Scott Lang's shadow fell across half the plaza.
At sixty-five feet tall, he moved with surprising grace—caught a diving vulture droid in both hands, pivoted, and hurled it like a fastball into a cluster of advancing spider droids. The impact sent shrapnel and sparks cascading across the battlefield.
"Strike!" Scott's voice boomed, amplified by his size.
Below him, Quicksilver was a silver blur. He wove between Scott's massive boots at speeds that left afterimages, each pass leaving disabled droids and disoriented Umbarans in his wake. The enemy couldn't track him, couldn't aim, could barely register his presence before he was gone.
Hope van Dyne shot overhead, wings humming. She dove, struck—her stingers discharged with sharp cracks of bioelectric energy. Droids seized up, Umbarans stumbled. Quicksilver was there before they hit the ground, delivering precise strikes that ended the threat permanently.
They fought alongside the 91st Reconnaissance Corps, the 187th Legion, and Master Fisto's own marines. The clones moved with disciplined efficiency, covering angles and calling targets. It should have been enough.
"They just keep coming!" Scott ducked under an Umbaran fighter's strafing run, felt the heat of its cannons singe his shoulder. Even at giant size, there were too many targets.
"We have to hold the line!" Kit Fisto's voice cut through the chaos. His lightsaber was a green blur, each stroke dropping two or three droids. Beside him, Commander Monnk—armor marked with the same sea-green as his general's skin—coordinated fire teams with hand signals.
Quicksilver stopped mid-sprint. The sudden deceleration created a kinetic shockwave that sent three Umbarans flying off the platform's edge, their screams dopplering into silence.
Falcon descended from above—targeted a vulture droid, landed on its hull, and decapitated it with one sweep of his wing-blades. The droid spiraled down, trailing smoke.
"We're making progress," Sam reported over the comm, already climbing for altitude. "But it's incremental. They've got reinforcements—"
"Pietro!" The voice in Quicksilver's comm crackled with panic. "Pietro, come in!"
Pietro's blood went cold. "Kix? What's wrong?"
"It's—" The medic's voice broke. "It's the worst. Grievous. He's—we can't stop him, half the squad's down, and General Di—"
Pietro was already moving.
He became a silver streak across the battlefield, through corridors, over domes, around obstacles. Clone troopers blurred past, droids barely registered before he was gone. He'd met Ima-Gun Di back on Ryloth—quiet, focused, determined to live up to Master Fisto's example. A good man. A friend.
Hold on. Just hold on.
He burst into the corridor at full speed—
—and saw Grievous drive two lightsabers through Ima-Gun Di's back.
"NO!" Pietro's scream was raw, torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
Time seemed to fracture. He saw Di's eyes widen. Saw the Jedi stumble forward as Grievous withdrew the blades. Saw him fall, lifeless before he hit the deck.
Kix and the surviving clones scattered as Grievous advanced on them, four lightsabers spinning in a deadly pattern. They would be next. They would all—
Pietro moved.
He hit Grievous at three hundred miles per hour, drove his shoulder into the droid general's torso, and sent them both skidding across the deck. Pietro's momentum carried them to the platform's edge—one more foot and they both would've gone over.
Grievous recovered first. His clawed foot lashed out, caught Pietro in the ribs with enough force to crack them. Pietro gasped, rolled away, came up on his knees beside—
Beside Ima-Gun Di.
The Jedi's eyes stared at nothing. There was no pain in his expression. Just... absence. Pietro's hands shook as he reached out, as if he could somehow—
"Typical sentiment from Jedi sympathizers." Grievous's mechanical rasp cut through Pietro's grief like a blade. "Mourning trash."
Something ignited in Pietro's chest. Not the force that powered his abilities. Something hotter. Older. More dangerous.
He stood slowly. Looked at Captain Kix, at the clones who'd served under Ima-Gun Di. They were good soldiers. They deserved better than this.
"Take him," Pietro said quietly. His accent thickened, the Sokovian vowels he usually suppressed coming through. "Get him somewhere safe."
Kix moved forward, grief written in every line of his body. He and two others carefully lifted their general's body. Pietro watched them go, then turned back to the place where Ima-Gun Di had fallen.
Ima-Gun Di's lightsaber lay on the deck.
Pietro picked it up. The hilt was still warm. He ignited it—the blue blade hummed to life, casting sharp shadows across his face.
