The jungle didn't have a front line. It had layers—leaves, trunks, mist, light, shadow—and every layer wanted a piece of you.
The moment the platform floodlights snapped on, Wasskah stopped pretending it was a hunting preserve and became what it always had been: a kill-box. The white glare knifed through the canopy in hard cones, washing color out of everything and turning every raindrop into a tiny, floating accusation. Blasterfire started to stitch the air, red bolts slashing between trunks, chewing bark, sizzling when they hit wet leaves.
"MOVE!" Rift barked, voice like a trigger snap. "Gamma exfil—NOW!"
Bad Company pivoted like a single organism. Not a hive. A choir that had practiced the same brutal song until it lived in muscle.
Brick shoved his shield up, full bloom, the oval field snapping into existence with a thrum. The first volley smacked into it and splashed blue-white, a violent rain of light that made the shield's surface ripple like water under hail.
"Behind me, kiddos!" Brick roared. "If you get shot, I'm gonna be pissed!"
Ahsoka didn't hesitate. She grabbed the Mirialan girl by the sleeve and pulled her in behind Brick's shield edge.
"Stick close!" Ahsoka shouted. "Don't be a hero—you need to be alive guys!"
The younglings looked like ghosts of children, faces streaked with grime and dried blood, eyes too old for their bodies. The Mirialan—green skin, faint facial tattoos smeared by sweat—clutched her broken staff like it was a prayer. The Twi'lek boy's lekku trembled, but his jaw was set hard, hands white on that scrap-metal shield. The Cerean—taller, two hearts probably working overtime—kept his stun blaster up with a grip that said he was one bad breath away from crying and had decided to be angry instead. This is good, but not much.
Chewbacca roared, deep and furious, and barreled forward like the moon had personally insulted him. He swung his metal beam in a wide arc and flattened a charging Trandoshan that tried to leap down from a branch, sending the lizard tumbling through ferns with a wet, offended squawk.
"WILL!" Ahsoka yelled as she ran, eyes snapping to me through the chaos. "Where's your green saber?!"
"Trying not to advertise!" I shouted back, ducking a bolt and driving the blue shoto-pike through a hunter's rifle barrel while shooting with my blaster on the other hand, dropping some Trandoshans dead. The weapon screamed and died, superheated and useless. The Trandoshan hissed, shocked, looking at me like I'd just rewritten the rules of his stupid little sport.
"Good," she snapped. "Stay sneaky, then—just don't die on me, idiot!"
"I wasn't the one captured Snips!"
My blade, only out on one end—short, muted, tight to my body, continued to cut blasters and lizards. My blaster, mean and short—like my master was—continued to shoot humanoid lizards non-stop, almost overheating. I moved with economy: wrist turns, close cuts, disabling strikes. No flashy arcs, no glowing circles. In the floodlight glare, even a small blade was a beacon, but it was a needle instead of a torch. And my blaster kept torching them.
Frost's voice drifted calm as frostbite in my ear: "Two on the ridge. One with a net gun, one with a heavy pistol. Taking the pistol."
A soft thup of suppressed fire—then the pistol Trandoshan's head snapped back and he fell like a broken doll into the underbrush. The net gunner jerked, panic flaring, and Jackal hit him from the side like a predator finally allowed to hunt. Vibroblade in, out, and then Jackal was gone again, leaving the hunter clutching his bleeding arm and screaming into a comm that Spark had turned into static soup.
"Spark," Rift snapped. "Their comms?"
"Jammed and looped," Spark replied, almost cheerful. "They're yelling into a void. It's beautiful."
"Burner, corridor!"
"On it." Burner's laugh sounded like a man making friends with disaster. A hiss, then a soft pffft as a charge slapped onto a trunk. Directional. Low-yield. Just enough to make a point and run.
The trunk didn't explode so much as fold. It collapsed across the path in a perfect horizontal barrier, taking two Trandoshans with it and creating a new line of cover. The hunters hit the fallen wood with curses and claws and confusion.
Doc swore. "You're insane."
Burner sounded proud. "Professionally!"
We ran.
