Bylines
In war, nothing stays still.
If you were born under the Republic, you’d grow up believing it’s the beacon of democracy, the one thing holding the galaxy together. But if you were raised on Confederacy values, you’d see the Republic for what it really is: a bloated corpse propped up by greed, a machine devouring its own soldiers to keep the senators fed. And you’d be right.
The truth was, both sides were corrupt. Not in the big, obvious way. Though there’s plenty of that, but in the quiet moments. The way the deals were handed to the same three corporations. The way the Senate Building was filled with arguments that sounded important but meant nothing. Sure, some senators were in it for the right reasons. There was always one or two, driven by ideals instead of credits. But that’s just it, isn’t it? That’s the thing about war, it gives everyone a reason to want something. Freedom. Victory. Power . Maybe even peace, though that one felt like the longest con of them all.
For Tavi, war was something that pretended to have meaning but never did. It was a process, not a cause - one that fed on ideals and spat out ashes. She’d studied it in classrooms on Alderaan, dissecting the philosophies of state-building and the political justifications for conflict. Back then, it was all theories and simulations: peace treaties signed on marble tables, strategic concessions made in tidy rows of text. She’d written essays about “just war theory” and sat through lectures on “the anatomy of rebellion.” They’d called it knowledge.
But knowledge didn’t smell like burning cities. Knowledge didn’t feel like the weight of a blaster pressed against your back as a man, who had lost everything, screamed for credits he didn’t have. War wasn’t a theory. It was a machine. A system designed to run on the backs of the powerless, fueled by the sacrifices of those who never asked to be part of it.
It was the refugee mother in the undercity, selling her last heirloom from a planet the Confederacy had ruined into oblivion. It was the clone trooper at 79s, laughing too loud to hide the fact that he didn’t know if he’d survive the next deployment. It was the separatist factory worker on Balmorra, churning out battle droids because the paycheck was the only thing keeping their family fed. War didn’t care who you were. Republic, Separatist, mercenary, Jedi, if you flew too close to the sun, it burns you down just the same.
Tavi had started this work believing that exposing the truth would matter. That if people just saw the toll this war was taking, they’d demand better. She still wanted to believe that. But the galaxy had a way of breaking belief down into smaller pieces. Now, she kept going not because she thought she could end the war, but because someone had to notice the people it destroyed. The clones. The refugees. The workers. The ones who bled, broke, and burned for a cause they never chose.
She slid her holorecorder, holocamera, and datapad into her worn backpack, the strap fraying just enough to remind her it wasn’t built for this kind of life. The hostel on Ord Mantell barely passed for livable: a lumpy cot, a fresher the size of a storage locker, and a blanket so thin it may as well have been decorative. Still, it was close to the Republic base and cheap enough to justify the smell of mildew in the air.
She had spent the better part of the week running between barracks and cantinas, trying to talk to the clone troopers stationed here. Most of them redirected her with expected answers. "That’s above my allowance, ma’am." Or, "You’ll need to take that up with command." Which, of course, meant chasing down officers who weren’t even on the planet. But she wasn’t interested in the brass. She was here for the ones who slept in bunks and ran patrols. The ones who drank cheap ale at 79s equivalent and swapped stories about their brothers over dejarik and cigarras. If there was a story to tell about how a Republic base functioned on a planet infamous for its ties to the Black Sun, it wouldn’t come from the top.
That was her focus these days: people. Her stories were about those who bore the weight of decisions made far above their heads, the ones who didn’t get a say. Some independent holonet news outlets were interested in that angle. But the bigger ones wanted spectacle. Stories that glorified Republic victories and painted the Separatists as one-dimensional villains. Anything more complicated than that wasn’t good for clicks.
She’d learned that the hard way.
A few months back, she’d submitted a story on Ryloth. It was supposed to be a story about liberation. The Republic’s triumphant retaking of the Twi’lek homeworld from the Confederacy was plastered across every holonet outlet, complete with holovids of cheering crowds in the capital and quotes from Jedi Generals. It was a perfect narrative, a planet freed from tyranny by the heroic forces of democracy.
