In the swirling tunnel of hyperspace, a massive Separatist armada surged steadily toward their objective: Kamino. At the fleet's vanguard flew General Grievous' flagship, cutting through the dimensional space like a predator's claw.
On the bridge, General Grievous occupied the central command throne, surrounded by several Dark Acolytes and holographic projections of distant commanders. The cyborg general's reptilian eyes briefly surveyed the assembly, lingering particularly on an unusual figure brought by the mercenary Rumlow.
The man wore traditional Mandalorian armor beneath a weathered white cloak, its hood drawn low to shadow his helmeted face. Though the beskar helmet completely concealed his identity, his armor told its own story. The plate was painted dark blue with orange accents at the knees and joints—covered in the scratches and carbon scoring of countless battles, yet radiating an aura of ancient heritage. Authentic Mandalorian beskar, passed down through generations.
The warrior had claimed the armor had been a family heirloom for as long as his bloodline had existed in the galaxy.
The lightsaber secured to his back served as testament to his clan's martial prowess—a trophy won by his ancestor during the Mandalorian Wars four thousand years ago, taken from a fallen Jedi in single combat.
Since the Clone Wars' outbreak, this mercenary warrior had cultivated a formidable reputation in the crucible of battle. Grievous harbored particular respect for this fighter, given the general's own obsession with collecting trophies from Force-sensitive warriors he'd slain. The cyborg's clawed hand twitched slightly as he studied the ancient lightsaber on the Mandalorian's back—another weapon he could not yet add to his collection.
Rumlow had spoken highly of him, calling him one of the most feared operatives in the galaxy. Though his true identity remained shrouded in mystery, unknown to the general public, his selective nature and ruthless efficiency were legendary. He accepted only the most challenging contracts—missions others deemed suicidal.
Those who employed him knew he would complete the objective or die trying. Grievous's optical sensors narrowed approvingly each time he observed the warrior's complete stillness, the mark of a true predator.
The general's attention shifted to Asajj Ventress, who appeared via holographic projection, her bald head flickering with blue static.
"All units prepared, General," she reported crisply.
"We strike Tipoca City first," Grievous responded, his mechanical voice creating metallic echoes across the bridge.
The holographic tactical display materialized between them, showing Kamino's stormy surface and the gleaming structures of the clone facilities.
"I have the precise coordinates of the clone DNA repositories and the cadet barracks," Ventress continued, her pale fingers dancing across her datapad as she transmitted the classified intelligence. The data streams appeared as cascading red lines on Grievous's command console.
The cyborg general leaned forward in his throne, servos whirring. "Both objectives must be annihilated completely."
"You're suggesting we coordinate our strikes?" Crossbones asked from where he stood near the viewport, arms crossed over his tactical vest.
Grievous's head snapped toward him with mechanical precision, optical sensors flaring red. "Do not presume to address me as an equal, mercenary." Each word emerged clipped and sharp as vibroblade.
Crossbones Rumlow pushed off from the viewport and strode directly toward the cybernetic commander, boots striking the deck plating with deliberate force. He stopped less than a meter from Grievous's throne, meeting the general's burning gaze without flinching. "Last I checked, this was a collaborative operation. In case you forgot."
The bridge fell silent except for the ambient hum of ship systems. Several B1 battle droids shuffled nervously, their vocabulators clicking.
"Are you two actually serious right now?" Sev'rance Tann's voice cut through the tension like a thermal detonator. The fallen Jedi stepped between them, her mechanical hand crackling with barely restrained Force energy. "It would be catastrophic if you forgot the operation's primary objective. Every Separatist world and corporation is providing resources for this assault. This represents our final opportunity to deliver a decisive blow to the Republic before Ultron forces our hand."
She turned her scarred face first to Grievous, then to Rumlow. "We don't need petty territorial disputes."
Grievous's clawed fingers tightened on his armrests, servos grinding. Rumlow's jaw clenched behind his tactical mask. Their eyes remained locked for three full seconds before both simultaneously looked away.
Around the bridge, various commanders and droid operators returned their attention to their stations, the moment of potential violence dissipating like morning mist.
Grievous rose from his throne with fluid mechanical grace, cape billowing. He surveyed the assembled commanders— Sev'rance Tann with her crackling Force presence, the silent Mandalorian warrior, Rumlow with his barely contained aggression. His optical sensors swept across the holographic projections of distant fleet commanders.
"In case anyone requires reminding," Grievous began, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "Count Dooku granted me supreme authority over this operation." He extended one clawed hand, fingers spreading. "My word is law."
"Our mission parameters are clear," Sev'rance Tann interjected smoothly, her red eyes glowing in the dim bridge lighting. The Chiss tactical genius stood before her own holographic displays, fingers manipulating tactical projections with practiced ease. "We all understand the challenges ahead."
"This still feels like elaborate suicide," Pong Krell rumbled from his holographic projection. The massive Besalisk's four arms crossed over his broad chest. "I fail to comprehend why Lord Dooku would authorize such a high-risk assault."