Not the desperate prey-run the Trandoshans loved. This was controlled, angled, deliberate. A retreat that hurt anyone who tried to chase it like it was a sport.
"General," Rift said, breath controlled, "we're taking them downhill to the ravine LZ. Two birds inbound, two minutes. Keep the package tight. Brick, keep that shield alive."
Brick grunted as another volley hammered his field. "My shield's fine. My ears are gonna give up though."
The jungle fought us, too—roots slick as oil, mud that grabbed boots like desperate hands, vines that snapped and whipped. The rain came in warm sheets, turning the floodlight glare into a shimmering curtain that made distance lie.
A Trandoshan dropped from above, shock-net snapping open midair like a hungry mouth aimed at the younglings.
I didn't think. I just moved.
The harmonic in my chest tightened—beat between beats. I stepped into that sliver of time where the world hasn't decided what happens next, and I made it decide.
Blue blade snapped up. I caught the net's edge and sliced the woven energy filaments in three tight strokes. The net fizzled and died, collapsing into inert cords. The Trandoshan slammed into the ground snarling.
The Mirialan girl—small, exhausted—raised her broken staff with both hands and smacked him across the snout with a sound that was half wood, half spite.
"Don't touch my friends!" she shouted, voice cracking.
"THAT'S MY GIRL!" Brick bellowed like a proud uncle.
Ahsoka glanced at the Mirialan, eyes wide. "Where the hell was that earlier?"
The girl looked like she might cry. "I… I was saving it."
"Smart girl," Ahsoka said. "Do it again later."
Chewbacca barreled past, ripped a branch off a tree like it owed him credits, and used it to club another hunter into the mud. He snarled in Shyriiwook—fur bristling, eyes feral—and the Trandoshan, pinned and coughing, had the good sense to look afraid.
The Twi'lek boy stayed close behind Brick's shield and whispered something to himself that sounded like a mantra. The Cerean kid kept scanning, firing controlled stun shots that cracked into foliage and dropped a hunter trying to flank us. His hands shook, but his aim held. Anger can be a stabilizer, when it doesn't spill over into hate.
"Good shot," Doc murmured as he moved, one hand on the Cerean's shoulder for a second—grounding, not coddling. "Keep doing that and you might grow old enough to complain about your knees like the rest of us."
The kid barked a shaky laugh. "Yes, sir."
Ahsoka's eyes flicked to me again. "Will—your other saber, you got it?"
"Not using it," I shouted as I knocked a hunter's blade aside and smashed my pommel into his throat. He went down choking. "Green stays dark."
She nodded sharply. "Shit. Alright, I will not complain. But they are getting closer."
"Let these lizards come closer," Burner's voice cut in. "I've got something better for them."
We reached the ravine edge—the same mist-choked bowl where we'd landed—just as the first LAAT's repulsors hummed through the rain like a distant drum. The gunship ghosted in, lights off, belly door yawning open.
"Inbound!" Rift shouted. "Brick, take the kids! Doc, Wookiee's yours! General, cover rear!"
"Hell yes," Brick growled, shield up, moving like a walking wall toward the ramp. Ahsoka shoved the younglings forward, barking instructions like she'd been born doing it.
"Go! Go! Keep low! Stay behind the shield! Don't look back—just MOVE!"
The younglings scrambled onto the ramp. The Mirialan girl glanced over her shoulder once, eyes wide—then saw me, saw the clone plates on my arm, saw the blue blade in my hand, and some part of her steadied.
Chewbacca paused at the ramp, nostrils flaring, staring into the jungle like he wanted to drag every hunter out by the throat and teach them what "sport" felt like when the prey wins. Doc grabbed him by the bandolier strap.
"Big guy, I get it," Doc said, voice surprisingly gentle. "But if you don't get on that ship right now, I'm gonna have to sedate you, and neither of us wants that."
Chewbacca snarled, then let out a rumbling growl that sounded like fine, and stomped up the ramp—still turning his head to roar once more into the trees, a promise of future violence.