But that wasn’t what Tavi saw when she landed there. She’d arrived weeks after the battles had ended, when the Jedi had moved on to the next front and the Republic’s occupation had slowly begun. The cities still bore the scars of the Separatist invasion. Relief shipments had arrived sporadically, often delayed by red tape or rerouted to more “strategic” planets. In the outer villages, the story was even grimmer. She had spent days walking through the ruins of a small farming settlement with a local elder who explained, through a translator, how the Republic had taken over the only functioning water filtration system in the area to supply their nearby outpost. She even had the chance to talk to Cham Syndulla, the leader of Ryloth’s freedom fighters. In the ruins of Lessu, he told her what he’d feared all along: one occupier was simply replacing another.
“The Republic,” he said in a tired voice, “promised us freedom. What we got was control. New flags, new soldiers, but the same chains.”
His words solidified what she’d already come to suspect: CIS, Republic. It didn’t matter to most people on the affected planet. Invaders on their land were all they saw. Somewhere in this galaxy, someone was ruling, and others were being ruled. The banners and uniforms didn’t change that.
When she sent it to one of the galaxy’s major holonet outlets, the response was gutting.
The editors had rewritten it entirely. Gone were the elder’s heartbreaking accounts of entire families displaced when the Republic seized the last functioning water filtration plant in their region. Gone was the section she’d painstakingly written about the so-called “water mafia” preying on Ryloth’s poorest, forcing them to buy reserves at exploitative prices. Gone were the quotes from Syndulla. What remained was sanitised beyond recognition: a clean piece on the Republic’s "heroic efforts" to liberate Ryloth, complete with saccharine quotes from senators on Coruscant who had never set foot on the planet. There was a single, dismissive line buried near the end about "temporary disruptions to local life."
Her work, distilled into a footnote.
The worst part wasn’t even the edits. It was the justification.
“This is great work, Drezz,” the senior editor gave her some kind of rehearsed empathy that set her teeth on edge during the meeting. “But you have to understand, people don’t want to read about displaced Twi’leks or local water crises. They want to see the Republic winning. The war’s complicated enough without adding stories that might… demoralise.”
Demoralise. Like telling the truth was some kind of sabotage.
The piece ran with her name on it, though it might as well have been written by a Republic press officer. When she’d pushed back, the editor suggested she stick to fluff pieces if she wanted more control over her work. "Maybe try something lighter? A profile on a heroic trooper, perhaps. Something uplifting. People love that.”
After that, she’d stopped pitching to the big outlets. If they weren’t going to let her tell the truth, what was the point? Independent holonet channels were less stable, they couldn’t pay much, and half of them folded after a few months, but at least they ran her stories as she wrote them.
And now, here she was on Ord Mantell, chasing another story about people caught between war and survival, trying not to think about how much easier it would be to just file another puff piece about Republic heroics.
She had already worked out an angle for the piece, how the Republic managed a base on a planet known for its deep ties to Black Sun. It had all the makings of a compelling story, the ethical dilemmas of operating in criminal-controlled territories, the challenges of maintaining order without destabilising local communities, and the unseen toll it took on the troopers stationed there. All it needed now were the quotes to bring it to life. But, again, none of the clone troopers stationed on Ord Mantell were willing to give her those quotes.
Tavi understood, though. She’d read about the Kaminoan programming that the clones endured back on their waterworld. Most of them believed they were fighting for the right side of the battle, or at least, that’s what they told themselves. And it wasn’t like the troopers were the ones sitting in backrooms securing deals to coexist with Black Sun’s operatives. Still, it made reporting a challenge.
“Leaving early, ma’am?”
The familiar voice called out from across the street, where a clone trooper stood next to a lamp post. Crayt, a part of the 8th Sector Army stationed on Ord Mantell. He was one of the few troopers who had been genuinely helpful during her assignment; showing her around, introducing her to key points of interest, and occasionally offering tidbits of logistical insight when no one else would.
“Got what you needed?” he probed, a grin audible in his voice even through the vocoder.
Tavi chuckled, brushing the dust off her jacket as a service droid finished loading her belongings onto a speederbike taxi. “Well, Crayt, none of you lot wanted to tell me how you operate on a planet tied to Black Sun. Went to your headquarters yesterday, tried to meet with Commander Strike, but he said he needed to run clearances. Maker knows how long that’ll take. So, here I am. Heading back to Coruscant, hoping I can track down an officer there who’s willing to talk.”
