Tomb Spyder
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Lekku. LOG-014. The Clone Wars.
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 19:44:44 +0000 UTCLOG-014. The Clone Wars.
Ordo space feels different when you're not living and training in it.
Ships docked, hulls cooling, boots on old ground. Kedo says the hangars smell the same as they always did, burnt metal and dust that never quite settles. I believe him.
The crew's scattered for now. Loose. Comfortable. Everyone’s still wearing armour, but it’s unlatched. Relaxed. Helmets clipped to belts. Rifles stowed.
No one's on edge.
Which might be the strangest part, honestly.
Trix is perched on a supply crate, watching a repair crew patch up one of Mercy’s landing struts like they’ve never seen a hydrospanner before.
I join them, lean against the hull, arms crossed.
They don’t look at me when they speak.
“You know.” They start. “We’ve been working together for, what, six jobs now? Nine if you count the unofficial ones?”
I nod.
“And no one’s asked.”
“Asked what?”
They turn.
Grin like they’re about to commit a minor crime.
“What I actually am.”
I raise a brow. “I didn’t figure it mattered.”
“Eh, it can save some awkward moments.”
Fair.
Trix leans forward slightly, like they’re about to share classified intel. Their voice lowers.
“Arkanian offshoot. Recessive hybrid.”
They hold out their hand and flex it, long fingers, too precise. Then gesture to their eyes, bright and glassy under the light.
“Mostly human passing if I don’t strip down, but trust me, get a medscan on me and it starts a whole thesis.”
“Explains the attitude.”
“Explains the brilliance.”
I grunt. “Explains the pasty complexion.”
They flip me off without breaking stride.
—
Later, I find the clan elder.
He’s in one of the side halls, going over an arms ledger with two of his advisors, voice like gravel wrapped in patience. He doesn’t look surprised to see me. I don’t waste time.
I plainly tell him what I want, three more. Not full time. Not forever. Just warriors willing to ride with us, make credits, and still answer when Ordo calls.
He listens. Nods once. “Pick well.”
I already have.
The three of them meet me outside the fuel depot by sundown.
Two I’ve trained with before. One newer, barely past verd’goten. All competent. All dangerous. None stupid enough to mistake my tone for invitation.
I lay it out clean.
Jobs with the Teeth. Percentage cut. Full autonomy in combat. No betrayal, no drama. And when Ordo calls, we answer. Almost like our own clan, but not really.
They agree without hesitation.
One claps me on the shoulder. “Been watching your crew. Was wondering how long ‘til you came poaching.”
I smile just enough to keep it friendly. “Not poaching if it comes back to visit.”
—
The hangar’s half shadowed by the time I return.
Most of the crew’s gathered around a stack of ration crates someone’s turned into a table. There’s drinks. Trix is trying to convince Lira to play sabacc. Lira’s not biting.
Instead, she’s waiting for me.
When I pass her, she stands up and apparently doesn’t bother wasting any time at all.
“I want to sleep with you.”
Just like that. Flat tone. Direct.
I blink once.
She shrugs. “You’re attractive. I’m bored. Seems like it’d be good.”
I stare at her.
…Then nod.
“Alright.”
Behind us, one of the new Ordo additions whistles low. Another snorts and calls out.
“Helmet stays on, yeah?!”
Lira doesn’t even look back. I just scoff and flip him off.
“Only if you ask nicely!”
Obviously, we leave before anyone starts betting. I carefully avoid mentioning I’m still technically a virgin in this body.
—
I wake with a warm body against mine and the low thrum of Mercy’s reactor somewhere below.
Lira’s draped half across my chest, one leg between mine, her arm looped around my waist like she’s claiming territory.
She’s naked. So am I.
For what I like to think are obvious reasons, I don’t move for a while.
…She’s lighter than she looks. All muscle, no softness. Her breathing’s even, but I can feel the tension under her skin even in sleep.
She doesn’t let herself fall all the way.
I kind of get that, in a way.
Eventually, there’s a knock.
Three sharp taps against the door panel.
A sigh escapes my lips.
“Yeah?” I call, voice still low from sleep.
The door slides open halfway. One of the new Ordo recruits, Ress, leans in, a ration tray in one hand and zero shame in the other.
He glances at the bed, raises a brow like he’s checking if he won a bet, then walks in and sets the tray down on the crate by the wall.
“Figured you’d want food before we brief. Something hot.” He explains.
Then, without missing a beat, he puffs his chin out slightly. “Also, you should totally paint one of your pauldrons green.”
I blink at him.
“Green?”
He nods, gesturing to his own armour. Matte olive finish, trimmed in black, Clan Ordo sigil marked clean across the right shoulder.
“Symbolic type thing. Solidarity. Connection. Shows you're tied to us. Some clans read it the wrong way otherwise. Could save you a fight or two.”
“Or start one.” I mutter.
He shrugs. “At least it starts it on your terms.”
I sit up against the wall, blankets still tangled around my legs. Lira shifts, but doesn’t bother covering herself. She doesn’t flinch when Ress looks again. Doesn’t care.
After a moment, I arch a brow. “Do Mandalorians even believe in privacy anymore, or are you just weird?”
Ress grins. “Not really. Besides, I’m blasting for the other team, if you know what I mean.”
I blink again.
He heads for the door.
Just before it hisses shut behind him, he calls back. “Think about the pauldron, it’d look good on you.”
