CORUSCANT
THE SENATE BUILDING
SUPREME CHANCELLOR PALPATINE'S PRIVATE OFFICE
THREE DAYS AFTER THE KOTHLIS MISSION
Sheev Palpatine—Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic, secret Dark Lord of the Sith, orchestrator of the most elaborate political conspiracy in galactic history, and owner of an extremely comfortable chair—was having what could only be described as a Very Bad Day.
This was unusual.
Palpatine's days were typically excellent. He had spent decades laying the groundwork for his grand design, manipulating both sides of an increasingly destructive war, positioning himself as the galaxy's indispensable leader while simultaneously commanding the forces trying to destroy it. Every battle, every tragedy, every desperate plea for emergency powers—all of it fed into his plans, bringing him closer to the moment when he would cast aside the mask of the kindly Chancellor and reveal himself as the Emperor the galaxy so desperately needed.
Everything was proceeding exactly as he had foreseen.
Or at least, it had been.
Until approximately three standard hours ago, when Palpatine had attempted to do something he did almost every day: peer into the currents of the Force to observe the galaxy's future.
It was a routine exercise, really. A brief meditation, a gentle touch upon the cosmic tapestry, a confirmation that his carefully laid plans remained on track. He had done it thousands of times. It was as natural as breathing.
This time, however, something had gone wrong.
The moment his consciousness had brushed against the Force—the moment he had extended his awareness beyond the confines of his physical form—he had encountered... something.
Not a vision. Not a premonition. Not even a disturbance, in the traditional sense.
It was more like a presence.
A vast, incomprehensible, ancient presence that had turned its attention toward him with the lazy curiosity of a predator examining a particularly insignificant insect. Palpatine had felt its gaze settle upon him—upon his plans, his ambitions, his carefully hidden true nature—and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Sheev Palpatine had experienced something that he had thought himself incapable of feeling.
Terror.
Pure, primal, bone-deep terror.
And then the presence had spoken.
Not in words—not exactly. The communication had been more fundamental than language, a direct transmission of meaning that bypassed his ears and etched itself directly into his consciousness. It was less a sentence and more a commandment, delivered with an authority that made his own considerable power feel like a child's toy compared to a supernova.
The message had been simple.
The message had been clear.
The message had been, in essence: TOUCH THE CLONE AND I WILL UNMAKE YOU SO THOROUGHLY THAT EVEN THE CONCEPT OF YOUR EXISTENCE WILL BE ERASED FROM REALITY. WHAT HAPPENED TO REVAN WILL SEEM LIKE A GENTLE VACATION COMPARED TO WHAT I WILL DO TO YOUR SOUL. I WILL SPREAD YOUR CONSCIOUSNESS ACROSS EVERY DIMENSION, EVERY TIMELINE, EVERY POSSIBLE AND IMPOSSIBLE UNIVERSE, AND YOU WILL EXPERIENCE SUFFERING BEYOND COMPREHENSION FOR ETERNITY. DO NOT TEST ME.
And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the presence had withdrawn, leaving Palpatine alone in his office with a pounding heart, shaking hands, and a very urgent need to change his robes.
What, he thought, his mind racing through every possibility with the desperate speed of a man who had just realized he might not be the biggest fish in the pond, in the name of the Dark Side was THAT?
Palpatine had spent the next three hours doing something he almost never did: research.
Not the elegant manipulation of information networks that was his usual method of gathering intelligence. Not the subtle extraction of secrets through blackmail and bribery. Actual, physical, desperate research—pulling ancient Sith texts from his hidden collection, cross-referencing holocron recordings, diving deep into lore that hadn't been accessed in centuries.
He was looking for answers.
He was looking for any explanation for what had just happened to him.
What he found was... troubling.
The Force, according to every Sith teaching he had ever studied, was a tool. A weapon. A source of power to be dominated, controlled, and bent to one's will. The Jedi believed it was some kind of mystical energy field that connected all living things and had a "will" of its own, but that was obvious nonsense—the superstitious ramblings of fools who couldn't see the truth.
The Force didn't think.
The Force didn't choose favorites.
The Force certainly didn't issue death threats to Sith Lords who hadn't even done anything yet.
And yet.
And yet.