“Or maybe,” she added with a wry smile, “I’ll just scrap this piece altogether. Thoughts?”
Crayt shifted his weight and walked closer. Finally, he reached up, removed his helmet, and wiped a hand across his forehead. His dark curls were damp with sweat, and the tired lines around his eyes made him look older than he probably was.
“I wouldn’t scrap it if I were you, ma’am,” he sounded more earnest than she’d expected. “Maybe… return later? See if you can dig more? Treat this as one of your… um…” He tightened his lips as he searched for the word. “Long-term assignment?”
The corners of Tavi’s mouth curved into a smile. Clearly, the trooper had been listening to her little stories and picking up bits of her journalistic jargon along the way. Some of it had apparently stuck. She shook her head and turned to climb onto the back of the speederbike taxi waiting for her. The driver, a lanky Twi’lek with an ever-present cigarra between his teeth, grunted impatiently as she secured herself.
“You want to fund me?” she looked over her shoulder at Crayt.
To her surprise, he actually considered it for a moment. “If I had the credits, maybe I would,” he said with a half-smile. “I like the way you tell stories, ma’am. Even if some of ‘em sound a bit… anti-military.”
“You know,” she raised her brows, “you’re a surprisingly good advocate for this story. What’s in it for you?” He shrugged. “Nothing, really. Just don’t like the idea of it disappearing, I guess. There’s already too much stuff out there no one talks about. Feels like someone should.”
“Well,” she said finally, “guess I owe you a footnote for this one.”
Crayt huffed a soft laugh. “Just make us sound decent, yeah? Most of us are just trying to keep things together out here. Black Sun or no Black Sun.” She gave him a small salute. “I’ll keep that in mind. See you around, trooper.”
“Take care, ma’am,” he put his helmet on as the taxi pulled away.
“You should come visit us. You haven’t been home in a while,” came the voice of Raya, Tavi’s mother, over the comlink. Tavi had left it on loudspeaker, letting the warmth of her mother’s voice fill the otherwise quiet space of her Coruscant apartment. She dropped her bag near the couch and looked around. The plants she kept in the corner, her one indulgence from an otherwise transient lifestyle, were wilted, their soil bone dry. Clearly, the housesitter droid had paid little to no attention to them in her absence.
“I just landed, Ma,” she tossed the device on the counter as she opened the fridge. Nothing but a row of sad condiments, some wilting greens, and a carton of eggs stared back at her. “I need to do some groceries, meet that editor from Daily Galaxy , and catch up on—”
“Really?” Her mother’s voice cut her off. “Coruscant News Network won’t pick up your piece?”
Tavi stopped mid-motion, the egg she’d been about to crack hovering over a mauve ceramic pan. She placed it down carefully and grabbed the comlink. “I told you about the big agencies. Daily Galaxy is neutral. They let me write my angles.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then an exasperated sigh. “Neutral doesn’t pay your bills, Tavi,” her mother said. “You’ve got degrees from Alderaan, from the best institutions. This journalism thing doesn’t have to be so... difficult. You could—”
“Write PR fluff for corporate clients?” Tavi interrupted, she pulled her overgrown curls into a sad excuse of a bun. “No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“Well, at least come to dinner,” Raya countered. Her tone shifted, almost sounding like she was pleading to her only daughter. “I’ll reserve us a table at Skysitter tomorrow night. Your dad will be home early for once.”
Tavi leaned against the counter, staring at the whole egg inside the ceramic bowl. Her mother’s voice brought back the distinct smell of wooden furniture and expensive Corellian wine - her pristine childhood home, well, penthouse, in the Central District of Galactic City. Her father, Damian Drezz, had worked his way up to become a director at Mobquet Swoops and Speeders, one of the galaxy’s most prominent automotive companies. Meanwhile her mother used to be a successful interior designer but had given up her career years ago to manage their household and entertain Coruscant’s social elite.
For as long as she could remember, her parents had tried to steer her towards their version of success. With her education, her connections, she could have done anything. Joined a think tank, run a consulting firm, even gone into the Republic’s policy circles. But instead, she’d chosen journalism. Worse, the kind of journalism that kept her hopping between dingy hostels on backwater planets, chasing stories about the people no one wanted to hear about.