Sev'rance Tann's blue lips curved into a cold smile. "That's precisely why he selected me to ensure our strategy proceeds as planned." Her fingers danced across her console, pulling up detailed schematics of Tipoca City. "My tactical analysis accounts for every variable. The Republic believes their defenses impregnable. I have identified seventeen distinct vulnerabilities."
The holographic display shifted, showing red indicators scattered across the city's infrastructure.
"Enough," Grievous declared, his amplified voice reverberating through the bridge hull. Every conversation ceased immediately. "We waste time debating decisions already made. The operation launches on schedule."
He turned his elongated head toward Ventress's projection. "Ventress, confirm your position."
"Approaching the designated coordinates now," Ventress replied, her image flickering slightly as her ship navigated through a sensor dead zone. "You'll know the moment my phase initiates."
Her holographic form pixelated and vanished.
Aboard her stealth infiltrator, Ventress turned from the communications array to survey the aqua droids conducting final systems checks throughout the cramped vessel. The specialized combat units moved with eerie synchronization, their amphibious chassis gleaming under the red emergency lighting. Each one carried modified E-5 blaster rifles designed for underwater operations, along with thermal detonators sealed in waterproof casings.
"Aqua droid commander," Ventress called out, her boots clicking against the deck plating as she approached the command unit. "Status of Phase Two preparations?"
The commander unit swiveled its photoreceptors toward her. "Affirmative, mistress. All aquatic assault units are armed and operational. Trident-class assault ships are positioned for underwater insertion. Detonation charges are primed."
Ventress moved to the forward viewport, pressing one pale hand against the transparisteel. Beyond the glass, the swirling maelstrom of hyperspace began fragmenting, replaced by the stark reality of normal space. Kamino materialized before her—a grey sphere wrapped in perpetual storm clouds, lightning crackling between atmospheric layers.
Her chest rose and fell with measured breaths as she centered herself in the dark side. The familiar cold presence flooded through her veins, sharpening her senses, heightening her anticipation. Her twin lightsabers hung from her belt, ready.
Ahead, barely visible through sheets of rain and churning black clouds, the stark white structures of Tipoca City gleamed like exposed bone against the dark ocean. Massive stilts elevated the facility hundreds of meters above the churning waves. Lights blazed from countless windows. Oblivious. Unprepared.
She turned to her aqua droid commander. "Execute descent protocol. Take us to insertion depth."
"Acknowledged."
The infiltrator angled downward, penetrating Kamino's upper atmosphere. The ship began vibrating as they hit the storm layer, wind shear buffeting the hull. Rain hammered against the viewport like blaster fire. Lightning arced past close enough to leave afterimages.
Ventress stood motionless, hands clasped behind her back, watching Tipoca City grow larger.
On Grievous's flagship, the Mandalorian warrior stood apart from the other commanders, observing without comment. His helmet's HUD displayed cascading tactical data—fleet positions, projected casualty estimates, defensive arrays. He studied the intelligence reports with the focus of a craftsman examining their tools.
Rumlow approached from behind, boots announcing his presence. "You've been studying those schematics since we left Serenno."
The Mandalorian didn't turn. His voice emerged filtered through his helmet's vocoder, carrying an accent that suggested Concordian origins. "Your colleagues talk too much."
"They're not my colleagues," Rumlow replied, stopping beside him. "They're temporary allies. There's a difference."
"Then we have something in common." The Mandalorian's gloved hand gestured at the tactical display hovering before him. "They see overwhelming force. I see complications."
Rumlow tilted his head. "Such as?"
"The Kaminoans are scientists, not warriors." The Mandalorian highlighted several sections of Tipoca City's layout. "But the Jedi command the clones, and clones are bred for combat. And these 'Avengers' mentioned in the intelligence reports..." He zoomed in on several flagged data points. "Unpredictable variables."
"That's why Dooku wanted you specifically." Rumlow's tone carried genuine curiosity beneath the professional distance. "You hunt Force-users."
The Mandalorian's hand moved to the ancient lightsaber secured to his back—worn grip, weathered emitter, a weapon that had killed its original Jedi owner four millennia ago. His fingers traced the hilt with unconscious familiarity. "My ancestors fought Jedi during the Mandalorian Wars. Won their weapons in single combat. That tradition continues."
"Just make sure you earn your bounty," Rumlow said.
The Mandalorian turned his helmet toward Rumlow for the first time. "I don't fail."
Around them, the bridge crew worked with increased intensity. Droid navigation officers called out coordinates. Tactical officers verified weapon systems. The fleet began final preparations for reversion to realspace.
General Grievous rose from his command throne once more, cape spreading like metallic wings. "All ships, prepare for reversion." His clawed hand swept through the holographic display. "Today we break the Republic's spine."
The hyperspace tunnel shimmered. The familiar blue vortex began fragmenting.
Stars emerged.
Then Kamino filled the viewports—massive, grey, storm-wracked. Tipoca City gleamed on the planet's surface, ignorant of the armada dropping from hyperspace in perfect attack formation.
Alarm klaxons began wailing throughout the city as Republic sensors detected the fleet.
Grievous leaned forward, optical sensors blazing with anticipation. "Begin the assault."
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