Palpatine stared at the holographic display before him, his yellow eyes—hidden behind the carefully maintained illusion of a kindly grandfather's face—narrowing with a mixture of fear and fury.
The display showed a personnel file. Clone trooper designation CT-7829. Nickname: "Scorch." Recently promoted to Corporal and assigned to Torrent Company, 501st Legion. Attached to Jedi General Anakin Skywalker.
The file also contained a series of incident reports that had made Palpatine's blood run cold.
Subject displayed unprecedented Force sensitivity during combat operations on Kothlis.
Subject successfully utilized telekinetic abilities without prior training.
Subject demonstrated precognitive awareness and enhanced reflexes consistent with Force attunement.
Jedi General Skywalker has requested permission to begin informal instruction in Force techniques.
Request pending review by the Jedi Council.
A Force-sensitive clone.
That shouldn't be possible. Palpatine had personally overseen the genetic specifications for the clone army—had worked with the Kaminoans to ensure that every single clone was as Force-null as a rock. The last thing he needed was a rogue Force user among his future soldiers, someone who might resist Order 66, someone who might sense the truth of what he was before it was too late.
And yet here was CT-7829, defying everything that should have been possible, wielding the Force like he had been born to it.
But that wasn't what concerned Palpatine most.
What concerned him was the presence he had encountered.
What concerned him was the threat.
What concerned him was the growing, horrifying suspicion that the Force—the actual, cosmic, incomprehensibly vast Force itself—had somehow developed a personal attachment to this single, insignificant clone trooper.
And was prepared to destroy anyone who threatened him.
Including me, Palpatine thought, and the realization sent another chill down his spine. *The Force is protecting him. Actively, consciously, aggressively protecting him. From me.
This was unprecedented.
This was impossible.
This was very, very bad for his plans.
Palpatine leaned back in his extremely comfortable chair and stared at the ceiling, his mind working furiously.
He couldn't kill the clone. That much was clear. Whatever power was protecting CT-7829, it was beyond anything Palpatine had ever encountered—beyond his own considerable abilities, beyond the ancient Sith Lords whose knowledge he had inherited, beyond everything he had ever thought possible.
He couldn't manipulate the clone, either. If the Force was watching over him with such intensity, any attempt at subtle influence would likely be detected and met with the same terrifying response.
He couldn't even observe the clone too closely, for fear of drawing that terrible attention again.
So what can I do? Palpatine wondered, his fingers steepling beneath his chin. What does one do when the Force itself has decided to adopt a pet?
The answer, he realized with profound reluctance, was: nothing.
He would have to leave CT-7829 alone.
He would have to pretend the clone didn't exist.
He would have to continue with his plans and simply... hope that whatever cosmic entity had taken an interest in this trooper didn't decide to interfere with anything else.
It was not a satisfying answer.
It was, in fact, an infuriating answer.
But it was the only answer that didn't end with Palpatine's consciousness being scattered across the multiverse for all eternity.
"This is fine," Palpatine muttered to himself, echoing a phrase that he didn't know had any particular significance. "Everything is still under control. One Force-sensitive clone doesn't change anything. The plan proceeds as intended."
He almost believed it.
Almost.
MEANWHILE
ABOARD THE RESOLUTE
EN ROUTE TO CORUSCANT
Marcus sneezed.
"Bless you," Ahsoka said, not looking up from the training saber she was adjusting. "You've been sneezing a lot lately. Are you sure you're not sick?"
"Clones don't get sick," Rex said from his position by the training room door. "Enhanced immune systems. One of the few perks of being grown in a tube."
"Then why does he keep sneezing?"
"Maybe someone's talking about him," Echo suggested from where he was doing maintenance on his rifle. "My batchmates used to say that—if you sneeze for no reason, it means someone's thinking about you."
"That's... not how biology works," Ahsoka said slowly.
"Neither is a clone being Force-sensitive, and yet here we are."
Marcus rubbed his nose through his helmet—still ineffective, still strangely comforting—and tried to shake off the odd sensation that had been following him around for the past few days. It wasn't quite a feeling, not exactly. It was more like... awareness. A constant, gentle presence at the edge of his consciousness, like being wrapped in a warm blanket that he couldn't see or touch but could somehow sense.
It was probably the Force.
It was definitely weird.
