AN: This is the sequel to Sky of Stars, and the second story in my Shooting the Gap series. It's not completely necessary for you to read Sky of Stars first, but I think you'll enjoy this installment much more if you do. Into the Dark is set roughly five months after Sky of Stars.

Thank you to any returning readers! I cannot adequately express how much your support means to me! I hope it was worth the wait.

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars or any canon characters, but I do lay claim to Kieria Irrden.

Time and memory are true artists; they remold reality nearer to the heart's desire. –John Dewey

Scars show toughness: that you've been through it, and you're still standing. –Theo Rossi

Chapter 1

He was back on Khorm.

Wolffe knew immediately that it was a dream. He had relived this mission a hundred times when asleep, and he recognized the feeling all too well. His chest tightened in dread, anticipation, and even fear, because he was not at all eager to relive this particular memory yet again. And as always before, he could do nothing but watch. He tried to will himself to wake, but he was trapped, a passenger in his own body, watching himself going through the motions yet again, and he knew already how it would end.

Instead of his usual kit, he was once again outfitted in the thicker and more temperature controlled snowtrooper armor, slogging through the thigh deep snow with the one man who had ever made him want to turn his blaster to his own head just to get away from him. The swirling snow made it impossible to see even with his HUD, and despite being fully encased in armor, the whipping wind found every tiny crevice and stung him with cold. He had never been colder in his life, and since Khorm, every brush of cold air had made him shudder and wince at the memory. Wolffe hated the cold.

Right when he knew it would, the visage of Asajj Ventress suddenly rose up before him as she leaped towards him—he was incapable of ever forgetting her her name or face; they had been burned into his mind as his eye had been burned out—the red of her lightsabers glowing stark and bright on the white and blue world, filling his vision. He saw the red blade advancing and knew what path the blade would take as it swung towards him. He flinched in his mind and tried to throw his arms up to defend himself, tried to turn away, yet he remained still, a target, as he had been then.

And she struck him again with unerring precision, straight across his eye. For a moment there was welcome heat, then searing agony before she'd even spun away from her attack. He never knew where she had gone after she was finished with him.

The slash stole his sight in an instant, but it also cauterized the wound shut; he hadn't lost a drop of blood. Lightsabers were deadly, but precise. They made no mess when they killed; and every strike made by their wielders was unerring and deliberate. Superheated, the plastoid from his helmet melted to his skin—that had caused the majority of the damage, prying off the hardened plastoid later. He'd been unconscious by then.

But not for the attack, the blazing pain across the side of his head that reduced him to writhing desperately, yelling until his throat hurt. Not for the realization that his sight had been halved—and even though it had been replaced, improved even, he bore the scar deeply, as if it was to his psyche, and not just his body.

Never in a thousand years would Wolffe have wished for such a scar. It was a recognizable, prominent identifying mark, far easier to remember than his serial number. Many of the other clones beheld it with awe; while they were eager to prove their prowess in the field and paint their armor or tattoo themselves, Wolffe had been branded with proof of his participation and success in battles. While it often helped him command respect from his troops, far too often for his liking, Wolffe caught his men staring at his prosthetic eye.

Wolffe had never been vain, never enjoyed standing out; in his mind he partly owed his promotion to commander to the fact that he hadn't been distracted by his image like some of his brothers had been; all of his time had been dedicated to his training. He wasn't flamboyant, but reserved, and he didn't like attention. Never had he desired to change his image, yet it had been done for him. Some called him a cyborg now, as if he was part clanker. His brothers all around choose haircuts and tattoos to look different and stand out, but Wolffe's had been thrust upon him. He hadn't changed another thing since: his skin was unmarked by tattoos, his hair regulation length and natural black.

Others looked at his scar as a badge; he saw it as a disfigurement, sometimes crippling. And while it really didn't matter, he couldn't help but notice, those rare times he was off-duty long enough to visit a cantina, that no women looked at him like they did his brothers after the scar. Before the scar, there had been one or two partners for him, perhaps just curious about clones, but attracted to him nonetheless. After the scar, there had only been Kieria.

At her name, Khorm and Ventress simply vanished, and he was suddenly standing back on Aleen. Never were two memories so different. One was cold, and ice, and pain; and the other was heat, and firelight, and pleasure. Lit by firelight, Kieria stood before him, her dark eyes looking up at him with lust, the way they had only once, but out of all the looks she had given him, that was the one he couldn't forget.

The heat from the strike to his eye on Khrom split off, gathering much, much lower in his body, until between the two, pain and pleasure, he thought he would burst, and finally, Wolffe was able to break free of the dreams and bolt upright in bed.

Sweat rolled down his forehead and back as the Commander pushed himself to his feet and hurried to splash water on his face, the conflicting feelings leaving his hands shaking, once again thankful that his rank granted him private, albeit small, quarters. The anger at Ventress, the pain and fear of the first memory, added to the heat and sudden arousal from thoughts of Kieria created a weird mix of feelings in his gut he was not prepared to think about.

Those two dreams haunted him equally often in his sleep.

Avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he was not prepared to see the scar when the memory of the pain that had caused it was so fresh in his mind still, he collapsed back on his bunk, still feeling exhausted but not sure he could sleep any longer, and he checked the chrono. Kriff. He had barely been asleep two hours, and still had four to go before he was to report to duty. Knowing it was the right choice or he would be drowsy for his bridge rotation, Wolffe forced himself to lay down again, though sleep didn't come. Images of two very different women swam before him every time he closed his eyes. No matter how hard he tried to put the past behind him and forget, it seemed he could never escape them.

AN: Whew. For some reason, this was quite difficult to write. Getting into Wolffe's head is challenging. I'm trying very hard to keep him in character. Please tell me what you think! Also, this wasn't the original start to the story, so the next chapter is basically complete! It will be posted within the next few days. I was almost ready to post it, then decided I needed a different place to start, so I wrote this instead. I'm so glad I waited, I like this beginning much better.