"This doesn't belong to you, Grievous," Pietro said. He pointed the blade at the droid general, his grip steady despite the rage burning through his veins. "None of the lives you've taken belong to you."
Grievous's mechanical laugh echoed off the walls. His arms split—two became four—and he drew three more lightsabers from his collection. Yellow, green, blue—stolen from Jedi he'd killed.
"You Avengers have been a thorn in the Separatists' side," Grievous snarled. His vocabulator gave each word a harsh, grating quality. "Today, your team dies."
Pietro remembered Ryloth. Remembered training with Ima-Gun Di before the general's death. Remembered the basics of Shii-Cho, the first form, the foundation. He settled into the opening stance—blade held high, weight balanced.
"Show me what you've got, tin man," Pietro said.
Grievous attacked.
Across the city, the battle raged.
"Get to that turret! They're flanking us!"
"Watch those wrist rockets!"
"We need reinforcements on the east approach!"
"Target the Umbarans first—then the droids!"
In Tipoca City, the capital of Kamino, every corridor had become a chokepoint, every plaza a killing field. The Separatists poured through the breaches in waves, but the clone defenders made them pay for every meter.
A squad of Umbarans reached the entrance to Dome Seven. They'd lost half their number getting this far, but they were through the perimeter, at the door, ready to—
The door exploded outward.
The blast sent two Umbarans flying, their bodies ragdolling through the air. The others stumbled back, raising weapons, trying to reorient—
Captain Fordo came through the smoke like an avenging spirit.
He had a DC-17 in each hand. The first Umbaran went down with a bolt between the eyes. The second took two rounds to the chest. Fordo didn't break stride—drove his boot into a third soldier's knee, shattered the joint, and put a bolt through his helmet before the man could scream.
An Umbaran tried to bring his rifle up. Fordo threw his left-hand pistol—it hit the soldier's helmet hard enough to crack the faceplate. Fordo closed the distance, spun, and pistol-whipped the man with his right-hand blaster. The helmet shattered. The Umbaran went down, face bleeding.
Fordo shot the survivors before they could regroup. Six enemies, down in fifteen seconds.
Another ARC trooper—armor painted in blue and white—stepped through the doorway behind him. "You know you're showing off, right?"
Fordo retrieved his thrown pistol, checked the charge. "That wasn't showing off. Showing off is what you did with that spider droid."
"I threw one thermal detonator—"
"Into its optical cluster from forty meters while under fire," Fordo said. "That's showing off."
The blue-armored trooper—Colt—grinned behind his helmet. "Fair."
An explosion rocked the dome. Both ARCs turned toward the sound, weapons ready.
Western sector. Waxer and Boil held the line with what was left of Ghost Company.
They'd built a makeshift barricade from destroyed droids and debris. It wouldn't stop a sustained assault, but it gave them cover. Barely.
"Hold!" Waxer shouted. He'd ditched his DC-15 rifle for a Z-6 rotary cannon, the heavy weapon braced against his hip. "When you pick a fight with the Grand Army of the Republic, you better be ready for what comes next!"
He squeezed the trigger. The cannon roared, spitting plasma bolts at cyclic rate. Droids fell in pieces. Umbarans dove for cover. The barricade held.
"Here they come again!" Boil's voice, tight with adrenaline.
More droids. More Umbarans. Always more.
But reinforcements were arriving—fresh clones from the interior garrison, redirected from other sectors. They fell in behind the barricade, added their fire to Ghost Company's defense.
The line held.
North end. The 501st and 41st Elite had consolidated under Commander Gree's leadership.
"Commander!" Jesse called over the sound of blasterfire. "Any word from General Skywalker?"
Gree slammed his rifle butt into a super battle droid's chassis, then put three bolts through its processor housing. "Generals are dealing with the Acolytes and bounty hunters. Focus on what's in front of you, Lieutenant."
Jesse grinned behind his helmet. "Yeah, well. Last thing we need to worry about is Jedi, right?"
Gree actually laughed—a short, sharp bark. "Damn straight."
Hardcase's cackle cut across the comm channel, punctuated by the distinctive whine of his Z-6. The heavy gunner was in his element, laying down suppressive fire that kept an entire Umbaran squad pinned.
They were outnumbered. Outgunned. Running low on ammunition and patience.
But they were clones. They were the Grand Army of the Republic.
And they did not break.