But it also felt... safe. Protective. Like nothing could hurt him as long as that presence was there.
I'm probably going insane, Marcus thought. That's the most logical explanation. The stress of being reincarnated into a war zone has finally broken my brain.
"Alright, Scorch," Ahsoka said, rising to her feet and igniting her training saber—a low-powered blade that would sting but not maim. "Let's try this again. Remember what I told you about centering yourself?"
Marcus sighed and picked up his own training saber, the weight unfamiliar in his hands. "Find the stillness. Let the Force flow through me. Don't think, just act."
"Exactly." Ahsoka settled into a ready stance, her montrals tilting slightly as she assessed him. "The Force is already with you—I can feel it. You just need to learn how to listen to it."
The Force is already with me, Marcus thought, and something in the back of his mind seemed to purr with satisfaction at the acknowledgment. Yeah. I'm getting that impression.
"Ready?" Ahsoka asked.
"No."
"Good. That means you're learning."
She attacked.
THE TRAINING SESSION LASTED TWO HOURS.
By the end of it, Marcus was bruised, exhausted, and had a newfound appreciation for just how hard it was to fight someone with actual lightsaber training. Ahsoka had been pulling her strikes—he could tell, because he was still alive—but even her restrained attacks were devastatingly fast and precise.
He had managed to block maybe one in ten.
"You're too tense," Ahsoka said, deactivating her saber and tossing him a water container. "You keep trying to predict where I'm going to attack and move to intercept. That's a soldier's instinct, not a Force user's."
"What's the difference?" Marcus asked, collapsing onto a bench and gulping water like his life depended on it.
"A soldier reacts to what they see. A Force user reacts to what they feel." Ahsoka sat down beside him, her expression thoughtful. "The Force knows what's going to happen before it happens. It's like... like having a map of the next few seconds, constantly updating in your mind. You don't need to think about where the attack is coming from—you just need to trust that you'll know."
"That sounds like mystical nonsense."
"It is mystical nonsense. It's also true."
Marcus laughed, the sound muffled by his helmet. "You know, when I imagined learning about the Force, I always thought it would be more... I don't know. Dramatic. Lifting X-wings out of swamps. Having philosophical debates about destiny. Maybe a cave vision or two."
Ahsoka's lekku twitched in what Marcus had learned was her equivalent of raising an eyebrow. "You imagined learning about the Force? Before you knew you were sensitive?"
Kriff.
"I mean—" Marcus scrambled for an explanation that wouldn't reveal his true nature as a dimension-hopping Star Wars nerd. "I grew up on holovids. Everyone's seen stories about the Jedi. I just... I always wondered what it would be like. To be one of you."
It wasn't a lie, exactly. It was just a very creatively edited version of the truth.
Ahsoka studied him for a long moment, her blue eyes searching his visor as if she could see through the plastoid to the face beneath. Then she smiled—a genuine smile, warm and bright—and Marcus felt something in his chest that might have been his heart doing a small flip.
Down, boy, he told himself firmly. She's a fictional character. She's also like fifteen. And a Jedi. This is not the time.
"You know," Ahsoka said, "I used to think being a Jedi would be all adventure and excitement too. Lightsaber fights and heroic rescues and saving the galaxy."
"It's not?"
"Oh, it is. But it's also... a lot of meditation. And philosophy. And Master Skywalker yelling at me for being too reckless." She laughed softly. "The holovids never show that part."
"Skywalker yelling at someone for being too reckless? That's ironic."
"Tell me about it."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the ship's engines providing a soothing backdrop. Marcus found himself relaxing in a way he rarely did—letting his guard down, allowing himself to just exist without constantly calculating survival odds and threat assessments.
It was nice.
It wouldn't last.
But for now, it was nice.
"Scorch," Ahsoka said eventually, her voice softer than before, "can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"When you're fighting—when you're really in the zone, moving faster than you should be able to, hitting shots you shouldn't be able to make—what does it feel like?"
Marcus considered the question.
He thought about Geonosis, about the moment when everything had slowed down and his body had moved on its own. He thought about Kothlis, about pulling twelve droids toward him with a thought, about the way the Force had sung in his veins like electricity.
"It feels like..." He struggled to find the words. "It feels like I'm not alone. Like there's something—someone—guiding me. Protecting me. Making sure I don't die." He shook his head. "I know that sounds crazy."
