Deriel Quins squinted through the relentless wall of rain, keeping watch as a sentry. The rest of the platoon rested in the hollow, their damp bodies pressed against mud-streaked earth.
The small hollow offered little comfort, but it kept them hidden from immediate view. The militia of Jabiim had settled here — a mix of men in their thirties, many with families and children, simple laborers barely scraping by, and young men like Quins, who had been swept up in the romanticism of war.
When Alto Stratus had overthrown the corrupt Congress, seizing power, the population had rallied behind him. Finally, help arrived — not from the Republic, but from the CIS. Supplies, weapons, food, and medicine flowed in. Yet, not all supported this alliance. Loyalists to the Hutt Republic remained, and Stratus's National Self-Defense Forces existed precisely to confront them.
Now, they stood on the front line, a small pocket blocking a handful of audacious Republic soldiers who had brazenly invaded Jabiim.
"Commander," Quins called quietly, his voice almost drowned by the rain. "It looks like the droids are advancing."
He perched on the edge of a shallow trench. Binoculars would have helped, but such luxuries were reserved for officers. He did not complain.
Harm, their platoon commander, a forty-year-old mining foreman, looked out across the flooded plains. "Headquarters says the main assault starts at seven o'clock. Time to wipe the floor with these insolent bastards."
"What about us?" Quins asked.
"We stay in position. Hundreds of thousands of droids will be enough."
Santos, a second young recruit, fidgeted with his helmet. "Rumor has it… they have these… vo… dajai…"
"Jedi, you fool!" one older fighter barked. Laughter rippled through the trench, momentarily cutting the tension.
"I've never seen one," Santos muttered, defensive. "Don't even know how to spell the word."
"Well, you've got that right. Supposedly they wear robes, but I've seen none."
"They steal babies!" another shouted.
"They can cut a person in half with their laser sabers!"
"I've heard that one! And that they grow their soldiers in barrels!"
"The guys from the neighboring platoon say the Republicans have huge four-legged monsters!"
"They're probably lying," Harm shrugged. "They also talk about massive houses on wheels…"
A sudden voice cut through the chatter. "It's actually spelled J-E-D-I," said Dagon, stepping into view from the rain, his voice calm but carrying authority. The militia froze, eyes wide.
"Sorry, can't have witnesses."
Quins blinked. In an instant, Dagon reached out with the Force, draining energy from the weakened Republic troops in the distance. Thermal grenades ignited, detonating their positions in a brilliant flare. Smoke, mud, and disintegrated bodies marked the strike.
Over fifty enemy soldiers were gone. The remaining units were terrified, scattering into the muck — only to be obliterated by the blast's lingering heat.
---
Alpha-Seventeen silently slid down the slope into the ravine, sinking neck-deep into water and mud.
"Well?" Chuck, his deputy, whispered.
"Everything's ready," Seventeen replied. "How much time left?"
"One minute!"
"Blow it."
A quiet press of a button sent a chain of controlled explosions rippling through the landscape. First a minor blast, then another — and finally, a full-force detonation erupted.
"The frigate is finished," Chuck nodded, surveying the wreckage. "Well done, Puck."
Seventeen grimaced at the nickname. Despite never agreeing to it, the team kept using it — naturally, encouraged by the general's suggestion. The clones respected him, some even admired him, but Seventeen withheld judgment. He knew too little about Dagon to trust completely.
Scouts fanned out in every direction, feeding intel back to the Arc Base. The stronghold was in the northern hemisphere, atop a slight elevation known as **Handuin**. Even here, mud puddles, streams, and small rivers crisscrossed the terrain. Forty kilometers away, a town of roughly sixty thousand lay in the rain, adjacent to one of the local mines.
Their target was not the town.
It was the **Munificent-class frigate**, moored at a landing site nearby. The Separatists had converted it into a regional command and communications hub. Destroying it would sever enemy coordination.
Lucky and Devil had been sent on other assignments. Thirteen's task: a power plant near another mine. Alpha-Fourteen led his team to locate local Jabiim loyalists supporting the Republic.
"Let's move," Seventeen ordered.
Clones waded through the rain and mud, weapons held aloft. The sabotage team slipped through the chaos, unseen, toward the prearranged rendezvous.
---
Cordelia strode into the town hall, rainwater dripping from her cloak.
"Where is Alto?" she demanded of the nearest Nimbus guarding the Jabiim Nationalist leader.
"In his office," the soldier replied.
She nodded and ascended the stairs. On the second floor, she stormed through the door like a hurricane.
"Cordelia," Stratus said calmly, recognizing his cousin's temperament. "What brings you here?"
"I heard you're having problems."
"Yes. Those damn Republicans are entrenched and using superior tactics. Their military equipment outmatches our CIS-supplied forces. We've accomplished nothing in four days. During the assault on Handuin, we lost ten thousand militiamen and over three hundred thousand droids. We need reinforcements."
"Then let me handle it. I'll put these bastards in the proper containers in no time."
Stratus raised an eyebrow. "What will you need?"
"Six hundred thousand droids, fifty thousand militiamen, and two companies of Nimbuses."
"That seems excessive for just over forty thousand fighters," Stratus muttered.
"You said it yourself — they fight well. It's time to use every asset and drive them off the planet before reinforcements arrive."
"Just remember, they have nowhere to retreat. They'll fight to the end."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Then do it," Stratus said, massaging his temples, exhaustion evident in his voice.