“I’ll think about it,” Tavi said finally, cracking the egg into the pan. “But I’ve got a lot going on right now.”
“Too busy to have dinner with your family?” her mother pressed, and she could practically see her raising a perfectly arched brow on the other end of the line. Tavi sighed. “I said I’ll think about it, Ma.”
“Alright,” Raya relented. “Just let me know. It would mean a lot to your father. He’s been working so much lately, but he always makes time for you when you’re here.”
After the call ended, Tavi watched the egg bubble, the yolk splitting like a tiny sun bleeding into the whites. The resulting omelette was mediocre at best, but it was warm, and that was good enough. She carried the plate to the sofa and slumped into her usual spot by the window to watch Coruscant’s endless skyline. The city lights stretched far beyond the horizon as if trying to drown out the shadows beneath them. Her parents’ world was like that; bright, sharp, and certain. A world where problems could be solved with a well-placed credit chip or a networking dinner.
But she didn’t want their certainty, their well-curated lives where everything was predictable and safe. But as much as she resented their constant attempts to redirect her course, she couldn’t entirely shake the part of her that missed it - the quiet comfort of her mother’s carefully planned dinners. The way her father would sit in his chair after a long day, eyes mostly glued to his portable terminal, but still humming along when she rambled about a piece she was working on. They didn’t get it. Her drive to tell untold stories from across the galaxy, the ones no one else wanted to hear, much less amplify, was so far removed from their world that it might as well have been in another system. But they cared. In their own way, they still cared.
As she scraped the last bite of omelette from her plate, she set it aside and pressed her head against the cool transparisteel of the window. The skyline blinked back at her, unchanging. The sudden beep of her comlink pulled her out of her haze. “Drezz speaking,” she didn’t bother to check the comm code.
“Tavi, it’s me, Cormen,” came the gruff voice on the other end. She let out a soft sigh and slumped further into the sofa. “How’s your Ord Mantell story going?”
Tavi stretched her arms and legs before reaching for her datapad on the caf table. She opened her notes, though she already knew what they said. “It’s... going,” the hesitation in her voice made it clear it wasn’t. “Not sure if I want to continue this. It has the potential to be an interesting story, but—”
“But more potential for it to be another military talking point?” Cormen finished for her. She chuckled bitterly and tossed her datapad away. “You’ve done this too long, C. You know where it’s headed before I even get the words out.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I just know the system too well. They’ll praise the clones for doing their best in a tough situation, skim over the fact that the Black Sun runs half the planet, and slap on a line about how the Republic is working hard to stabilise the region.”
“That about covers it,” she grabbed her datapad again and thumbed through the sparse quotes she’d managed to gather from a few troopers who wouldn’t go on record. Cormen let out a low hum, a sound she’d come to recognise as his version of measured agreement. “It’s the game, kid. You write about the cracks, and they tell you to focus on the mortar holding them together. But you can’t stop pointing out the cracks.”
She leaned her head against the back of the sofa, staring at the ceiling as his words sank in.
“You know,” Cormen continued, “back when I was covering the CIS, I ran into the same problem. Every piece I wrote had to boil down to ‘The Separatists are evil, and the Republic is righteous.’ No room for nuance.”
“And what’s that?” Tavi already suspected the answer.
“That most people don’t join a war because they’re villains. They join because they’re desperate, or because the alternative is worse. Do you seriously think half a galaxy would side with Nute Gunray because they’re all evil?”
She smiled faintly. “No. But try convincing the holonet audience of that.”
“That’s our job,” Cormen replied. “Convincing them. And pissing them off a little.”
“It’s either I dig up a new angle or piggyback on a trending topic. What’s sexy today?” Tavi muttered, mindlessly scrolling her drafts. “Clovis still hot?”
“Sexy?” Cormen drawled. “Clovis is always sexy, politically speaking. The Banking Clan’s poster boy never fails to stir up controversy.” Tavi groaned. “I’m so tired of Clovis. Every time his name shows up in a headline, it’s the same cycle. Greed. Scandal. Banking corruption. And then the Senate quietly sweeps it all under the rug until the next time he screws up.”
