renewed fury, but inside the command center, it was the silence that broke them.
Helmets lay discarded on the floor, their wolf-jaws dripping with rainwater that would not dry. The Wolfpack sat scattered, breaths uneven, each one rubbing absently at the ridges along their throats. The ridges were no longer faint scars. They had deepened, carved by something unseen, pulsing in rhythm with a beat no heart could match.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
The sound came not from their chests, but from the pylons beneath the platform.
Muzzle still counted, voice low, steady, Kaminoan syllables slipping like oil from his tongue. He did not seem aware of it. His eyes tracked something invisible, his rifle slack across his lap.
Husk slammed a gauntleted fist against the bulkhead. "We fire on them, they dissolve! We fall back, they follow. What in the void are we supposed to be fighting?"
No one answered.
Then, Plo Koon spoke.
"You are not fighting them." His voice was calm, deliberate, though his respirator hissed more sharply than before. "You are fighting the tide itself. What you saw were not enemies. They were reflections. Invitations."
"Invitations to what?" 4427 snapped. He yanked at the collar of his blacks, as if his own skin suffocated him. "Drowning? Becoming that?"
His voice cracked, but the ridges along his neck flared slightly as he shouted.
No one met his eyes.
The Breach
The warning klaxon shrieked. A harsh, jagged sound that rattled the walls. Red light bathed the command center.
Husk spun toward the console. "Pressure breach, pylon three!"
Static filled the comms, but beneath it—a sound. Not rushing water, not the shriek of failing metal. A drumbeat, hollow and deep, resonating through the structure.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
"It's the tide," Muzzle whispered, his voice almost reverent. "It's knocking."
Before anyone could stop him, he rose and moved toward the corridor. His gait was wrong, too smooth, as though carried by unseen currents. Husk lunged forward, seizing his brother's arm.
"Muzzle! Snap out of it!"
The clone turned. For an instant, his visor was black, his reflection smiling from within. Then he blinked, shuddered, and staggered back. "I—" He shook his head. "I thought… it was calling me."
Another boom rattled the outpost. The lights dimmed. Water seeped through the floorplates, pooling, rippling outward from the bulkheads. In the reflections, shadows stirred.
The Fight in the Corridors
The Wolfpack formed up instinctively, blasters raised as the bulkhead at pylon three shuddered. Rivets popped, spraying mist. Then the wall burst—not with water, but with figures.
They poured in like a flood: mirrored clones, their armor slick and black-eyed, movements perfectly synchronized. They did not fire. They only advanced, rifles raised, mouths whispering numbers in unison.
The Wolfpack opened fire. Red bolts split the gloom, dissolving the reflections into sprays of black water. But every drop hissed and smoked against plastoid, eating shallow grooves into armor.
"Hold the line!" Husk roared.
The corridor became a killing ground. Rain-slick figures lunged from every shadow, their visors gleaming faintly. The Wolfpack fought with precision, but each time a reflection fell, another rose in its place, dripping from walls, seeping from puddles.
Husk shoved 4427 aside as a mirrored figure lunged, its hands clawed, ridges along its throat flaring wide. Husk fired point-blank, but the figure dissolved into a spray that splashed across his visor. For an instant, he saw himself in the water—eyes black, gills flexing, smiling.
Plo's Intervention
The tide pressed heavier with each step. The Force itself shifted, currents battering against Plo Koon like waves against a cliff. He extended both hands, drawing the Wolfpack into a protective bubble of energy, blaster fire ricocheting outward.
The reflections faltered, pressing against the barrier, mouths opening in silent screams. Numbers poured from them, louder now, echoing through the very walls. "One tide. One pack. One below."
Plo's respirator hissed. His body trembled with the effort of holding the barrier. The tide was not attacking—it was probing, testing his will. It wanted to know how much he could bear before he broke.
"Fall back!" Plo barked. His voice was steady, but inside the Force, he felt his strength fraying.
The Wolfpack retreated step by step, rifles blazing, until they reached the command center once more. Husk sealed the bulkhead, locking it with shaking hands. The reflections froze on the other side, visors glowing faintly through the slits.
Then they stepped back into the storm. Dissolving. Waiting.
Aftermath
The command center was quiet again, save for the storm's relentless pounding. Pools of black water streaked the floor, already sinking into cracks as if retreating. The ridges on every clone's neck pulsed faintly, throbbing in rhythm with the storm.
Muzzle sank onto his bunk, head in his hands. "We can't win against this. It's not a fight—it's a drowning."
Husk stared at him, jaw tight. "Then we learn how to breathe."
Plo Koon turned toward the viewport. Beyond the rain, beyond the storm, he felt it waiting. Patient. Endless. The tide had not been repelled. It had only tasted them.
And it was not finished.