The command center reeked of wet plastoid and ozone. The storm outside roared, but within the walls, the silence had teeth. Every man in the Wolfpack felt it—the waiting, the watching, the pull of something vast below.
The breach at Pylon Three had not stopped. Sensors showed water rising in maintenance shafts, corridors below the platform flooding one level at a time. If they did nothing, the entire outpost would sink into the ocean within the day.
"Options?" Husk asked, voice rough behind his helmet.
"Seal it from the outside," suggested CT-1193. His hands trembled as he checked his blaster. "Weld the pylon shut, reroute power."
"Storm's too heavy," another clone muttered. "We step outside again, we'll drown before we finish the job."
All eyes turned toward Plo Koon. He stood by the viewport, stormlight flickering across his mask. His presence in the Force was steady, but even that steadiness felt stretched, thinned.
"The breach must be closed from within," he said at last. "The tide seeks to rise. If we give it the path, it will not stop."
A heavy silence fell. No one wanted to go down there. Yet every man in the Wolfpack knew orders when they heard them.
Husk nodded. "We move."
The Descent
The lift groaned as it carried them downward. Its cage rattled, water dripping through seams, the walls sweating with condensation. Helmets clicked into place, visors glowing faintly in the dark.
Muzzle kept his eyes closed, lips moving in Kaminoan numbers under his breath. Nobody told him to stop. Nobody dared.
As they descended, the storm faded. In its place came the low, hollow thrum of the pylons, vibrating through the durasteel beneath their boots.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
The rhythm matched the ridges on their necks. Husk shifted uncomfortably, resisting the urge to scratch.
"Feels like marching," one clone muttered. "Like a drumline."
"Marching to what?" Husk shot back.
No one answered.
The First Corridor
The lift opened with a hiss. Darkness swallowed them. Only the glow of HUDs lit the pylon corridor, its walls slick with condensation, floors coated in ankle-deep water.
The reflections greeted them in silence.
Shadows shimmered across the surface of the water, dozens of mirrored Wolfpack helmets staring upward, smiling faintly from the rippling floor. None of the real clones moved, yet in the water their doubles shifted, turning their heads in eerie unison.
"Stay sharp," Husk ordered. His voice shook despite himself.
They advanced slowly, boots sloshing. The reflections followed every step, smiles widening with each ripple.
Then one of them spoke.
"CT-4427."
The voice was exact. Cold. Waiting.
4427 froze. His rifle dipped. "That's… that's me."
The reflection smiled wider.
"Come down," it whispered. "Breathe."
The real 4427 gasped, clutching at his throat as the ridges there flared open. Water sprayed from his mouth. He stumbled forward, dropping his rifle, eyes wide with panic.
"4427!" Husk roared, grabbing him by the harness and yanking him back. "Stay with me!"
The reflection dissolved, rippling outward into the corridor. The rest followed, whispering numbers until the sound filled the walls.
Ambush
The water surged. Reflections broke free of the floor, rising like figures cut from glass. They advanced without sound, rifles in hand, their mouths open in voiceless screams.
"Contact!" Husk shouted.
The corridor lit with blasterfire. Bolts tore through shadow-bodies, dissolving them into sprays of water that hissed against plastoid. But the more they fired, the more the corridor flooded, rising from ankles to knees in seconds.
Muzzle screamed, firing wildly. "It's pulling us under!"
A reflection lunged at him, jaws snapping wide, ridges flaring like gills. Plo's blade ignited in a flash of orange, cutting the figure clean through. Water exploded, dousing the corridor in black spray.
But the tide pressed harder. From every crack in the pylon walls, water streamed inward, carrying more figures, more reflections, each one moving faster than the last.
"Fall back to the junction!" Husk barked, dragging 4427 with him.
The Wolfpack retreated through the flooding corridor, firing as they moved. Reflections swarmed the walls, crawling like insects, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. One dropped onto a clone's shoulders, helmet cracking against the floor as he went down. He didn't scream—he only choked, water gushing from his throat as if he were drowning on dry land.
Plo's saber cut the reflection down, but the clone lay twitching, eyes wide, lungs still heaving.
Husk dragged him up. "Move! Move!"
The Junction
They burst into the junction chamber, a wide, circular room where maintenance consoles flickered faintly. The water here was waist-deep already, rippling outward in perfect concentric circles.
At the center of the pool stood a figure.
It wore Wolfpack armor, helmet painted with the snarling wolf-jaw insignia. But the armor was swollen, bloated, water dripping from every seam. Its visor was cracked, revealing black, lidless eyes staring outward. The ridges along its neck pulsed like open wounds.
"Brother…" it gurgled, voice layered and wrong.
The Wolfpack froze.
Husk raised his rifle with shaking hands. "That's not—"
The figure moved faster than it should have, crossing the water in silence. Blaster bolts tore through it, but the body dissolved into spray before reforming behind them, jaws open, water spewing outward.
It struck Husk square in the chest, dragging him beneath the surface.
Plo Koon's Stand
The Wolfpack surged forward, firing blindly into the water. The surface boiled with movement—reflections, hands, jaws, dragging Husk deeper. His helmet disappeared beneath the black ripples.
Plo's saber slashed through the water, casting the chamber in orange light. The reflections shrieked, their voices a single, endless chorus of numbers.
"Above me!" Plo commanded.
Two clones hoisted themselves onto consoles, firing downward, bolts searing the water. Muzzle screamed as a reflection tore at his legs, but Husk broke the surface again, coughing, dragging himself free with Plo's help.
The bloated figure rose once more, water cascading from its armor, mouth gaping wide enough to split the helmet apart.
Plo struck. His blade drove straight through the figure's chest. For an instant, the water stilled. The reflections froze.
Then the figure smiled.
"Not… fighting," it whispered. "Only… waiting."
It dissolved, collapsing into the flood. The water surged upward, slamming every man in the chamber against the walls.
And then, just as suddenly, it receded—draining back into cracks and vents, leaving the chamber soaked but empty.
The Wolfpack gasped for breath, armor dripping, weapons shaking in their hands. Husk tore off his helmet, coughing hard enough to spit water onto the floor.
The silence returned.
Muzzle leaned against a console, eyes wide, muttering Kaminoan numbers without pause. His voice was steady, almost serene now.
4427 sat shivering, fingernails digging into the ridges at his throat. His breathing rasped like a drowning man.
Plo Koon deactivated his saber, the blade hissing out. The Force around him was heavy, pressing inward like the ocean's weight on a single glass sphere. The tide had not retreated in defeat. It had retreated in patience.
Husk's voice cracked through the silence. "That wasn't some reflection. That was one of us. One of the Wolfpack. Who the kriff are we fighting down here?"
Plo did not answer. He could not—not yet.
Because deep beneath the pylons, the tide was still counting.
And the count had only begun.