Disclaimer: All rights to the Star Wars franchise belong to its respective owner, Disney. I do not own the Star Wars franchise in any way. No copyright infringement is intended in this novelization.

A/N: Hey, so this is my first attempt at writing a fanfiction and I would like any feedback regarding my story. Thank you all so much for taking the time to read my first installment of "Lost In A Nightmare," and I thoroughly hoped you enjoyed it. I am planning on updating every month or so, my schedule is pretty tight so I can't really make any promises.

On a side note, I just want to give a personal shout out to Unchivalrous Knight653 and spellchecker 11111 for being so supportive of my writing. Thank you both for your valuable input, it's much appreciated. Be sure to check out Unchivalrous Knight653 and his incredible fanfic, Quinlan Vos: The Jewel Of The Underworld.

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Justice, honor and above all else… freedom. This is what he and his brother fight to uphold. This is what they die for… this is what he is willing to die for. However long this war may last, know this Bly wasn't a man to give up. He would see this thru, until the very end.

In the end, though, it doesn't even matter. Because there were no victors when playing the game of war.

\/\/\/\/\/\/

Lost In A Nightmare -AU

Chapter 1 An Angel's Touch

Day 68 of active service

Ryloth

He awoke to the noxious smell of burnt flesh and plastoid. Despite its rather unpleasant aroma; it was a scent all too familiar to him. What did Jynx call it again? Ahh, yes…essence of battle wasn't it. Bly decided that he quite liked the name.

He didn't finish his thought…

Spluttering and choking, he hacked up a lungful of blood and dust.

Kriffing nine hells of Corellia... is that my blood? Damn, that couldn't be good. Not in the slightest. Where was Razor when you actually needed him?

The air around him was thick with smoldering embers. This made breathing difficult without inhaling any of the ash that tainted the atmosphere. It's a good thing the filtration system in my helmet was damaged during the firefight, he thought wryly. Need to flush this stuff outta my system. Some water would be nice, though alcohol would be better.

When was the last time I actually drank something? Must have been a while ago, he thought to himself as he ran his tongue over his cracked lips in dismay. Bly glanced down at his utility belt, in search of his canteen that was always strapped to it. This reminded him of something Sergeant Skirata used to say, err…rather yell, "You boys listen closely- you hear- because I'm only gonna tell you this once. Never and I mean never leave base without your canteen, it could be the matter of life and death!" A ghost of a smile etched itself along the corner of his mouth. It seemed as if it were a life time ago, maybe it was a lifetime ago.

To be honest, the whole thing of sentimentality was something Bly found to be utterly foolish. Dwelling on one's past leads to lower productivity on the battlefield, he couldn't afford that. Which is why he wasted no time with nostalgic shab. Focus dik'ut, water first.

As a rule, when on missions, he only drank if absolutely necessary.

And this was a moment in which he deemed necessary. Hastily, he reached for his canteen eager to quench his incautious thirst. He clumsily unscrewed the cap, discarding it off to the side as he quickly drained the contents of what was left in the container. There was a barely a drops worth of water, not enough to satisfy his thirsting. Bly sighed in displeasure, all this though of drinking made him crave that brandy he had once tried at 79's.

What I'd do for a nice big bottle Alderaanian brandy, right about now. Getting stupidly wasted was an activity he was quite fond of. It helped numb the pain he thought to himself. It's the only way he could sleep without having to endure the constant torture of his never-ending nightmares.

There's no time to feel sorry for yourself. What's most important is finding a way to contact General Secura and the rest of command.

Slowey but steadily, Bly sluggishly began to pick himself up, but collapsed over something midstride.

It was a brother, motionless, lying face down against the hard ground. He had a gaping hole embedded through his skull, dried blood encrusted along the edges of the wound which stained his gold and white helmet.

Bly gagged, suppressing the bile that seeped into his throat. Whilst staring at the corpse he noticed something familiar on the dead trooper, a lightning emblem painted on his shoulder pad. A sense of recognition hit Bly as he vomited in abhorrence.

"Oh god… Sparks."

Sparks was a shiny, only been in his regiment for a month. Bly took a moment to remember his fallen comrade.

"Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, vod."

(I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal, my brother.)

Picking himself up, Bly limped down from the small hill he found himself on, and into the valley, frantically searching for the rest of his platoon.

Holy sith! …

Corpses littered the ground as far as he could see, covering the vast expanse in a sea of crimson red.

So many dead brothers. And for what?

