Chapter Text
The air around Sira clung to her skin, damp and metallic, tasting faintly of rust and recycled oxygen. The cage was welded from thick durasteel bars, cold against her back. Somewhere beyond the narrow corridor she could hear the low, constant thrum of the ship’s engines. Not steady. Not smooth. A slight stutter every thirteen seconds.
She counted it.
She counted everything.
Footsteps echoed down the hall. Measured. Heavy. Confident.
Based on the rhythm and timing, it was the captain. She had been playing this game long enough now to know the difference between bored guards and someone who enjoyed the walk. She tracked shift rotations in her head. Noted who limped. Who dragged their boots. Who paused outside her cell longer than necessary.
Hyperspace navigator for the Republic. That was what she had been.
On her last mission to the Outer Rim, she had expected risk. Calculated it, even. Ambushes. Dogfights. A quick, clean death if things went wrong.
Capture had never factored into the equation.
Her ribs ached with every shallow breath. One was likely cracked. Her lip was split, dried blood pulling tight when she swallowed. The binders around her wrists had rubbed the skin raw. She kept testing them anyway. Tiny movements. Micro-adjustments. Hope was stubborn.
She was hungry. Dehydrated. But not broken.
The captain stopped outside her cage. The door slid open with a mechanical hiss.
“Well,” he drawled as he stepped inside, boots ringing against the metal floor, “there’s my valuable cargo.”
Sira didn’t look at him.
“I just closed a deal with the Zygerrians,” he continued. “You’re worth quite a lot of credits.”
That got her attention.
He stepped closer and gripped her jaw, forcing her face upward. His fingers dug into the bruises already forming there.
“I can see why,” he murmured. “If it were up to me, I might sample the merchandise before handing you over.”
His hand shifted, sliding down to curl around her throat.
Sira held his gaze.
Then she spat blood at his boots.
The crack of his backhand snapped her head sideways. The world rang. She tasted copper again as she hit the floor.
“Bitch,” he muttered.
The cage door hissed shut behind him.
Sira lay there for a moment, breathing through the pain. Counting the engine stutter. Thirteen seconds.
Hunter stood in the cockpit of the Marauder, arms folded as Tech expertly guided the ship into position beneath the pirate freighter. They slipped into the blind spot beneath its belly, engines running low and quiet. Moments earlier, Tech had sliced through their deflector shields like they were made of paper.
“Their sensors are still cycling,” Tech said calmly. “They remain unaware of our presence.”
The Batch had been dispatched to handle a particularly aggressive pirate crew operating in the Outer Rim. They had been hijacking Republic cargo shipments, vanishing into hyperspace before reinforcements could arrive. Command wanted the problem erased.
“Alright, lads,” Hunter said, eyes fixed on the viewport. “Quick and clean. In and out. Salvage what you can.”
Wrecker grinned. “And break what we can’t?”
Hunter didn’t look at him. “Focus.”
The squad nodded.
“Let’s get to work.”
Hunter pulled his helmet over his head. The familiar seal locked into place with a sharp hiss.
The docking clamps engaged with a muted thunk.
Clone Force 99 breached the pirate vessel in one smooth motion. The entry charge blew the hatch inward, and blaster fire erupted instantly in the narrow corridors.
Crosshair moved first.
His rifle cracked in precise succession, pirates dropping before their weapons were fully raised. Each shot calculated. Efficient. Final.
Wrecker barreled through the choke point like a living battering ram, physically clearing the path. A pirate was lifted and thrown into a bulkhead hard enough to dent the metal. Another never saw the swing coming.
Tech slid to a terminal near the hangar bay, plugging in within seconds. “Locking down hanger controls,” he reported. “No external launch capability. They will not be escaping.”
Hunter moved ahead of them all, silent and lethal. He flowed through the chaos like smoke through vents, blade flashing once, twice. A pirate lunged at him from the side corridor. Hunter pivoted, disarmed him, and dropped him with brutal efficiency.
The corridor filled with the scent of scorched metal and ozone.
“Resistance heavier on deck three,” Tech noted.
Hunter’s voice came through comms, steady and controlled. “Then that’s where we’re headed.”
The hunt had officially begun.
In her cell, Sira heard blasterfire. A lot of blasterfire.
But it wasn’t chaotic. It wasn’t the wild, undisciplined spray the pirates used when they were drunk on adrenaline.
This was measured. Fossilized. Controlled.
She went completely still. Listened. Counted the rhythm. Three distinct firing patterns. Not pirates.
Hope was a dangerous thing, but it flared anyway.
Suddenly the cell door exploded inward. Smoke flooded the corridor, alarms shrieking in protest.
A tall, lean-built clone stepped through the haze, rifle raised, movements precise and economical.
Sira squinted against the harsh light behind him.
“Are you Republic,” she rasped, “or just better pirates?”
“Republic,” he replied flatly.
He stepped inside and sliced through her restraints with swift efficiency. The binders dropped away.
Her legs nearly buckled. She caught herself before he could.
“Need me to carry you?” he asked, voice low and steady.