Cormen chuckled through the comlink in response. Tavi could picture him lounging in his cluttered workspace. “But if you’re bored of corrupt bankers, I’ve got something juicier. Interested in covering a failed Jedi assassination?”
Tavi paused mid-scroll through her own half-finished drafts. “A failed what?”
“Assassination,” Cormen repeated. “Son of Jango Fett, Boba. Well, he’s technically a clone. Tried to kill Jedi Master Mace Windu. Twice.”
She let out a low whistle. “Hm. I read some old articles. Thought he was just a kid.”
“He is,” Cormen replied, “but apparently, that doesn’t stop him from planting bombs on Venator-class Star Destroyers. Tried to blow Windu to bits during an infiltration op. When that didn’t work, he sabotaged the reactor core. Under-the-radar stuff, of course. The Jedi aren’t keen on broadcasting that kind of news. Probably has something to do with the fact that Windu beheaded his dad back at Geonosis. Can’t imagine that sat well with the kid.”
Tavi scribbled a quick note on her datapad. “Jedi behead his dad, and now the kid’s out for revenge. Sounds like every editor’s dream. Why aren’t you jumping on this?”
“Because,” Cormen stretched the word, “I’m already knee-deep in Orn Free Taa’s questionable business dealings. Got a grant to keep digging into his ties to the Outer Rim spice trade.”
“Spice trade?”
“And more,” Cormen exhaled. “Tibanna gas extraction, baradium bisulfate mining, you name it. Turns out, Taa’s been quietly partnering with some of the galaxy’s worst state actors to prop up his little fiefdom on Ryloth. Corporate fronts, shell companies, there’s a lot to untangle.”
“Damn, which grant?”
“Galactic Environmental Journalism Initiative,” Cormen answered. “You know that one, backed by the Sentient Relief Network, the Alderaanian nonprofit. They fund investigative pieces that dig into resource exploitation, ecological destruction, and corporate corruption. They cover travel expenses, provide legal protection if someone tries to sue you, the whole package.” He paused, and Tavi could hear the faint crackle of his cigarra through the commlink. “And… the proposal submission for SRN’s Galactic Centre for Crisis Reporting will open next month. You should consider applying.”
“Whoa, that’s prestigious. They really make it rain out there?”
Cormen laughed. “Not even close. They only take the big hitters. You gotta submit a proposal with a full investigative outline, pre-approved sources, estimated costs, and projected outcomes. Oh, and they make you justify how it’ll change public opinion. They don’t just want a good story. They want impact.”
“Sounds like a bunch of self-righteous Alderaanians.”
“They’re picky,” Cormen admitted. “But if you get through, they’ll give you resources to dig as deep as you need. It’s the whole package. Way better than scraping by on independent contracts.”
“How’s the proposal process? Core News Digest Fund-level difficult? Or are we talking Senate Finance Committee-level hoops?”
“Worse,” Cormen groaned. “Remember that old proposal template we used? The one we banged out in a hotel lobby on Corellia? Yeah, you can toss that out the airlock. These guys want full-on investigative dossiers before they even think about saying yes. They practically expect you to do half the work before you even get funding.”
Tavi winced at the memory of late nights on Corellia, frantically filling out grant applications between assignments. “So no lazy copy-pasting, huh?”
“None. And you’ve gotta prove that your story isn’t just relevant but also urgent. The kind of thing that makes people care enough to act . Took me weeks to get mine together. And they still grilled me on the follow-up.”
“What was your pitch exactly?” She pulled up another note tab.
“Outer Rim spice mining,” Cormen started. “Specifically how state actors, corporations, and even Separatist fronts are exploiting local labour while destroying entire ecosystems. Taa’s just one of the players I’m digging into. Once I’m done with him, like I said, I’m expanding the scope to Tibanna gas and maybe even bisulfate mining operations. It’s ugly out there, Vee. Really ugly.”
Tavi huffed. “Sounds brutal. No wonder they threw credits at you.” Cormen chuckled softly. “You know, your Ryloth piece probably would’ve gotten their attention too. The original one, not the butchered version.”
Tavi groaned at the mention. “Ugh, don’t remind me.”
