Site-Ω-7, Sublevel 4 – Rift Chamber Perimeter – 06:18 Local Site Time
The tremor started low, almost subsonic—a vibration felt more in the sternum than the ears. Then it grew: rhythmic, deliberate, each pulse accompanied by the scrape of durasteel on concrete.
The rift had stretched another two meters vertically since the holo-transmission ended. Its edges no longer flickered erratically; they held steady, framed by a lattice of emergency Scranton anchors that glowed cherry-red from overload strain. Technicians in hazmat-rated suits worked frantically twenty meters back, swapping cooling cells and rerouting power, but everyone knew the anchors were buying minutes, not hours.
Through the tear stepped the first leg.
Massive. Six articulated joints. Armored plating the color of storm clouds. An AT-TE walker—All Terrain Tactical Enforcer—tested the facility floor with a cautious stomp. The deck plating buckled slightly under the weight; sparks flared where repulsor-lift coils met unfamiliar gravity. The second foreleg followed, then the rear pair, the entire machine emerging with the slow inevitability of a ship sliding into drydock.
Its chin-mounted mass-driver cannon stayed elevated—unaimed, but ready. Turret sensors swept the corridor in slow arcs, red targeting lasers painting walls and shields alike.
Clone troopers near the rift snapped to attention, forming instinctive protective wedges around the walker's legs. Several raised blasters skyward in a non-threatening salute. One commando—armor marked with ARC markings—stepped forward and keyed an external speaker.
"General Kenobi? Skywalker? This is ARC-5597. We've secured the breach perimeter. Walker is stable. Awaiting orders."
No answer came from the other side—not yet.
MTF Bravo-4 had pulled back to hardened positions behind blast barriers. Portable heavy repeaters were deployed, barrels trained on the walker's knee joints and cockpit canopy. No one fired. The fragile truce still held—barely.
Captain Mira Voss stood at the forward observation point, fifty meters from the walker, flanked by two anchor bearers. Her visor HUD scrolled threat data: mass ≈ 55 metric tons, armor rating equivalent to Class-IV containment plating, primary weapon kinetic penetrator capable of breaching Site outer shell in three to five shots.
She keyed the open channel again.
"This is MTF Nu-7 Actual. You have entered a secure Foundation facility. Identify yourselves and state intent. The walker will remain stationary. Any aggressive movement will be met with proportional response."
The ARC trooper turned toward the voice. His helmet tilted—assessing.
"ARC-5597, 501st Legion. We're not here to fight you. We followed the Generals through the anomaly. Our orders are to protect Jedi assets and secure the General Staff. If they're safe, we hold. If not…" He let the sentence trail. The unspoken threat hung between them.
Voss didn't flinch.
"Your Jedi are in protective custody. Unharmed. Communication has been established. They've requested you stand down. We're honoring that request. I suggest you do the same."
The ARC trooper paused—likely receiving updated orders over comms.
After several seconds he nodded once.
"Copy that. Walker holding position. Troopers standing by. But we're not disarming. Not until we see the Generals with our own eyes."
Voss exhaled through her teeth—small, controlled.
"Stand by. We'll arrange escorted visual confirmation. Limited numbers. No weapons beyond sidearms."
**Holding Cell 4-B – 06:25**
Inside the cell, the atmosphere had thickened with anticipation.
A new monitor had been brought in—larger, split-screen: one half showing the rift chamber feed, the other a static-locked view of the corridor outside the cell door.
Ahsoka watched the walker's emergence with a mixture of relief and dread.
"That's Rex's old unit markings," she murmured. "They're still loyal. Still following."
Yoda's ears drooped slightly.
"Loyalty, a double blade it is. Comfort now. Danger later."
Vader remained silent, but his posture had shifted—subtly more rigid, cape drawn tighter around armored shoulders. The name "Skywalker" from the clone's transmission still lingered in the air like smoke.
Dr. Elena Voss's voice returned over the speakers.
"We're preparing to move a small delegation to your location for visual confirmation. Two clone representatives, escorted by MTF personnel. You will remain in the cell. Any attempt to influence events beyond verbal communication will end the arrangement."
Ahsoka nodded toward the glass.
"Understood. We'll keep it calm."
Yoda glanced at Vader.
"And you?"
Vader's helmet turned slowly toward the small Master.
"I will observe," he said. The words carried no inflection—neither promise nor threat.
But the lights above the cell flickered once more, brief and sharp.
**Rift Chamber Perimeter – 06:32**
A four-man Foundation escort team approached under heavy overwatch—two from Nu-7, two security with tranq launchers. With them walked ARC-5597 and a standard clone trooper, blasters holstered but hands kept visible.
They stopped ten meters from the cell corridor junction.
The ARC raised a hand.
"Generals," he called. "We're here."
On the cell monitor, Ahsoka stepped closer to the one-way glass.
"Echo," she said—using the ARC's nickname. "It's good to see you. Yoda and I are intact. We're… negotiating. Hold position. No heroics."
The clone's helmet tilted—relief visible even through the vocoder.
"Yes, Commander. Holding."
His gaze shifted slightly, searching the frame.
"General Skywalker?"
Vader stepped forward—deliberate, unhurried—until he filled half the screen.
"I am here," he said again.
The two clones stiffened. The ARC recovered first.
"Lord Vader. Orders, sir?"
Vader regarded them for a long moment.
"Maintain defensive posture. Protect the Jedi. Do not engage unless attacked. Await further instruction."
"Yes, my lord."
The feed from the rift chamber showed the walker's turret rotate fractionally—acknowledgment, not threat.
In the corridor, Captain Voss allowed herself one small breath.
The bridge had grown another plank.
But behind the walker, through the rift, more silhouettes were forming: smaller walkers, gunships powering up, the distant whine of hyperspace motivators spooling in a galaxy that no longer matched their own.
Time remained a currency they were rapidly spending.
**End of Chapter 8**