"It doesn't," Ahsoka said quietly. "It sounds like the Force."
"Is that what it feels like for you? For the Jedi?"
Ahsoka was silent for a long moment.
"Sometimes," she said finally. "In the best moments, yes. The Force is our ally, our guide, our constant companion. It flows through us and around us, connecting us to everything." She paused. "But what you're describing... it sounds more intense than that. More personal."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." She hesitated, clearly choosing her words carefully. "The Force doesn't usually take such an active interest in individual people. Even the most powerful Jedi—even Master Yoda—they're vessels for the Force, not... not..."
"Not what?"
Ahsoka met his gaze through his visor, and her expression was troubled.
"Not favorites," she said. "The Force doesn't play favorites, Scorch. It's not supposed to. But with you..." She shook her head. "I can feel it, every time I'm near you. The Force is wrapped around you like a shield. Like a parent protecting a child. I've never sensed anything like it before."
Marcus felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the ship's environmental controls.
The Force is wrapped around me like a shield.
Like a parent protecting a child.
What the kriff does that mean?
"Is that... bad?" he asked, his voice smaller than he intended.
"I don't know," Ahsoka admitted. "It's strange. And strange things in the Force usually mean something important is happening." She placed a hand on his shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle. "But whatever it means, whatever's going on with you—you're not alone, Scorch. We're going to figure this out together. Okay?"
Marcus nodded slowly.
"Okay," he said. "Together."
And somewhere, in the depths of his consciousness, the Force hummed with approval.
CORUSCANT
THE JEDI TEMPLE
HIGH COUNCIL CHAMBER
THE NEXT MORNING
"Unusual, this situation is," Yoda said, his ancient eyes studying the holographic report that floated before him. "A Force-sensitive clone. Heard of such a thing, I have not."
"It should be impossible," Mace Windu agreed, his expression carrying its usual gravity. "The Kaminoans specifically designed the clones to be Force-null. It was one of their guarantees."
"And yet the evidence is clear," Ki-Adi-Mundi said, gesturing toward the holorecording that accompanied the report—footage from the Kothlis mission, showing a clone trooper in battered armor pulling a dozen droids through the air with nothing but the power of his will. "CT-7829 displays abilities consistent with Force sensitivity. Strong abilities, at that."
"Young Skywalker has requested permission to train him," Plo Koon noted, his voice carrying through his antiox mask. "He believes the trooper has significant potential."
"Young Skywalker would," Windu muttered, and the slight emphasis on "young" carried approximately seventeen layers of disapproval.
"Careful, we must be," Yoda said, his ears drooping thoughtfully. "Unprecedented, this is. The implications... vast they are."
"Indeed." Obi-Wan Kenobi, present as a holographic projection from the Resolute, stroked his beard in contemplation. "If one clone can be Force-sensitive, others might be as well. It could change everything we understand about the nature of the Force and its relationship to living beings."
"Or it could be an anomaly," Windu countered. "A single aberration that tells us nothing about the broader population."
"Perhaps," Obi-Wan acknowledged. "But anomaly or not, we must decide what to do with him. The young man is clearly powerful, and he has no training. Left unchecked, that power could become dangerous."
"To him or to others?"
"Both, I suspect."
The Council fell silent, each member contemplating the unprecedented situation before them.
It was Yoda who spoke first.
"Feel something, I do," he said slowly, his eyes closing as he reached out with the Force. "A presence around this clone. Strong it is. Protective."
"Protective?" Plo Koon leaned forward. "In what way?"
"Like a shield," Yoda murmured, his voice distant as he probed deeper into the Force's currents. "Wrapped around him, the Force is. Guarding him. Watching over him." His eyes snapped open, and for just a moment, there was something in his ancient gaze that might have been surprise. "Never have I felt such a thing. Personal, this is. Intimate. The Force... cares for this one. Specifically. Deliberately."
"That's impossible," Windu said flatly. "The Force doesn't—"
"What the Force does, know we do not," Yoda interrupted, his voice sharp. "Arrogant, it would be, to claim otherwise. Vast, the Force is. Unknowable. Full of secrets that even I have not glimpsed in nine hundred years of study."