With the last of his strength, Bly trudged through the dusty plain. An intense pain seared into his shoulder with every staggered step he took. Bly continued to haul his battered form through the smoldering ruins until his wounds became unbearable. Unable to continue forward, Bly collapsed, his body had been pushed to his limits. Earlier, during the fighting Bly had suffered a severe blaster wound to the shoulder. Now incapacitated, due to the effects of his sustained injuries. Bly struggled to even crawl as a result of the physical state he found himself in. Bly had nothing left to give and his will to fight had all but left him. Finally realizing the severity of his current situation. Bly sighed sadly, he knew he was dying… and would probably be dead in the matter of a few hours just like the rest of his men.

So, this is how it all ends Huh. I was doomed from the start, I'm surprised I even lasted this long.

Death. Death was an inevitable part of life. Bly had never feared it, in fact, he was told from a young age that he would most likely be killed during his active service. He knew his life meant nothing, he had always known. Soulless droids devoid of any emotion, that is what the people whom we die for, believe. They're right you know; my life is not my own. My life belongs to the republic in which I serve. The face I wear is but one in the same amongst millions, as is my voice and body.

I'm nothing. I'm not even my own man. I'm just a copy of one.

Strange thought Bly, as the pain in his shoulder, had seemingly subsided. It no longer throbbed. A blissful numbness had overtaken his body, but that was logical too, dying and all. He was thankful there was no pain in death, for he often wondered upon occasion. Bly laid there simply gazing into the beautiful night sky. As the familiar twinkle of stars dotted across the horizon. The desolation, the emptiness of the nocturnal, it was strangely comforting, peaceful almost. It was an odd sensation the serenity and tranquility, one unknown to the likes of Bly, until now. Slowly, he began to lose consciousness as his eyelids drooped lower and lower. He was just so sick of it all, the pain, the war and the death. So much death it was overwhelming. It was tempting, letting Death win. A moment of peace was all he really ever wanted. Now he could finally have it.

The nightmares there… finally… over. No more having to endure the torment of living this life. This hell.

Everything was a blur, as Bly began to lose his grip on reality and slip farther into the deep dark abyss. The cold hands of death were upon him. Despite it all, Bly fought on, desperately clinging to his dwindling life force. Why am I even fighting death, I should be welcoming it? Being able to finally ease the never-ending torment he was in. It was something he wanted so desperately. Death would be a blessing; besides it couldn't have been worse than living. Not having to hear the constant deafening screams of the dying masses. The masses whose faces were the same as his. Be it that Bly could no longer bear witness to the many atrocities committed by the separatists. He knew his soul was cursed, damned to live the life of a slave. His time left was shot, he knew that. Still, there were still so many things he wished he could have done… but couldn't for reasons obvious. Things normal people do, such as raising a family. Though he was anything but normal, he was a genetically modified war-machine. It's all he would ever be. Bred and engineered for one sole reason, that reason being to serve the Republic until death took him.

He had seen countless families during his brief combat tour. The bond they shared was unbreakable, similar to the one he had with his brothers. But it was so very different as well, Bly couldn't quite explain it, yet he yearned for a family to call his own. He wanted a beautiful wife, and perfect children he could teach and love. Bly occasionally dreamt about this imaginary family, the one he knew he would never have.

Maybe if he were a different man, in a different life, but not this one. And with that Bly's eyelids fell closed in one gentle fluid motion, embracing the coldness.

Seemingly out of nowhere, the voice of an angel called to him. Pulling him from the abyss he found himself in. Tenderly calling for him, " Bly… Bly wake up, please. Don't go." The voice was overcome with grief and sounded almost as if it was…. Broken yet retained a sense of familiarity he couldn't pinpoint. Bly reached out for the gentle voice, eager to help relieve its pain. Bly's eyes shot open, groaning from the immense amount of pain he was in. A slender figure rose from his chest, her eyes swollen and red from the tears that streaked down her deep cerulean cheeks. "You're alive," exclaimed Aayla joyously, enveloping the stalwart commander in the warmest of embraces. "I thought I'd lost you," cried Aayla accusingly, "Don't you ever do that to me again," muttered Aayla softly.

