The clones awoke together, gasping as if dragged from deep water. The storm had not ceased outside, yet the command center felt unnaturally damp, sheets and armor slick with a moisture that was not rain. CT-2391—Husk—sat upright, shaking his head, trying to anchor himself in reality, but the faint echo of the dream lingered in every nerve. The counting voices, black water, and impossible faces had not left.
Muzzle's eyes were wide, staring at the bulkhead. "It… followed us," he whispered, voice tight. "Not the storm… not the rain… it's here."
Plo Koon moved slowly through the center of the room, robes whispering against the floor. His respirator hissed, faint and deliberate. He raised a gloved hand, reaching out with the Force. The air inside the command center was thick, almost tactile, as though some unseen weight pressed against the bones and lungs of the living. The presence below the waves had followed the dream into the real world, patient, probing, aware.
"Do you feel it?" Plo Koon asked quietly, voice carrying across the silent room.
Husk swallowed, voice barely audible. "Everything… it feels… wrong. Not just wet or cold. Like the world itself is… shifting."
The clones looked at one another, and it was true. Subtle, almost imperceptible differences marked the room—panels slightly misaligned, shadows that stretched too long or moved against logic, puddles of water that vanished when touched. Every metal surface reflected their faces back at them, but the reflections were not quite correct. Their own ridges pulsed faintly under their necks, moving with a rhythm that seemed independent, alive.
Muzzle bent closer to a console, brushing a hand across it. The metal rippled slightly beneath his touch, slick like water. "It's not just in the dream," he said, voice shaking. "It's… here."
A low murmur began in the room, barely audible at first—then louder, layering atop itself in a cadence that made the hairs on their necks rise. Numbers. Counting. The same as in the dream. Each clone heard their designation, followed by strings of digits that seemed to burrow into memory, shaping thoughts they did not know they possessed.
CT-4427's hand moved to his throat. The ridges along his neck were sharper now, flexing beneath the skin, subtle gills flaring faintly as though breathing unseen currents. He touched them, then froze. A whisper—his own voice, or something wearing it—called:
"Come down. Join us below."
The storm outside shifted as though in response, a pause in the rain punctuated by a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through durasteel, floor plates, and armor alike. Plo Koon knelt, closing his eyes, letting the Force guide him, and felt the entity clearly for the first time. It was vast, ancient, and not malevolent in the way mortals understood. Its curiosity was absolute, cold, and patient. It touched thoughts and memories, probing for recognition, seeking resonance with what it had awakened.
Husk's gaze flicked toward the bulkhead. Shadows pooled there, deeper than light should allow, forming shapes that twisted with a fluid grace. The shapes were familiar and alien at once—faces of brothers, reflections twisted, gills flaring faintly along the necks, mouths opening in silent counting. And always the black water, moving just beneath the surfaces of thought, unseen yet felt.
The clones tried to speak, tried to reassure each other, but their words felt brittle, inadequate. Even their synchronized motions—the hallmark of the Wolfpack—seemed off, a beat behind, as though the water beneath their minds tugged them slightly out of step.
Muzzle whispered again, eyes wide. "It's not… coming for us. Not exactly. It wants us… to follow. To join it. To become like it."
Plo Koon's hand swept across the room, sensing subtle shifts in the Force. The entity was not hostile… not yet. But the longer it lingered, the more the world warped around it. He could feel it pushing boundaries: the command center was no longer a room, but a threshold. And the threshold led into the dream, the black water, the counting—into something older than the Republic itself.
A soft dripping began from the ceiling—water, yes, but darker than it should be, pooling on the floor with a faint shimmer, like ink bleeding across steel. Husk approached it cautiously, booted foot splashing, yet the puddle seemed endless, stretching further than reality should allow. Reflections shimmered within it, showing faces not their own, or perhaps themselves slightly wrong. Gills flared, smiles twisted, eyes dark.
The hum grew louder, and the counting voices layered atop it. One by one, each clone fell to their knees, drawn toward the puddles as if gravity itself had shifted. Plo Koon's voice rose, steady, commanding:
"Do not follow it. Do not become part of the tide."
But even as he spoke, he sensed hesitation. The tide beneath their thoughts was patient, persuasive, almost affectionate in its pull. It promised knowledge, unity, and a form of existence beyond the limitations of flesh—but at a cost they could not yet comprehend.
CT-4427 reached toward the black puddle. His reflection stared back at him, ridges pulsing brighter than before. A whisper from the water, almost seductive in its tone, slid into his mind:
"We are your brothers. We have always waited for you."
Husk seized 4427's arm, voice sharp. "No! Step back!"
But the water rippled, spreading faster than possible, moving as though alive. Shapes began to emerge fully, humanoid yet warped, gills flaring along necks, eyes black and infinite. They mimicked the clones' movements, mirrored their expressions—but always delayed, slightly wrong, smiling in ways that made skin crawl.
Plo Koon extended both hands through the Force, a protective barrier forming around the Wolfpack, his respirator hissing with effort. The entity resisted, probing, testing, like a tide pressing against a seawall. The puddles quivered, reflections twisting more violently, and the counting voices crescendoed into a deafening chorus, filling the command center with a rhythm that resonated through bone, flesh, and thought.
And then, as suddenly as it began, silence.
The black puddles froze. The shadows stilled. The ridges along the clones' necks throbbed faintly, pulsing once… twice… and then faded slightly, leaving behind the memory of their growth, of the tide, of the whispered invitation. The storm outside continued unabated, oblivious to what had transpired inside.
Plo Koon lowered his hands slowly, chest tight, eyes scanning the room. "It is patient," he said softly, almost to himself. "And it is waiting. Do not let yourselves become curious… or it will claim you. Slowly, inevitably."
The Wolfpack stared at one another in silence, each processing the impossible events, the shared terror, and the sense that the world had grown stranger in the hours they slept. Outside, the storm roared, waves slamming against the pylons, yet inside, a far greater storm lingered—an unseen tide rising, patient, and eternal.
And beneath all of it, in the Force, the entity waited, counting.