Windu fell silent, though his expression suggested he had much more to say.
"Master Yoda," Obi-Wan said carefully, "are you suggesting that the Force has somehow... chosen this clone? Elevated him above others for a specific purpose?"
"Suggesting nothing, I am," Yoda replied. "Observing only. But powerful, the Force's attachment to this one is. Dangerous to interfere with, it might be."
"All the more reason to train him," Plo Koon argued. "If the Force has indeed taken an interest in CT-7829, we should ensure that he learns to use his abilities responsibly. Leaving him untrained would be irresponsible."
"And if the training changes him?" Windu asked. "If it separates him from his brothers? He's a clone trooper—he was created to fight in an army, to follow orders, to serve the Republic. Introducing Jedi training into that equation..."
"Could give us a unique asset," Obi-Wan finished. "A soldier who understands both the Force and the military realities of this war. Someone who can bridge the gap between the Jedi and the clones."
"Or someone who belongs to neither world," Windu countered. "An outcast with dangerous abilities and no clear place in the hierarchy."
"The trooper himself should have a say in this," a new voice interjected. Aayla Secura, her holographic form flickering slightly, spoke with quiet conviction. "He is a person, not a resource to be allocated. Whatever we decide, it should be with his consent and in his best interests."
"Agreed," Plo Koon said immediately. "The clones are too often treated as interchangeable units rather than individuals. We should not compound that error here."
Yoda nodded slowly. "Wise counsel, this is. Speak with the trooper, we should. Understand his perspective. Only then, a decision we can make."
"I can arrange that," Obi-Wan offered. "We'll be arriving on Coruscant within the day. Perhaps some of the Council could meet with CT-7829 directly?"
"I will go," Plo Koon said. "I have always believed in the individuality of the clones. I would like to meet this one for myself."
"As would I," Aayla added.
Yoda nodded. "Decided, it is. Meet with the trooper, Masters Koon and Secura will. Report their findings to the Council, they will. Then, deliberate further, we shall."
The meeting began to break up, Council members rising to attend to their various responsibilities. But as Mace Windu moved toward the chamber's exit, he paused, turning back to look at Yoda.
"You felt something else, didn't you?" he asked quietly. "Something you didn't share with the Council."
Yoda was silent for a long moment.
"Felt a warning, I did," he admitted finally. "From the Force itself. A message, perhaps. Or a promise."
"What kind of warning?"
Yoda's ancient eyes met Windu's, and for once, there was no playful ambiguity in his expression. Only gravity. Only weight. Only the weariness of someone who had lived for centuries and still found new things to fear.
"Harm this one, no one must," Yoda said quietly. "Protected, he is. By the Force itself. And patient, the Force is not, with those who threaten its chosen."
"Its chosen?" Windu's voice carried skepticism, but also something else—something that might have been unease. "You make it sound like the Force has adopted him."
Yoda didn't respond.
But the look on his face suggested that "adopted" might not be too strong a word.
ELSEWHERE ON CORUSCANT
A VERY EXPENSIVE APARTMENT
THAT SAME MORNING
Sheev Palpatine had not slept.
This was not unusual—Sith Lords required very little rest, sustained as they were by the Dark Side of the Force—but the reason for his sleeplessness was deeply unusual, and deeply troubling.
He kept seeing it.
Every time he closed his eyes, every time he let his mind drift, he saw that presence again. That vast, incomprehensible awareness that had turned its attention toward him and found him wanting. That voice—if you could call it a voice—that had promised him suffering beyond comprehension if he dared to touch what it had claimed.
What happened to Revan will seem like a gentle vacation.
Palpatine knew what had happened to Revan. Every Sith Lord did. The legendary Dark Lord's defeat, his capture by the Jedi, his mind shattered and rebuilt as someone else entirely—it was a cautionary tale, a reminder of the dangers of overconfidence.
But even that fate seemed merciful compared to what the Force had promised him.
I will spread your consciousness across every dimension.
Every timeline.
Every possible and impossible universe.
And you will experience suffering beyond comprehension for eternity.
Palpatine shuddered.
He was Darth Sidious, heir to the legacy of Darth Bane, master of the Dark Side, architect of the Sith's ultimate triumph. He had manipulated the entire galaxy into dancing to his tune. He had created the Clone Wars, had orchestrated every major event of the last decade, had positioned himself to become the supreme ruler of everything.
