CHAPTER 2

The med bay was quieter than the battlefield, but for Cannon, the silence was far more deafening.

He sat upright on a cot, a faint hum of the medical equipment filling the room. The pain was no

longer sharp, but it lingered like a ghost in his body—a constant reminder of what he had lost. His

new cybernetic arm felt heavy and unnatural, a cold slab of metal attached to him where flesh used

to be. He flexed the fingers, the mechanical joints responding stiffly, as if testing him, reminding

him that he was no longer whole.

His left eye—gone. Covered now with a thick bandage that stretched over the side of his face,

itching the tender skin underneath. He didn't want to think about what it looked like beneath the

bandage. He didn't want to think about much of anything.

The door slid open with a soft hiss, breaking his thoughts. Cannon turned his head, his good eye

locking onto the two figures who stepped in. Kit Fisto moved with his usual effortless grace, his

bright green skin seeming out of place in the sterile, white med bay. His tendrils swayed slightly

as he entered, his calm smile a beacon of reassurance. But it was the woman behind him who drew

Cannon's gaze—the one who had saved his life.

Ashara.

She lingered behind her master, her expression more subdued, but her eyes held that same intensity

as before. When Kit Fisto had first approached him, Cannon's heart had barely stirred, but now it

quickened as he met her gaze. The Jedi had this way of making things feel like they were going to

be alright, and Cannon was surprised at how much he needed that right now.

"Trooper Cannon," Kit greeted, his deep voice smooth as the seas of his home world. "You've

been through quite the ordeal."

Cannon straightened slightly, offering a rigid nod. "Yes, sir. But I'm still here."

Kit's smile widened, his eyes crinkling with an ease that seemed unshakable. "That you are. Your

resilience is commendable. Not all would have survived what you went through."

Cannon swallowed, unsure how to respond to praise that felt undeserved. He'd been knocked down,

torn apart, and if it hadn't been for Ashara… He glanced at her again, trying not to be too obvious.

She had been the reason he was still breathing, not his own strength.

Kit's eyes flickered toward Ashara, and then back to Cannon, his smile fading just a little. "The

medics tell me your recovery will take time. Physically, you'll heal. But I know there are wounds

we can't always see." His voice softened. "If you ever need to talk, the Jedi are here to listen."

Cannon was not sure if Kit was referring to the loss of his brothers or the far greater loss that had

been gnawing at him—the life he had dreamed of but could never have. He didn't want to burden

a Jedi with his thoughts, especially not Master Fisto. So, he nodded again, more out of politeness

than agreement.

Kit seemed to understand. He gave a slow, respectful bow. "I'll leave you to rest. Ashara will stay

and check on you." He glanced at his Padawan. "Take your time, Ashara. The Force will guide us

forward."

With that, Kit Fisto turned and left the room, his footsteps light and purposeful. The door slid shut

behind him, leaving Ashara and Cannon alone.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Cannon shifted uncomfortably in his cot, suddenly very aware of how mechanical his arm looked,

how the eye patch dug into his skin. He had never felt self-conscious before—not as a soldier, not

as a clone—but right now, he felt like a walking mess. A broken machine. He flexed his new

fingers again, just to give himself something to do, but the gesture felt hollower than before.

Ashara finally stepped closer; her hands folded in front of her. "How are you feeling?" she asked

softly, her voice cutting through the stillness.

Cannon let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I'm alive," he said simply, the words

heavier than he intended. "I guess that's all that matters."

She moved closer to his bedside, her eyes never leaving him. "It's more than that," she said gently.

"You survived something that most wouldn't. That counts for something."

He clenched his jaw, trying to shake off the feeling of inadequacy that had settled in his chest.

"Survived, sure. But at what cost?" He raised the cybernetic arm, letting it catch the light. "This

isn't me. Not anymore. And the men—" His voice caught for a second, but he forced it through.

"My squad didn't make it. They were like family, and now they're gone. What kind of a leader am

I if I couldn't even keep them alive?"

Ashara's face softened with sympathy, but there was no pity in her gaze—only understanding.

"I'm sorry about your brothers," she said, her voice thick with sincerity. "But it wasn't your fault.

War takes from all of us, Cannon. You can't control everything, no matter how hard you try."

He looked up at her, his brow furrowed. Her words struck deeper than he'd expected. She had seen

it too—the loss, the devastation. He wondered how many lives she had seen torn apart in this war,

how many she'd had to walk away from. And yet, she was still here. Still moving forward.

"I don't know how to do it," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how

to… come back from this."

Ashara sat down beside him, her eyes thoughtful. "You don't have to have all the answers right

now," she said softly. "You just have to take it one step at a time. And you don't have to do it

alone."

Her words settled in the room like a soft blanket, wrapping around the heavy silence that had once

felt suffocating. Cannon studied her, his mind turning over the strange sense of comfort she

brought with her. She wasn't just saying these things out of duty or obligation. She meant them.

"Why did you stay back?" he asked, surprising even himself with the question. "You didn't have

to. You could've just gone with your master."

Ashara hesitated for a moment, as if considering her answer. She glanced down at her hands, her

fingers lightly tracing the fabric of her robes. "I wanted to," she said finally, her voice quiet but

steady. "I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Cannon blinked, the weight of her words catching him off guard. No one had ever stayed for him

like that, not outside the battlefield. Not like this. He wasn't sure how to respond, but the fact that

she cared enough to stay with him—it stirred something deep within him.

"You didn't have to," he repeated, his voice softer now.

Ashara met his gaze, her dark eyes unwavering. "No," she agreed. "But I wanted to. I wanted to

because... I think there's more to you than just being a clone. You're not just another soldier,

Cannon. You're a person. You deserve to be seen like one."

Her words hit him like a blaster bolt to the chest. He sat in stunned silence, unsure how to respond

to the unexpected kindness. No one had ever said that to him before—not in that way. His brothers

saw him as one of them, part of a unit, but Ashara was looking at him like he was something

different. Something more.

For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel invisible. He didn't feel like just another cog in the

machine. He felt… human.

And for the briefest moment, hope flickered in the darkness. It wasn't much, but it was enough to

keep him hanging on.

"You like my name," he blurted out before he could stop himself, the memory of their last exchange

surfacing in his mind. The statement hung in the air awkwardly, but it was better than letting the

silence consume him again.

Ashara's lips quirked up into a small, genuine smile. "I do. It's strong. Like you."

Cannon let out a soft, shaky laugh. "Not feeling very strong right now."

"You're here, aren't you?" Ashara said, her smile lingering. "That's strength, Cannon."

He met her gaze again, and for the first time since he woke up in this med bay, he allowed himself

to believe her. Even just a little.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

Ashara's smile softened, and she nodded. "Anytime."

The moment stretched between them, fragile but meaningful. Neither of them moved to break it.

Neither of them wanted to.