The dust of Geonosis clung to Cannon's armor, a suffocating mix of red sand and ash that swirled in the air, choking out the pale sunlight. The battlefield stretched before him, a chaotic storm of blaster fire, explosions, and the screech of Geonosian wings. Clones and droids clashed in every direction, a relentless tide of war that felt as endless as the swirling dust.
Cannon crouched low behind the jagged remains of a downed LAAT, his squad scattered around him.
"Hold the line!" he barked, voice cutting through the noise. His helmet comm buzzed with static as he received new orders from command.
"Cannon, you're to move forward and clear out the droid bunker to the north. Commander wants it neutralized now."
He looked over his shoulder at his squad, the men he had led through countless battles. They were more than soldiers; they were brothers. Each one of them moved with precision, their white armor streaked with the orange dust of this forsaken planet.
Cannon gritted his teeth. Another mission, another push into enemy territory. It never stopped.
"Alright, you heard the orders," he said, signaling his men to follow. "Keep tight, watch each other's backs. We take out that bunker, then we move back to the front. Easy enough."
His brothers responded with curt nods and simple acknowledgments. They were ready. They were always ready. Cannon knew the drill; they all did. But there was a knot in his stomach that he couldn't quite shake this time.
They moved out, slipping through the trenches, hugging what little cover there was as they advanced toward the bunker. Droids loomed ahead, blasters firing in rhythmic bursts, forcing Cannon and his squad to weave through the debris-strewn battlefield. He raised his rifle, picking off a pair of B1 droids with precision shots, his visor tracking the next target.
"We're getting close!" he called, checking their position. "Stay sharp—"
A blinding flash of light exploded in the corner of his vision.
The ground beneath him seemed to rip apart as a stray rocket struck just meters away. The force of the blast threw Cannon off his feet, slamming him against the unforgiving ground. His head rang, a deafening whine overtaking his senses. When he tried to push himself up, pain tore through his left side. He looked down, his breath catching in his throat.
His left arm was gone. Torn clean off at the shoulder.
The searing agony hit him like a wave, radiating through his entire body. He groaned, barely able to keep his mind focused as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. His HUD flickered wildly, the visor cracked from the explosion. His right eye worked, but his left side was black, a burning heat where his eye should have been. The helmet felt like it was suffocating him.
"Squad…?" he rasped, his voice shaky, barely able to form words. "Where's my squad?"
The silence around him was deafening. There was no response. He glanced to his side, his heart sinking as he saw the bodies of his brothers—still, lifeless. The blast had ripped through them, leaving nothing but charred armor and broken limbs.
The realization hit him hard, harder than the blast had. They were all gone. He was the only one left.
No, no, no...
He pressed a shaking hand against the smoking crater where his arm had been, trying in vain to stop the flow of blood. The world was spinning, the battlefield now a blur of red dust and black smoke. His helmet's HUD blinked warnings at him—vital signs critical, blood loss severe—but he ignored them.
His mind was reeling with something else entirely, something far deeper than the physical pain.
It was over. His squad, his brothers—they were gone. And now, so was he. The dream he'd never allowed himself to fully have—the faint, quiet hope of something beyond the war, beyond the armor—died right there on the battlefield with them.
He had always wanted more than this, hadn't he? A life outside of constant battle, a chance to see something else. He wanted love. A wife. Children. Someone to make the endless killing mean something more.
But it was all slipping away.
He fell back against the scorched ground, his strength fading, the buzzing in his ear growing louder. It wouldn't be long now. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe the galaxy didn't have room for dreams like his. Clones weren't made to dream.
Then he heard something, faint but clear—soft footsteps, impossibly gentle amidst the chaos.
Through the haze of pain and blood loss, Cannon thought he was hallucinating. A figure appeared above him, bathed in light against the dusty, smoke-filled sky. She knelt beside him, her presence like a cooling balm against the fire in his veins. A hand—small and warm—pressed against his shoulder.
His mind struggled to make sense of it. An angel, perhaps? Surely it wasn't real. Nothing beautiful existed on this planet.
But then her voice cut through the ringing in his ears, soft but commanding.
"Stay with me."
He blinked, struggling to focus. It wasn't a dream. She was real. Her face, framed by tendrils of dark hair, hovered above him, her expression full of quiet determination. She wore the robes of a Jedi, her brown eyes filled with calm but intense focus. She wasn't afraid. Even amidst the chaos, she moved with purpose.
The warmth of her Force energy flowed through him, chasing away the cold dread that had been creeping into his limbs. The pain dulled, his breathing steadied. He wasn't sure if it was some form of healing technique or if her very presence was enough, but for the first time since the explosion, he felt like he could breathe again.
"Can you hear me?" she asked, her voice steady despite the chaos around them.
Cannon tried to speak, his throat dry, his mouth refusing to form the words. He managed a faint nod instead. His right eye fluttered open, locking onto hers. The battlefield disappeared around him, and all that existed was her face—the soft light, the warm touch. It was surreal, like she had stepped out of his deepest dream, his last wish before death.
She smiled, just barely, a flicker of reassurance as her hand hovered over his chest.
"You're not dying today, trooper."
He wanted to believe her. Maker, he wanted to believe her. But his body felt broken, more machine than man now. He'd lost everything—the arm, the eye, his brothers.
"My squad…" he rasped, his voice barely audible.
Her eyes softened, and he saw the recognition there. She knew.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, her hand pressing firmer against his chest, as if trying to hold him in place, trying to stop him from slipping away.
"I'll get you out of here. But you have to stay with me."
He felt a surge of strength—not his own, but from her—flow through him, like the Force was tethering him to life. Somehow, through the unbearable pain, the loss, he found the will to keep going. She lifted him with ease, her slight frame belying the power of the Force that flowed through her.
And as they moved, as she guided him through the battlefield, Cannon's mind clung to one thought, one irrational, impossible thought that somehow kept him breathing.
She wasn't just a Jedi. She was something more. She was hope.
And for the first time since the blast, he wasn't afraid of what came next. He wasn't ready to die. Not yet.
Her name, he would later learn, was Ashara.