And yet, against this new threat, he was powerless.
The Force—not the Dark Side, not the Light Side, but the Force itself—had drawn a line. And crossing that line would mean annihilation so complete that even his mastery of essence transfer would not save him.
CT-7829 was untouchable.
The realization gnawed at Palpatine like a hungry beast.
It wasn't that the clone was important to his plans—he was one trooper among millions, a statistical irrelevancy in the grand scheme of things. Order 66 would succeed whether CT-7829 participated or not. The Empire would rise. The Jedi would fall.
But the principle of the thing...
The idea that there was something in the galaxy beyond his control, beyond his influence, beyond his reach...
It was maddening.
Palpatine forced himself to take a deep breath, to center his thoughts, to push down the fear and fury that churned in his gut.
Focus, he told himself. This changes nothing. One protected clone does not alter the fundamental trajectory of events. The plan proceeds. Order 66 proceeds. Everything proceeds.
You simply... avoid the clone.
How hard can that be?
He almost believed it.
Almost.
ABOARD THE RESOLUTE
APPROACHING CORUSCANT
Marcus was in the mess hall when the announcement came.
"Corporal Scorch, please report to Hangar Bay Two. Representatives of the Jedi Council are en route for a meeting. Repeat: Corporal Scorch to Hangar Bay Two."
Marcus set down his ration pack—he had actually been enjoying this one, which was a minor miracle—and exchanged a look with Rex, who was sitting across from him.
"The Jedi Council?" Marcus asked, his voice carrying a note of panic that he couldn't quite suppress. "The actual Jedi Council? They want to meet with me?"
"Apparently so," Rex said, his tone carefully neutral. "You're a popular man these days, Scorch."
"I don't want to be popular. I want to be alive. There's a significant difference."
"Not in this army, there isn't." Rex stood, his posture suggesting that he intended to accompany Marcus whether he liked it or not. "Come on, Corporal. Let's go see what the Jedi want with you."
The walk to Hangar Bay Two felt approximately nine thousand kilometers long, even though it was actually only a few minutes. Marcus's mind raced through every possible reason why the Jedi Council would want to speak with him directly, and none of the possibilities were comforting.
Maybe they want to study me. Figure out why I'm Force-sensitive.
Maybe they want to recruit me. Turn me into some kind of Jedi-clone hybrid.
Maybe they've sensed something wrong with me. Something that reveals I'm not really from this universe.
Maybe they're going to execute me as an abomination against the natural order.
That last one seems extreme, but I'm trying to cover all my bases here.
The hangar bay doors slid open, and Marcus found himself face-to-face with two of the most recognizable Jedi in the galaxy.
Plo Koon stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his antiox mask giving him an otherworldly appearance that was somehow more comforting than intimidating. The Kel Dor Jedi Master had always been one of Marcus's favorites from the lore—a warrior, yes, but also a philosopher and a champion for the individuality of the clones.
Beside him stood Aayla Secura, her blue skin and lekku immediately identifying her as Twi'lek. She was beautiful in the way that only fictional characters could be—perfectly proportioned, gracefully poised, carrying herself with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent years training to be a living weapon.
Marcus's brain performed a brief error message.
That's Aayla Secura, his mind screamed. THE Aayla Secura. The one from the life-sized cardboard cutout that I definitely don't own. She's HERE. She's REAL. She's looking at ME.
"Corporal CT-7829," Plo Koon said, his voice warm despite its mechanical distortion. "Thank you for meeting with us. I am Master Plo Koon, and this is Master Aayla Secura. We represent the Jedi High Council."
"Masters," Marcus managed, snapping into a salute that was probably regulation-appropriate but felt deeply inadequate for the situation. "It's an honor."
"Please, there's no need for formality," Aayla said, her voice carrying a gentle kindness that made Marcus's heart do approximately seventeen backflips. "We're not here as your superiors. We're here as... I suppose you could say we're curious. About you."
"About me, Master?"
"About your abilities," Plo Koon clarified. "And about the unusual circumstances surrounding them. The Force has marked you, Corporal. Marked you in ways that we do not fully understand. We hoped you might be able to help us understand better."
