Private Echoes of Service

[Iandre Athlea]

Iandre moved along the edge of the hall, adjusting Life Day decorations with precise, deliberate motions. The Force rippled faintly beneath her awareness, carrying nothing urgent—except the presence that had just entered her senses.

A man, casually dressed, adjusted ornaments along a beam. At first glance, he seemed ordinary. But the posture, the subtle precision in his movements, the rhythm of discipline—it all clicked. Clone. Grand Army.

Her breath hitched. Recognition without familiarity. She didn't know his name. Had never met him before. A cold thread of unease ran through her. He could be loyal—or dangerous. Order 66… could he?

Her dark hair, tightly braided down her back, caught the lanternlight as she shifted slightly. Her hand moved subtly toward the hilt of her lightsaber at her side, resting just close enough to draw it smoothly if necessary.

"You… served in the Grand Army, didn't you?" Her voice was low, cautious, edged with tension. "I… didn't expect to see someone else from that time… here. Alone."

Her eyes never left him, scanning for telltale signs—any flicker in his stance, the way he breathed, a moment that would give away intent. The faint echo of campaigns, of betrayal, of soldiers turning on those they once fought beside, lingered at the edges of her mind.

"But the Force… it has a way of showing what lingers in the shadows," she added, measured, keeping her distance. Every instinct screamed caution. Past and present hovered uneasily together as she waited, unsure if he would remain a silent echo of the war—or something far more dangerous.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Dressed in a band t-shirt, leather jacket, and jeans with leather boots, Omen was pretending to work. Decoration and interior design were Aren's thing, not his. Hell, he didn't know the last time he actually celebrated Life Day, even when he was out of prison.

With a tightly bound man-bun and stubble on his face, the Clone looked down from the ladder at a young woman he didn't recognize. She certainly recognized him, though... or at least his kind. And it was clear she didn't like what he was. "A long time ago, yeah... And I didn't expect someone to come up here with their panties in a twist, but here we are." His voice was rough-sounding, as if it had actually aged, unlike his body.

As Iandre talked about the force, Omen was looking for his own signs that she hadn't escaped from an insane asylum or was a Nightsister recruit. Only they talked like this. Climbing down from the ladder, he said, was the only thing he could. "Look, if you want me to leave, just say so. My girl is upstairs if you want to make sure I'm not a threat. One of your leaders is up there to I think..." As the Clone started to edge towards the door, he wondered what had happened to her in the past for her to distrust clones of his era so much. Maybe she was someone from his era or had an ancestor who had fought in the Clone Wars and died at the hands of someone who looked like him. Either way, the way she was talking, like she was containing her urge to throttle him, didn't make him want to stick around.

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

The muscles along her jaw tightened as he spoke, her stance unchanging, but the tension beneath it hummed in the air. Every word, every casual motion of his hands, she weighed against memory—fragments of voices and faces long since dissolved into smoke and rain.

Her fingers hovered just above the hilt at her hip—not touching, not yet. Discipline held, but only barely. She shifted her weight slightly, one foot brushing against the edge of the deck as if marking the space between them, a small, deliberate gesture that spoke of readiness.

"You wear their face," she said at last, quiet, almost reverent, yet brittle. "Every soldier who marched beneath Kamino's rain looked like you. Every one of them said they were just following orders."

Her eyes narrowed, fixed on his, unblinking. The question landed between them like a blade set gently on the table. She tilted her head very slightly, measuring, testing, subtle movement that sharpened the stillness around her.

"Did you kill your Jedi?"

The Force around her drew taut—not explosive, not reckless, but focused, ready. The air thickened, and for the first time, the calm veneer cracked enough for him to glimpse the weight behind it. Not hatred. Not entirely. Something older, colder, sharper.

"Answer carefully."

Sergeant Omen