of your world, dragging it into the war one way or another.

And so, here you were. Dressed in ceremonial finery, face calm and regal, though you could feel the edge of tension behind your eyes.

The doors of the Senate hangar hissed open with practiced ease. Sunlight filtered in through the tall skylights, glinting off the white armor of clones stationed around the platform. But it was not the standard guard detail that caught your attention.

Four soldiers stood in perfect formation near your platform—distinct from the white-armored ranks. Their matte, battle-scarred Katarn-class armor was painted in bold, individualized designs. There was no mistaking who they were.

Delta Squad.

You'd been briefed: elite commandos, the Republic's surgical scalpel for missions too grim for standard troopers. Your planet had refused Jedi intervention to avoid implying alignment with either side. Delta Squad, however, was a compromise the Senate could stomach—and you could accept.

They stepped forward in perfect sync.

The one in front spoke first. His voice was crisp and measured, modulated slightly by his helmet's filter.

"Princess. We're your assigned protection detail. RC-1138, designation: Boss. The rest of my squad is RC-1140, Fixer—technical support and slicing. RC-1207, Sev—sniper and demolitions. And RC-1262, Scorch—explosives and comic relief, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" Scorch piped in, helmet tilted as if offended. "I'm charming."

"Delusional," Sev muttered, voice gravelly, a hint darker than the rest.

You blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and confusion. They weren't what you expected. Not at all.

"I expected...something more formal," you said, arching an eyebrow.

"We can be formal," Fixer said blandly. "It just slows us down."

Boss took a step forward. "With your permission, we'll assume control of your schedule while on Coruscant. We'll be with you at all public appearances. Close protection protocol."

"And when I'm in private?" you asked carefully, testing the waters.

"Two-man rotating shifts outside your quarters. No listening devices. We're not spies," Boss replied.

That earned your approval. You gave a nod, regal and crisp. "Accepted."

Boss gestured to a waiting speeder. "Senator Organa has requested a diplomatic briefing in an hour. We move now."

⸻

The speeder weaved through Coruscant traffic like a silver bullet, flanked by a second vehicle carrying additional Coruscant Guard escorts. You sat in the primary seat with Fixer beside you, focused on scanning the skies through his HUD, silent and still. Boss rode in the front with the pilot. Scorch and Sev were in the tail speeder, handling long-range overwatch.

"What's your planet like?" Fixer asked suddenly, not looking at you.

You glanced sideways. "Peaceful. Or it was. Mountains, rivers, a lot of ancient forest. We prize education, diplomacy, culture."

"Never been there," he said simply. "Sounds better than Kamino."

"Kamino?"

"Rain, endless ocean, cold. We trained there."

"I suppose that makes you all excellent swimmers."

Fixer almost smirked. "Not by choice."

⸻

You reached the diplomatic annex of the Senate without incident. Senator Organa met with you in a secured chamber. The meeting lasted forty minutes. You discussed trade routes, neutral standing, defensive aid. Boss stood behind you, arms crossed. Fixer guarded the door. It felt safe.

It didn't last.

As you exited the annex through a marble-floored hallway—Delta Squad surrounding you—something shifted. Boss stopped mid-step. His helmet tilted.

"Hold. Sev, you see this?"

"Infrared ping, upper alcove—movement," Sev's voice crackled in.

Fixer drew his weapon. "Thermals picking up a secondary heat source—side corridor, left. Someone's here."

The world went silent. Your heart leapt into your throat.

"DOWN!" Boss barked—and shoved you with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs.

A blaster bolt screamed past your head—dead on target. It would have killed you.

Fixer returned fire instantly, sending bolts at the darkened alcove above. Scorch's voice blared over the comms: "Explosive signatures detected—get her out of there!"

Boss was already grabbing you by the arm, dragging you behind a marble column. His body shielded yours as the hallway erupted in smoke and fire—micro-charges along the wall, precisely placed.

Sev's sniper bolt rang like thunder. Someone screamed.

"Status!" Boss barked.

"One shooter down," Sev reported. "Second's fleeing. I've got eyes."

"Fixer—route!"

"Emergency exit tunnel, three meters left of the statue. Let's go!"

You were already running—your fine dress torn and scorched, one slipper gone, heartbeat in your ears. Scorch was waiting at the exit point, rifle raised, expression grim.

"They really want you dead," he muttered as he covered your retreat.

⸻

Once safe inside a secured speeder again—this one driven manually by Fixer—you were shaking. Not visibly. You didn't dare shake in front of them. You were a princess. Trained since childhood not to flinch.

But Boss sat across from you, watching silently. After a long pause, he finally spoke.

"They knew your route. Your schedule. Someone inside the Senate leaked your movements."

You met his gaze, breathing steady. "Then find them."

Boss nodded slowly.

"We will."

⸻

The durasteel doors to your temporary apartment slid open with a gentle hiss, revealing a space clearly meant for Senators: high ceilings, soft light panels, and a panoramic view of Coruscant's skyline. If not for the adrenaline still hammering in your veins, you might have appreciated it more.

Delta Squad fanned out instantly.