"I'm sorry General… the mission-," rasped Bly, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

"I don't care about the mission right now; saving you, and getting the hell off this dustbowl is my only concern," said Aayla

Bly nodded, though he couldn't get used to the fact that he indeed failed. The whole campaign for Ryloth has been a complete and utter failure. Over half the damn battalion was lost in the liberation, but the boys of the 327th were tough, they could take it.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," whispered Aayla, who was now on the verge of crying again. He found it strange, weren't Jedi supposed to control their emotions, perhaps it was just his general who had trouble with it. Emotions weren't inherently bad, in fact, he though the polar opposite, but he could understand why the Jedi chose to suppress it, for it had a great deal of influence over one's decisions.

Suddenly, a flare of pain fluctuated throughout the entirety of his body. Groaning his discomfort, Bly glanced at his general who was now gently applying bacta to his blaster wound.

Aayla examined his injuries thoroughly, not missing a single detail.

Bly had been through a lot of punishment, his ribs were broken, he had numerous incisions along the entirety of his body as well as being severely dehydrated. But perhaps the most worrying of injuries was his blaster wound. The wound was deep considering it completely penetrated the protective plates of his armor. The wound was made by a sniper round, no normal blaster could have had such a devastating effect. Aayla knew his wound was grave and needed urgent medical attention. She immediately radioed for a medevac, as she held Bly tightly in her lap. Bly felt safe in her arms. Strange he thought, he hasn't known her for very long, yet somehow everything just seemed to make sense when he was with her. It made him feel odd inside, all the emotions he felt when he was with her, some of which he couldn't pinpoint. The sound of a gunship abruptly interrupted his thoughts. He heard the voice of another clone, presumably a medic, evident with the Republic medical insignia that adorned his helmet.

"Can you stand commander," asked Razor flatly, his voice sounded mechanical underneath the helmet. "I think so," replied Bly, undeterred by his injuries. Driven by determination as well as a little ego, Bly attempted to stand but toppled over on his side. The impact made by Bly's body against the hard ground was brutally rough. And the sickening sound of already broken ribs fracturing further was unforgiving towards Aayla's ears. Aayla visually cringed as she mentally envisioned Bly's facial expression underneath his helmet. Bly must have turned off his helmet's voice modulator, because he made no sound when he hit the floor.

"Commander are you alright," questioned Razor, genuine concern was apparent in his voice. Bly resorted to nodding his head, he couldn't properly form words in his head at the moment due to excruciating pain he was in. "Get him a stretcher," commanded Aayla in her most authoritative Jedi general voice. "At once sir," responded the medic, and with a crisp salute, he was off.

Now that the two were alone, Aayla knelt next to Bly, attempting to comfort him in any way possible. She gently caressed his hands before taking his into her own, intertwining their fingers together. With Bly by her side she felt as if time itself ceased, and all the anguish and sorrow she felt leave her.

"Your safe now," she whispered, her voice warmed his heart like no other.

"Thanks to you," replied Bly, as he squeezed her hand affectionately.

She smiled sadly in return. "Rest commander, you've been through so much today."

"At least… I survived. Everyone else is dead, except for me," said Bly, the guilt was too much.

They died because of me; their blood is on my hands. They're all gone…

Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.

(Not gone, merely marching far away. Not gone, merely marching far away.)

Bly looked at Aayla curiously, deliberately arching an eyebrow at her, though he said nothing in return. He hated it when she messed with his head like that.

Instead, he let his curiosity speak for him. "Who taught you how to speak mando'a?"

"Jynx," she stated matter of factly, whilst grinning profusely.

Huh.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Aboard the Triumphant…

"Pull your troops back, effective immediately. You've suffered casualties, over half your standing battalion in fact. You and your men aren't fit for combat, retreat back to Coruscant and await further instructions," commanded Mace Windu, as his holoimage flickered.

Aayla clenched her fist and gritted her teeth, attempting to restrain herself. "My men and I are more than capable of liberating Ryloth, Master Windu. These are my people, and I will not abandon them in their time of need!"

Mace scowled. Think about your troops, how many more lives are you willing to sacrifice."

A flicker of remorse resonated within her as she though about all the good men she'd lost during her crusade. She closed her eyes for a moment, visualizing the pained expressions on their faces, as they were gunned down. She thought about Bly…

By the force, I will make them pay, for what they've done. I swear it.

Finally, accepting defeat, Aayla nodded, her numbers were too thin to fight back against the Separatist presence, it made little sense in fighting a losing battle. "I understand Master Windu, I'm pulling my forces back. May the force be with you."

And with that, the holoprojector flickered off leaving Aayla to her thoughts.

"What are your orders General Secura?" asked Admiral Fenris

Aayla sighed with scorn. "Set a course for Coruscant and order our forces into full retreat."

"At once general."