The space above Kamino's endless gray oceans had become a graveyard of metal and fire. Through the debris field, clone gunships and Republic starfighters moved with practiced precision, establishing overlapping fields of fire across three potential breach points in the city's perimeter.
Captain Fordo's visor tracked the tactical display as he worked alongside Alpha-17, the legendary ARC trooper whose blue-striped armor had become synonymous with ruthless efficiency. They moved through the squads with the easy coordination of veterans who'd survived countless campaigns.
"Positions locked," Alpha announced, his gravelly voice carrying the particular brand of arrogance that came from being very good at staying alive. He swept his DC-17 across the defensive line with satisfaction. "Any tinnies stupid enough to try breaching here are in for a rude awakening."
Fordo's helmet turned toward the assembled clone troopers—men he'd trained, fought beside, bled with. Each one held their position with the disciplined calm that separated professionals from corpses.
Footsteps echoed on the platform behind them. Fordo recognized the measured cadence before he turned.
"Fordo. Alpha." Obi-Wan Kenobi's voice carried that particular blend of warmth and authority that made clones want to follow him into hell itself. Beside him, Kit Fisto's perpetually smiling face somehow managed to make even a war zone feel less oppressive.
"We'll need you to hold the line while we investigate something below," Kit said, his head-tails shifting with the ocean breeze.
"You've got it, Generals." Fordo's acknowledgment was crisp, professional.
Alpha shifted his weight, DC-17s crossed over his chest. "Just try not to make us scrape your pieces off the ocean floor. Paperwork's a pain."
Kit's smile widened—he'd learned to appreciate Alpha's particular brand of concern. "We'll do our best."
The two Jedi moved toward the submarine bay, leaving the ARC troopers to their vigil.
The descent into Kamino's depths was like sliding into ink. Obi-Wan guided their craft through layers of darkness so complete it seemed to have weight. Kit swam outside the transparisteel canopy with the easy grace of his Nautolan heritage, occasionally tapping the hull and pointing ahead.
Obi-Wan leaned forward, squinting. A faint glow pulsed in the abyss below—unnatural, geometric. Wrong.
As they approached, the glow resolved into harsh work lights illuminating a scene that tightened Obi-Wan's jaw. What he'd expected to be debris was instead an organized salvage operation. Aqua droids moved with purpose around a partially intact Separatist warship, their welding torches sending showers of sparks through the dark water.
"That's not wreckage processing," Obi-Wan said quietly, activating his comlink. "This is Obi-Wan Kenobi. Kit and I have found something—aqua droids converting ship fragments into assault craft components. They're preparing for an underwater assault on—"
Static.
"Can anyone hear me?" He adjusted frequencies. Nothing but the hiss of interference. "Kit, they're jamming us."
Through the canopy, he saw Kit's expression shift. The Nautolan's hand moved to his lightsaber as the nearest droids' photoreceptors flared red. They'd been spotted.
Blaster fire erupted through the water, bolts leaving trails of superheated bubbles. Kit's green blade ignited, a beacon in the darkness, deflecting shots with fluid precision. He looked back at Obi-Wan, his perpetual smile replaced by grim determination.
Obi-Wan nodded and throttled the submarine into a hard turn, angling for the surface.
Kit deflected three more bolts before the aqua droids abandoned subtlety. A dozen of them peeled away from the salvage operation, mechanical limbs propelling them through the water with disturbing speed. They spread out, attempting to flank the Nautolan Jedi.
Kit's response was simple and devastating. He extended his hand, the Force gathering around him like an invisible current. One droid lurched toward him as if pulled by a chain, and his lightsaber carved through its chassis before it could process what was happening.
Then he heard it—a deep, thrumming vibration that didn't belong.
Kit looked up. A massive octopoid droid, all reaching tentacles and mounted weapons, descended toward Obi-Wan's submarine like some mechanical kraken. One tentacle wrapped around the craft's midsection. Metal shrieked. The submarine began to split.
"No!" Kit drew in the Force, felt it swell around him like a rising tide. More aqua droids closed in, but he couldn't spare them attention. Obi-Wan's escape pod separated from the dying submarine and began to rise—straight into a cluster of droids.
Kit pushed downward with the Force and shot upward, his body a green comet through the black water. He weaved through clutching mechanical arms, grabbed Obi-Wan's pod just as a bolt scored its surface, and kicked hard for the light above.
They broke the surface together, gasping. A shadow passed overhead—an aiwha, one of Kamino's great flying creatures, its ray-like body gliding just above the waves. Kit grabbed its fin and hauled Obi-Wan up beside him.
The Jedi Master coughed, spitting seawater, while Kit patted his back with the slightly smug expression of someone who'd just pulled off an impressive rescue.
"Thank you," Obi-Wan managed between coughs. "Both of you." He patted the aiwha's slick hide.
Kit grinned briefly, then raised his wrist. "This is Kit Fisto. If anyone can hear me—the Separatists have a staging area deep below Tipoca City. They're building assault craft for an aquatic attack."
Master Plo Koon's synthesized voice crackled through immediately. "Acknowledged. Skywalker, Windu, Falcon, Rhodes—get to the surface platforms. I'll handle the air superiority."
"On our way." Anakin's response was clipped, already moving.
Inside Tipoca City's sterile corridors, Natasha Romanoff walked with the measured pace of someone who belonged exactly where she was. She'd spent years perfecting the art of invisibility in plain sight.
The corridor ahead was empty—a brief window in the chaos. She slipped into a side room, fingers already pulling a thin cable from her belt. The console hummed to life under her touch.
"Alright, plug me in," she murmured, connecting the device.
"Da, tovarishch Romanov." Friday's Russian-accented AI responded immediately. "Beginning data extraction—"
An alarm shrieked through the facility.