“I can walk.” Her tone was sharp, even if her body trembled.
He didn’t argue.
They moved down the corridor toward the hangar, where the rest of his squad was cutting through pirates with lethal precision.
Blasterfire streaked past them. Smoke. Sparks. Shouting.
A hand clamped around her arm. Hard.
The Captain.
Blood streaked across his temple, fury burning in his eyes. “Going somewhere, cargo?”
Sira froze for half a second. The clone didn’t. A single shot cracked through the chaos.
The Captain’s grip slackened as he dropped, a clean blaster bolt through his chest.
“Move,” the clone ordered, grabbing her hand and pulling her low as heavy fire rained across the hangar deck.
They ran for the ship.
The ship cleared the hangar in a spray of sparks and smoke.
A thin clone with a crosshair tattoo dropped the last pirate on the loading platform before the ramp sealed shut. A very large clone was still laughing, high on battle. Another’s fingers flew across the console, rerouting power from damaged subsystems.
The clone that saved her took his helmet off and showed he had half of his face tattooed with longer brunette hair.
“Punch it Tech,” he ordered.
Tech engaged thrusters. The ship shot into open sky.
For one breathless second, it felt like escape.
Sira stood braced against the bulkhead behind the cockpit, fingers dug into cold metal. The hum of the engines vibrated through her palms.
Different from the pirate ship. Cleaner. Steadier.
She focused on that. Focused on the sound. Focused on not thinking.
“Multiple signatures powering up behind us Hunter,” Tech said calmly.
Hunter didn’t curse. He just leaned forward slightly. “How many?”
“Three fighters. One cruiser.”
Of course.
The first blast streaked past their starboard side. The second didn’t miss.
White light swallowed the cockpit.
The ion cannon hit like a god slamming its fist into the hull.
Everything died. Engines cut. Lights snapped to black. Gravity lurched sideways.
Sira’s stomach dropped as the ship pitched violently. She slammed into the wall, breath punched from her lungs.
For half a second, there was no sound. Then systems screamed back to life in fractured bursts. Sparks rained from the overhead panel. Emergency lights flickered red.
Tech’s voice was rapid but controlled. “Ion surge across primary systems. Hyperdrive is offline. Shields nonresponsive. Navigation array corrupted.”
The cruiser fired again.
The ship spiraled.
“Stabilizers!” Hunter barked.
“I’m trying,” Tech replied, rerouting manually. “We’re losing altitude.”
Outside the viewport, atmosphere swallowed them in a violent rush of fire and cloud.
Sira’s hands were shaking.
Ion. Dead systems. No power. No escape.
Her chest tightened before she could stop it.
The pirate ship had used ion pulses on smaller transports to disable them before boarding.
She remembered the way the lights had gone out. The way doors had sealed. The way breathing sounded too loud in the dark.
“Strap in!” The large clone shouted, grabbing her by the shoulders.
His hands were big. Heavy.
For a split second, her body reacted like she was being seized again.
She jerked back instinctively. The ship dropped another hundred meters.
That snapped her out of it.
She yanked free of her own hesitation and slammed into a crash harness seat, fingers fumbling with the restraints.
She hated restraints. Hated the feeling of being pinned.
The buckle clicked shut anyway.
Hunter glanced back at her once.
Not soft. Not questioning. Just assessing.
Then the ground rose up fast.
“Impact in five,” Tech warned.
The ship tore through treetops in a shriek of metal and splintering wood. Hull screamed. Panels buckled. The world became sound and force and violence.
They hit hard.
Once.
Twice.
Then skidded through mud and debris before slamming to a jarring stop.
Silence fell in uneven pieces.
Only the distant rumble of thunder remained.
Smoke drifted through the cockpit. Emergency lighting cast everything in dim red.
Tech’s hands were already moving again. “Assessing damage.”
The large clone unbuckled first. “Everyone in one piece?”
The one with the crosshair tattoo rolled his shoulder once. “Define piece.”
Hunter stood slowly.
Sira’s ears were ringing. The harness pressed tight across her chest.
For a second, she couldn’t breathe. Because she couldn’t move. Because she was strapped in.
Because…No.
She forced air into her lungs. In. Out.
It’s different. This isn’t them. This isn’t a cell. It’s different.
Her fingers trembled as she released the buckle.
The click of it unlocking was louder than it should have been.
Tech finally spoke the words that mattered. “Hyperdrive is inoperable.”
Not damaged. Not unstable. Inoperable.
Sira lifted her eyes toward the viewport.
Outside, a dense jungle stretched in every direction beneath a storm-dark sky.
No city lights. No traffic lanes. No rescue signals. Just trees. And thunder.
Her breathing went shallow again.
They weren’t escaping.
They were stranded. And stranded meant trapped.
Hunter watched her for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then he turned back to the cockpit. “Tech,” he said evenly. “How long?”
There was a pause.
“Minimum eight standard days,” Tech replied.
Eight days.
The storm cracked overhead.
Sira felt the old fear creep up her spine like cold water.