“No, seriously,” Cormen pressed. “I still love how there are two versions of that story. The Galactic Daily version, which was raw, honest, and exactly what it needed to be. And then there’s the Coruscant Daily Newsfeed version.”
“The propaganda version, you mean,” Tavi muttered.
“Exactly,” Cormen said. “A shiny puff piece about the Republic’s ‘heroic liberation’ of Ryloth. I couldn’t believe they stripped out your sections on Syndulla’s warnings and the water mafia.”
“They didn’t just strip it,” Tavi said bitterly. “They rewrote the entire thing. Turned it into this bootlicking ode to Republic intervention. Meanwhile, the original was sitting on the cutting room floor until Galactic Daily picked it up.”
“Still a win, though,” Cormen said. “That version had teeth. People talked about it. Maybe not the ones in charge, but the ones on the ground? They noticed.”
“Yeah,” Tavi said quietly. “I guess they did.”
She leaned forward, her fingers idly tracing the edges of her datapad. “So, what’s your advice? Should I go for it?”
“For the Galactic Centre for Crisis Reporting Grant?” Cormen asked. “Depends. Are you ready to sell them on a story with real stakes? Because these guys don’t mess around. If you’re thinking about something like your Ord Mantell piece, forget it. They’re not interested in surface-level conflict stuff. But if you’ve got a pitch that digs into the roots of the system. How war, industry, and exploitation all feed into each other, they’ll listen.”
“You’re making me think too hard, Cormen,” she stood up from the sofa to brew a caf, thanking herself for stocking up on those pods.
“Too hard?” He snorted on the other end of the line. “The Mace Windu assassination attempt is basically on a silver platter for you, Vee.”
“It’s surface level,” Tavi muttered. “Really? Is it surface level,” Cormen bit back, “or are you still so burned out from Ord Mantell that you can’t see it yet?”
Tavi gripped the handle of the caf pot tighter than she meant to. Cormen didn’t wait for a response. “Listen. There are angles here. You just have to look. War and youth radicalisation, that’s one. How does a kid like Fett, barely old enough to carry a blaster, decide his best option is to take on the Jedi? What did war do to him? To his father? That’s not surface level. That’s a whole ass iceberg.”
She pushes herself up to sit on the counter as Cormen continued.
“Or what about revenge? This kid’s whole life is defined by it. But whose life isn’t in this war? Look at the Jedi. Look at the clones. Half of them are running on vengeance or orders that make them forget they have other choices. How does that system perpetuate itself? How does it survive? That’s a story worth chasing.” He paused, then added, “And don’t even get me started on the ethical fallout. Kid’s a clone, yeah? What does that mean for the rest of them? You think the troopers don’t see themselves in him? That there’s no connection to explore there?”
Tavi let out a slow breath. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’ve got enough ideas for a documentary holovid.”
“Pfft. Holovid, sure. But you? You can make it more. Apply for the grant, Vee. Dig in. You’ll thank me later.” Cormen said before he ended the transmission.
She hated when Cormen was right, mostly because he was always right. The Mace Windu assassination attempt was a story. Not because it was flashy or sensational, but because it cracked the veneer of the Republic’s war machine and exposed the fractures underneath.
She typed a few quick notes to herself:
- Youth radicalisation in wartime
- Revenge cycles (Jedi/clones/Fett)
- Clone perspective on Fett’s actions: identity, ethics
- Systems that create insurgents (bounty hunting/war profiteering)
She stared at the list. Maybe this wasn’t surface level after all. The angles were there, she just had to dig deeper, connect the dots, and frame it in a way that mattered. She opened the calendar app on her datapad and blocked an entire week for research and drafting. The Ord Mantell story could wait. Maybe it wasn’t meant for formal publication anyway. She could always blog about it. Sometimes the best pieces didn’t need an editor’s approval to find an audience.
Her eyes flicked to tomorrow’s empty schedule. A faint, reluctant sigh escaped her lips as she blocked the evening for dinner at Skysitter with her parents. It was easier to give in than deal with her mother’s follow-up calls. Besides, she thought, maybe listening to her father’s updates on Mobquet’s latest speeder designs would be a good distraction from the galaxy’s cracks for a night.