Boss took point, scanning the room. Fixer moved straight to the control panel to run a full security sweep. Sev was already at the windows, eyes behind his visor tracking the distant rooftops. Scorch stood near you, helmet tilted with what you imagined was either concern or curiosity.

"Clear," Boss confirmed after a full sweep. "Perimeter is locked down. No entry without authorization."

"You're safe," Fixer added. "For now."

You exhaled deeply for the first time in what felt like hours.

Your gown was a wreck—torn at the hem, soot smudged across the bodice, and the fine embroidery near your collar scorched where the blaster bolt had almost found your throat. You were a vision of royal dishevelment, but you held your chin high.

"I'm going to need something far stronger than Senate flattery to calm my nerves."

You turned and made your way to the apartment's bar—a tasteful, recessed alcove behind polished panels. Crystal decanters glimmered invitingly under soft ambient lights.

"I assume none of you drink on duty?" you said, already pouring something amber and sharp into a glass.

Scorch laughed. "Well—technically, no. But—"

"Correct. We don't," Boss said sharply, cutting him off. His tone was clipped. Commanding. "We're here to protect, not relax."

Sev, standing by the window, shrugged with a hint of insolence. "Bit late for formality, sir. We already got shot at today."

Scorch grinned under his helmet and stepped forward. "Princess, if you're offering, I'd be rude not to accept."

You offered them both a smug, satisfied smile as you handed over two glasses. "A wise decision. Besides, I insist. It's the least I can do for the men who threw themselves in front of a blaster bolt for me."

Boss crossed his arms. "Scorch. Sev. Stand down. That's an order."

Scorch raised the glass to eye level. "Technically, I am standing down, sir."

Boss didn't laugh. Fixer gave a barely audible sigh from the control panel.

"You realize this is not a vacation," Boss muttered, voice edged with quiet irritation.

"No, but I'm not dead yet, so I'll celebrate that," Sev replied darkly, sipping from his glass.

You perched elegantly on one of the barstools, legs crossed, swirling your drink. The warm burn in your throat did little to shake the cool superiority you wore like a cloak. You were still standing, still regal—even in tatters.

"So tell me," you said, eyes on Boss now, tone arch and just slightly mocking. "Do you ever take that helmet off, or is 'intimidating silhouette' your full personality?"

Fixer snorted. Sev muttered something about "finally, someone says it." Scorch laughed aloud.

Boss didn't respond. He only turned away to resume his patrol of the suite, clearly not taking the bait.

You sipped again, then glanced toward the door when the comm chimed.

"You expecting visitors?" Fixer asked sharply.

"I am," you said smoothly. "I sent word ahead."

Boss looked like he was about to object, but before he could, the door slid open to reveal two finely dressed Senators: Senator Meelari of Aleron and Senator T'vaen of Cerea. Both were close allies—well-meaning and reliable political shields who never challenged your rhetoric too hard.

"Princess!" Meelari swept forward dramatically. "We heard what happened! We were horrified. The very idea that someone would attack you—on Coruscant of all places!"

"I'm flattered by your concern," you said, standing with the poise of a queen rather than someone who'd nearly died hours ago. "But as you can see, I'm quite difficult to kill."

T'vaen bowed respectfully. "I trust the Republic will be investigating thoroughly?"

"They're already on it," Boss said without turning around.

Your smile sharpened. "I have the best the Republic can offer," you said, glancing toward Delta Squad. "Elite commandos, bred for precision, loyalty, and efficiency. Though they're not particularly chatty."

"Ah," Meelari said, giving them a brief nod. "Clones."

You stiffened slightly. You heard the subtle condescension in his tone. It wasn't overt, but it was there.

"Not just clones," you said coolly. "They are the blade that keeps the Republic alive. The only reason any of us can still sit in the Senate and pretend our ideals matter."

Boss said nothing—but you could sense he heard it. All of them did.

Senator T'vaen smiled tightly. "Ever the moral voice of the chamber, Princess. Your conviction is admirable."

"It's not conviction," you said, turning your glass lazily in your hand. "It's truth. The Republic doesn't win because of speeches or trade deals. It wins because these soldiers bleed on nameless planets while Senators bicker about budget cuts. I simply acknowledge the obvious."

Sev muttered under his breath: "She's not wrong."

Meelari tried to laugh off the moment, clearly uneasy. "Of course, of course. But we came to check on you, not start another debate. Is there anything you need, anything your world requires for additional security?"

You smiled—brilliant and disarming. "Only continued support in the Senate. And perhaps a little more admiration."

Your guests chuckled, flattered and distracted. You basked in it. You always did. Praise was your oxygen—and you'd never learned how to breathe without it.

Boss approached you quietly when the Senators drifted toward the window to admire the view.

"You shouldn't be entertaining guests yet," he said, voice low.

You tilted your chin up at him. "Do I look like I require rest, Commander?"

"You look like a high-value target who's still very much in danger."

You leaned in slightly, voice just above a whisper. "Then you'll just have to keep me alive, won't you?"

Boss didn't flinch. "That's the job."

You smiled slowly. "Good."

⸻

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