The second LAAT skimmed in above us, taking position over the ravine like a silent guardian. Its side doors opened, and Burner's team laid down controlled covering fire—bolts at maximum output that slapped into the underbrush and dropped hunters, killing them. Efficient. Ruthless. No trophies left behind for the Trandoshans except bruises, dead corpses and humiliation.
I backed toward the ramp, blue blade held low. Trandoshans surged into view at the ravine lip—four, then six, then more shapes behind. Their floodlights stabbed through the mist, trying to pin us like insects. One shouted in broken Basic, voice full of outrage.
"You CHEAT! This is HUNT!"
Rift's reply was pure clone contempt. "Yeah? Cry about it."
A net gunner fired. The net snapped toward Brick's shield. It hit, flared, and died, shorting out against the field.
The hunter hissed. "IMPOSSIBLE!"
"Welcome to reality," Ahsoka snapped, firing a stolen blaster into the hunter's chest. The blast took him down hard.
A Trandoshan with a vibro-axe charged straight at me, eyes wide, tongue flicking. He wanted a duel, wanted a story to tell if he lived.
I gave him none.
I stepped inside his swing, slid under the axe head, and used the shoto blade to cut the axe's handle in half. The top portion flew away into the mist. The hunter froze, blinking like his brain had to reboot.
I drove my knee into his gut and slammed my pommel into the base of his skull. He dropped half-dead.
The harmonic pulsed again—my body moving faster than my thoughts, intent driving the shape of motion. Not pretty. Not cinematic. Just effective.
"General, on the bird!" Rift barked.
I reached the ramp, then turned one last time. The floodlights painted the ravine edge in harsh white. Trandoshans clustered there, snarling, confused, furious. They looked like hunters who'd just realized the prey had teeth—and friends with guns.
I wanted to say something clever. Something that would make them understand. But they weren't here for understanding. They were here for points.
So I did something else.
I raised my left hand, not dramatic, just deliberate, and with the Force I pulled—not on bodies, not on throats, not on lives. On the ground itself. A slick, mossy slab of stone near the lip cracked loose and slid, sending two hunters skidding into the ravine mud with shrieks of surprise.
"Oops," I said into the comm, voice dry.
Burner cackled. "General's got jokes!"
I backed onto the ramp, and Brick's shield shifted to cover me. The hatch began to close.
Ahsoka grabbed my sleeve, hard. Her eyes were bright with exhaustion and rage and relief. "You came."
"Yeah," I said, breath ragged. "I'm stupid like that."
She huffed a laugh that almost turned into a sob. "Kriffing idiot."
"Pot, kettle," I said.
The hatch sealed. The interior dimmed to red emergency lighting. The LAAT lifted, repulsors humming soft, and shot upward into the mist like a bullet fired in silence.
Below, Wasskah's floodlights stabbed the jungle, angry and blind. The hunters fired anyway, bolts burning up into leaves and fog, useless.
We rose through the canopy, branches whipping past the viewports, rain smearing into streaks. The second LAAT climbed alongside us, tight formation, both birds running dark.
The comm crackled with the corvette pilot's voice. "Good work, grounders. We have you on passive. Bring it home, keep it quiet."
Inside the LAAT, everyone breathed like they'd been holding their lungs hostage.
The younglings sat clustered on the deck, shaking, dirty, alive. The Mirialan girl had both hands wrapped around her staff like it was the only stable thing left in the galaxy. The Twi'lek boy stared at nothing for a second, then blinked hard and finally let his shoulders slump, tension leaking out. The Cerean kid stared at his stun blaster like he couldn't believe it had done what he'd asked of it.
Chewbacca sat hunched, chest heaving, fur matted. He reached up and touched a deep scratch on his arm, then rumbled something low and thick—Shyriiwook full of gratitude and threat. Ahsoka responded without thinking, voice soft.
"I know," she said. "We'll make it right."
Doc moved among them, checking pulses, slapping medpatches on cuts, muttering insults like blessings. "You're alive. Good. Don't die now; it's inconvenient. You—Mirialan—drink this. Twi'lek—stop staring into the void, it doesn't owe you answers. Cerean—good shooting. Keep that blaster, you earned it."