A few moments pass before Lira rolls over, groaning into the pillow. “That one talks too much.”
“You just like watching him walk away.”
“I like watching you walk away.”
Her hand slides low. Palms my ass.
I swat it away, but not like I mean it.
“You’re a menace.”
“Only in the good ways.”
Eventually I peel myself out of bed.
Lira watches me dress, propped up on one elbow, lekku braid undone and skin catching the light. There’s a satisfaction in her that’s rare. Not softness. Just ease. She doesn’t offer to help gear up, doesn’t ask about the day.
She knows better than to think this is anything more than sex, which is nice.
I nod to her before I leave.
She nods back.
Nothing else needed. Again, nice.
—
Down in the hold, I set up the armour stand and pull the right pauldron free.
I stare at it for a while. Black and red beskar. Scored and slightly pitted here and there, shaped by years of wear.
Then I start painting.
Base green first. Dark. Deep.
Takes three layers to get it how I want.
Then the sigil. Clan Ordo’s mark. I stencil it by memory. Hands steady.
No ceremony. No words.
Just paint and silence.
When it’s done, I slot it back into place.
The armour clips home with a click that echoes louder than it should.
Connection doesn’t necessarily mean belonging.
But it’s still real.
And real is enough in this case.
—
Time passes. We do more jobs. The team get to know each other better, and our reputation gets solid enough that we’re actually somewhat known in various circles. Kind of like a discount Jango Fett or Cad Bane.
But you know, a small but competent group of killers, instead of a one man army.
Regardless, we’re halfway through a cargo sweep on the edge of the Tion Cluster. Low orbit, no atmosphere, drifting wreckage from a freighter that misjumped and folded itself in half across its own hull plating. No bodies, just salvage. Clean, simple, forgettable.
Torren’s crawling through the broken midsection, muttering about stripped components.
Trix is in the hold, cursing at a disobedient data spike.
I’m on the bridge, watching the scanners and generally just shooting the shit.
That’s when my regular newsfeed pings.
Encrypted. Passive relay. Shortwave burst over one of our blacknet subscriptions. Nothing flagged, nothing special.
Except it is.
The headline bleeds across the corner of my HUD in stark white letters.
GEONOSIS.
CLONES.
JEDI.
WAR.
I pull the feed into full view.
Footage rolls. Grainy. Hazy. Battlefield cams spliced with news holos. Jedi in the dust. Blasterfire through the clouds. A Jedi with a blue saber leading troopers in what I know to be Phase I plastoid armour, helmet visors gleaming under orbital fire.
Hundreds of them.
Thousands.
Even with my knowledge, I can’t help but marvel at just how similar to Mandalorians they look.
Trix’s voice cuts into comms a beat later.
“Hey boss, you kriffing seeing this?”
“Yeah.”
They don’t say anything else, presumably working to look into things a little more.
I knew it was coming and had come to accept that there wasn’t much I could do about it, and yet it still hits hard.
The war’s not a whisper anymore.
It’s a declaration. Loud. Official. Permanent.
Jedi are soldiers now.
The clones exist. Fully grown, fully trained, fully deployed.
The Republic has teeth again.
And the galaxy’s already dividing itself by the hour.
Below us, in the wreckage, the stars keep spinning.
Nothing’s changed in the vacuum.
But I feel the shift anyway.
Right in my gut.
Something’s broken loose.
And it’s never going back in the box.
—
The mess is quiet.
No helmets. No noise. Just the hum of Mercy’s core bleeding through the walls and the faint clink of Trix stirring something into stimcaf that doesn’t belong there.
I’m at the head of the table. Doesn’t mean I’m leading the conversation. There isn’t one.
Kedo leans back against the bulkhead, arms crossed, mouth set in that unreadable way only veteran Mandos can manage.
Torren’s boot is up on the table, which I’ll let slide for now.
Lira’s sprawled sideways in a chair two seats from mine, sipping from a tin cup and watching the ceiling like it owes her something.
Even Trix is still for once. That’s how I know it’s serious.
The holo is off. We all saw it already.
Geonosis.
Clones. Jedi. War.
The brand spanking new Confederacy is making its move. The Republic’s still reeling, but with Sidious running things behind the show, it's managing to avoid getting completely kriffed..
And as always, everyone else is going to be forced to follow.
I let the silence hold for a little longer.
Then I speak.
“This isn’t our war.”
My voice carries. Not loud, but final. It settles into the steel around us like it belongs there.
“This is politics. Old grudges. Long plays finally snapping into open conflict. Whatever’s happening out there, we’re not in it. Not unless we choose to be.”
No one answers.
I keep going.
“It’s an opportunity. Systems are going to fall. Power vacuums will open. Everyone’s going to need someone who can move without a flag on their shoulder.”
My gaze sweeps the table.
“We’ve got a name. We’ve got reach. We stay neutral. We work the lanes. We take what we want. Yeah?”
They all nod.
Slow. Measured.
Not because they’re loyal.
Because they trust what I said.
And that’s better. It works for all of us.
But later, when the lights are down and the others drift back to work or rest or the things they do in the silence, I linger at the table.
Stare at the blank space where the holo ran.
And I wonder if I can help.
If I should.
If anything I do would even matter, with what’s coming.
…We stay neutral.
That’s what I tell them.
That’s what they believe.
And that’s enough, for now.