"Chyort," Natasha breathed. She yanked the cable free, stowed it, and was moving before the alarm's echo faded. Whatever she'd triggered, it would have to wait. The battle wouldn't.
At the hangar's edge, Steve Rogers stood with his shield on his arm, watching assault boats cut through the waves below like sharks. Clone troopers checked their weapons. Jedi adjusted their robes. His team—god, his impossible, cobbled-together team—prepared for another fight on another world.
"Alright, everyone," Steve's voice carried clearly through his comlink. "Soldiers, Jedi, Avengers—we hold this line. They don't get into the city. Clear?"
A chorus of affirmatives answered him.
"Then let's get to work."
Peter Parker swung between Tipoca City's dome structures with the kind of joy that never quite left him, even in combat. Two thermal detonators hung from his web-belt—borrowed from a very nervous clone who'd asked three times if Spider-Man knew how to use them.
He spotted the aqua droids emerging from the water below, their weapons already tracking upward.
"Okay, Peter," he muttered, "you've seen Aunt May use the oven timer. Same principle. Probably."
He activated the first detonator and threw. It arced beautifully, landed among the droids, and detonated with a satisfying whump. The shockwave scattered them.
The second detonator he'd modified—web fluid cartridge attached to the casing with what he really hoped was the right kind of adhesive. He threw it into the confused cluster of droids.
It exploded into a web-cocoon that caught five droids in rapidly hardening strands.
"Yes! Eat your heart out, Mr. Stark!" Peter whooped, then had to web-zip away from return fire. "Okay, they did not appreciate that!"
Below him, an assault boat shuddered, tilted, and crashed back into the ocean with a tremendous splash. Clones cheered from their positions.
Peter swung lower and nearly collided with Scott Lang—currently thirty feet tall—as Ant-Man punted an aqua droid off a platform.
"Whoa! Nice kick!" Peter called out.
"Thanks!" Scott's voice boomed, then he had to duck as another assault boat's tentacle-cannon swiveled toward him. "Okay, I really, really hate squid robots! Why are there squid robots?!"
"It's the future, Scott! Everything's squids!"
On Tipoca City's northern perimeter, Steve's shield sang its distinctive tang as it ricocheted off three battle droids and returned to his hand. Around him, the fight had become a blur of lightsabers and blaster fire.
Aayla Secura moved like water, her blue blade flowing through defensive forms. Commander Bly and his 327th troopers laid down covering fire with practiced efficiency. Luminara Unduli fought with precise, economical movements beside her Padawan Barriss. Rex—always reliable Rex—cleared droids with the methodical accuracy of a man who'd been doing this too long to waste ammunition.
Ahsoka Tano fought beside her master, and Steve noted with approval how Anakin positioned himself to cover his Padawan's blind spots without making it obvious. Teaching through action—Steve understood that approach.
Then the assault boat's hatch opened, and the battle's rhythm changed.
General Grievous emerged like a nightmare made manifest—all angles and predatory intent. Behind him came a strike team that made Steve's tactical instincts scream warnings: Rumlow and three figures in dark robes.
Aayla's gasp was barely audible, but Steve heard it. Heard the name she breathed: "Sey."
The Zabrak woman smiled with poisonous sweetness. "Aayla. How wonderful to see you again."
Aayla's second lightsaber ignited—green blade humming with familiar resonance. The weapon of a former friend and now enemy.
They met in a clash of emerald fire.
Ahsoka started forward, but Barriss caught her shoulder. Another Sith acolyte—pale blue skin, flowing black hair, and eyes like red coals—stepped into their path.
"Sey has her dance," the acolyte purred. "I am Sev'rance Tann. I'll be yours."
Her crimson blade ignited.
Ahsoka and Barriss exchanged a glance, came to a wordless agreement, and activated their lightsabers in unison.
Sam Wilson's Falcon wings caught an updraft, sending him soaring over the battle. Beside him, Rhodes in the War Machine armor flew with military precision.
"Rhodey, you seeing this clusterfuck?" Sam asked, targeting another assault boat.
"Yeah, and I've seen worse," Rhodes replied. His shoulder-mounted cannon rotated with mechanical certainty. "Barely."
They dove together, repulsors and rockets suppressing fire from the aqua droids below, giving the clone troopers room to advance.
On the platforms, Scott and Hope fought with the synchronization of partners who'd learned to trust each other in the most extreme circumstances. Giant-Man's massive fists crushed droids while the Wasp darted between them, her stingers finding weak points with surgical precision.
Matt Murdock heard the battle more than saw it—the whine of blasters, the clash of metal, the tactical communications through his earpiece. His billy clubs hummed with electrical charge as he spun them into nunchaku configuration, taking down droids with strikes that exploited every structural weakness he'd memorized.
Around him, members of the 21st Nova Corps—Commander Thire's men—fought with the grim determination of soldiers defending their home.
Spider-Man swung past overhead. "Mr. Murdock, your six!"
Matt was already moving, staff connecting with the droid's central processor before it could fire.
"Thanks, kid."
"Anytime!"
Natasha emerged from the city proper, her Widow's Bite crackling as she joined the melee alongside Jedi Masters Stass Allie and Adi Gallia. Quicksilver blurred past—there and gone—leaving deactivated droids in his wake.
"Formations!" Stass called to the nearby clones. "Use the architecture! Make them come to you!"
The clones responded instantly, falling back to choke points where the city's design turned into a kill zone.
Steve's shield flew again, and he felt the familiar satisfaction of a plan coming together. They were holding. Against impossible odds, in an impossible place, they were holding the line.
And that, Steve thought as he caught his shield and braced for the next wave, was what heroes did.
They held.