Rift knelt near the younglings, voice dropping to something that sounded like a campfire rather than a command. "You did good. You stayed together. That's how you survive."
Ahsoka sat back against the bulkhead, head tilted up, eyes closed for a second like she was letting the universe stop screaming. Then she opened them and looked at me.
"So," she said, hoarse. "You're a Knight now."
"Yeah," I said, clipping my shoto-pike and letting the blue blade finally die. The dim interior swallowed the last of its light. "Happened fast."
"You look like a clone and a Jedi had a messy marriage," she said, eyes flicking to the armor plates.
"Compliment," I guessed.
"It's a look," she said. "Very 'I'm gonna save your life and lecture you about it'. Half Skyguy, half Rex vibes."
I snorted. "That's not so good."
She smiled. Small, tired, real. "Yeah. Guess it is."
We broke through the cloud ceiling into high, thin air, the sky turning darker, stars peeking through like curious eyes. The stealth corvette drifted above us like a shadow with engines.
As we latched onto the corvette's belly clamps, Spark's voice came through—tight, focused. "General. Bad news and worse news."
"Make my day," I muttered.
"Worse news first: Trandoshans are already broadcasting a pissed-off hunt alert across their local net. It's encrypted, but they're using burst relays tied into CIS commerce channels. If the Seps notice, they might get interested."
"And the bad news?"
"The bad news is… we confirmed what you wanted," Spark said. "No civilians. No enslaved innocents left on Wasskah besides what we just pulled. Their 'prey stock' was only sentients they intended to hunt—mostly Jedi younglings, a few captured militia. All hunters. All infrastructure built for murder sport."
Rift's tone hardened. "So it's a clean target."
"Clean enough," Spark replied. "We can hit it without hitting anyone who doesn't deserve it."
Ahsoka's eyes sharpened. "You're going to blow it up."
I glanced at her. "Not us. Not right now. But… yeah. Maybe."
The corvette's airlock opened. We filed in—younglings first, Doc guiding them, Chewbacca ducking through the hatch with a rumbling complaint, Brick and Burner flanking like walls, Frost slipping in like he'd never left, Jackal vanishing into the shadows inside the ship because apparently the man didn't know how to exist normally.
As the hatch sealed, the corvette's captain approached me, datapad in hand. "General Kriss. We have an incoming tightbeam from General Skywalker's fleet. They're mobilizing. Skywalker's furious. He wants confirmation before he does anything… irreversible."
I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of decisions settle onto my shoulders like armor you can't unstrap.
"Tell him," I said. "Tell him we extracted all captives. Tell him Wasskah is a hunting installation. Tell him there are no innocents left on that moon besides wildlife—and the wildlife probably hates Trandoshans too."
The captain nodded and sent the message.
Ahsoka watched me, expression unreadable. "You're really going to let Anakin turn that place into debris..."
I stared at the holomap of Wasskah—those bright hunting towers like thorns, the platforms like scars on green skin. I remembered floodlights, nets, laughter, and the way the younglings' fear had tasted in the Force.
"I'm not letting him do it," I said quietly. "I'm making sure if he does, it's for the right reason, with the right target, and no collateral. There's a difference."
Ahsoka's jaw tightened. "Sometimes it doesn't feel like there is."
"No," I agreed. "It doesn't, most of the times."
The corvette's engines spooled for hyperspace, that familiar rising hum like a heartbeat preparing to sprint.
Behind us, Wasskah turned slowly in the dark—still green, still wet, still pretending to be a moon and not a graveyard for sentients hunted for sport.
Ahead of us, in the void, Anakin Skywalker's fleet was lining up on a vector that screamed vengeance in every calculation.
And somewhere between the stars and the ethics of war, I knew exactly what the next report would sound like:
Confirmed. Only hunters. No innocents.
Which meant the next time we dropped out of hyperspace, the moon of teeth was going to learn what it felt like to be hunted by an entire Republic task force with a Jedi's rage at the front.
And that was a kind of conclusion nobody walks away from clean. Not even me.