Marcus felt Rex's presence at his shoulder—solid, reassuring, a reminder that he wasn't alone in this.
"I don't really understand it myself, Masters," he admitted. "I just... I can feel things. Sense things. Sometimes my body moves before my brain catches up, and I do things that I shouldn't be able to do." He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know why. I don't know how. It just... happens."
Plo Koon and Aayla exchanged a look that Marcus couldn't quite read.
"May I?" Aayla asked, extending one hand toward him. "I'd like to sense your connection to the Force directly. It won't hurt—it's simply a way for me to understand your situation better."
Marcus hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
Aayla's hand came to rest on his shoulder, and Marcus felt... something. A gentle touch at the edge of his consciousness, a presence that wasn't intrusive but was definitely there, examining him with the careful attention of a healer checking a wound.
And then Aayla gasped.
She stumbled backward, her hand flying to her chest, her eyes wide with an emotion that looked dangerously close to awe.
"Master Secura?" Plo Koon moved to steady her, his own body language shifting to alert concern. "What is it? What did you sense?"
"The Force," Aayla breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's... I've never... Master Koon, he's saturated with it. Not just Force-sensitive—drenched in it. Like the Force has poured itself into him completely, absolutely, possessively."
"Possessively?"
"It loves him." Aayla's eyes met Marcus's, and there was something in her gaze that he couldn't quite identify—wonder, maybe, or perhaps fear. "The Force loves this man. Specifically. Personally. I've never felt anything like it. It's like... it's like he's being held. Constantly. Protected by something so vast that I can barely perceive its edges."
Marcus felt a chill run down his spine.
The Force loves me?
What does that even MEAN?
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice small. "I don't know why—I don't know what I did to—I mean, I'm just a soldier. I'm nothing special. I don't understand why the Force would—"
"It's alright," Plo Koon said, his voice gentle despite its mechanical distortion. "This is not something you've done wrong, Corporal. If anything, you've been blessed—though I understand that such a blessing might feel more like a burden."
"It's terrifying," Marcus admitted. "I don't know what's happening to me. I don't know what I'm becoming."
"You're becoming who you were always meant to be," Aayla said softly, her composure slowly returning. "The Force doesn't make mistakes, Corporal. If it has chosen you for something, then there is a reason—even if we can't see it yet."
A reason, Marcus thought. Sure. The Force has a reason for transplanting a nerdy basement dweller into the body of a clone trooper in the middle of the most devastating war the galaxy has ever seen. That makes total sense.
But he didn't say that.
Instead, he just nodded, and tried to look like he understood what was happening.
He didn't.
But that seemed to be par for the course in his new life.
THAT NIGHT
MARCUS'S QUARTERS
SOMEWHERE ON THE RESOLUTE
Marcus couldn't sleep.
This was becoming a pattern.
He lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, his mind churning through everything that had happened since his death and rebirth. The battles. The promotions. The Force abilities. The increasingly alarming revelations about his apparent status as the Force's favorite child.
The Force loves me, he thought, the words feeling absurd even in the privacy of his own head. Aayla Secura literally said those words. The Force. Loves. Me.
He didn't know what to do with that information.
In his old life, he had read every piece of Star Wars lore he could get his hands on. He knew about the Chosen One prophecy, about the balance between Light and Dark, about the way the Force connected all living things. He had debated the philosophy of the Jedi versus the Sith on countless forums, had developed his own theories about the nature of midi-chlorians and the will of the Force.
But none of that had prepared him for this.
None of that had prepared him for being personally significant to an energy field that bound the entire galaxy together.
What does the Force want from me? he wondered. Why did it bring me here? What am I supposed to DO?
The silence of his quarters offered no answers.
But somewhere in the back of his mind—somewhere in that warm, gentle presence that had been with him since Geonosis—he felt something that might have been reassurance.
You're safe, the feeling seemed to say. You're protected. You're loved.
Just... be.
Be, and everything else will follow.
Marcus closed his eyes.
For the first time in three weeks, he slept without nightmares.
And somewhere, in a realm beyond space and time, three ancient beings watched over him with varying degrees of amusement, concern, and anticipation.
The Force's chosen was beginning to understand his place in the tapestry.
The galaxy would never be the same.
END CHAPTER 3