Outline
“Press gets checked too, sweetheart. You were on the field - that means you follow protocol.”
The voice drifted from behind her. Just half a second later, a hand found her shoulder, halting her just as she was about to slip away unnoticed. Tavi resisted the reflexive urge to bristle. "Uh… I’m fine," she said, turning on her heel.
The woman standing before her looked familiar; the same bone structure, the same deep-set eyes she had seen a thousand times over in the ranks of the Grand Army, and skin tanned from long days under foreign suns. Most of them wore their hair close-cropped. Some let it grow a little longer when they could get away with it, subtle acts of reclamation in a life where so little was theirs. The shoulder-length braid was an anomaly, but then, so was she.
“Come on.” The medic pointed with an open palm towards the line of troopers ahead who were walking or being carried to the medical facility within the Republic Military Base on Coruscant. “I’m Xena, one of the medics. Let’s get going.”
Tavi hesitated. The ground wasn’t shaking anymore, but the phantom tremor still clung to her bones. She had seen enough field hospitals to know what waited inside - rows of cots filled with bodies that used to be whole, and the wailing of soldiers who hadn’t yet been sedated. Vanqor hadn’t been that kind of mission. A simple retrieval, nothing more. But judging by the ships crowding the hangar - markings from different units, different companies, she knew the sight inside would be the same. It always was.
“I told you, I’m fine,” she tried to angle herself away.
Xena only raised a brow. “That’s not how it works.”
Exhaling, Tavi followed to the clinical building ahead. The room she was led into was a far cry from the triage tents she had seen in the Outer Rim. There were actual cots, separated by thin mesh curtains, instead of bodies crammed into whatever space was available. The overhead lights were bright but lacking the sickly blue tint of emergency field lamps. Well, this was the difference between a well-resourced Republic base and the makeshift medical posts patched together on war-torn worlds.
Xena patted one of the cots for her to sit in, her other hand flipping through a datapad. “Alright, standard post-mission checkup. You’re press, but you were on an active field op, so we’re treating you like the rest.”
It made sense. Why did she even try to get away? If she had been blown off her feet by an explosion, thrown against metal plating of the ship, or unknowingly exposed to radiation from the wreckage, they needed to know. She shrugged off her jacket as Xena set down her datapad, pulling out a portable bioscanner to start the first round of checks. Vitals first - pulse, oxygen levels, neural activity. The soft hum of the scanner barely audible over the sound of people moving beyond the curtain, the murmur of troopers undergoing the same routine.
“You got any injuries to report?” Xena double checked the preliminary readout.
Tavi shook her head. "Nothing serious."
Xena’s gaze moved to the bruising on her arm - blueish and shaped like fingertips, the telltale result of someone yanking her back from a ledge. “Uh-huh.” She pressed gently on the skin, assessing the depth. “And this? Let me guess, Commander Wolffe?”
“Wildfire.”
Xena didn’t comment, just tapped something into her datapad before moving on. Next came the neural scan, then a toxin screening, then a quick-range bacta spray over any surface cuts or abrasions she hadn’t noticed in the field. It was efficient. Tavi had watched troopers go through it before, but being on the receiving end of it made her wonder just how many times had the clones sat here with bruises ignored because they had bigger wounds to deal with? How many of them even registered the pain when war was their baseline?
The scanner let out a loud beep, breaking her thoughts. “You’re cleared. No concussions, no internal trauma, no toxic exposure. Just the bruises.” Xena pressed her lips into a thin smile as she set the scanner down. “You’ll live.”
"Figured as much." Tavi pulled her jacket back on, rolling her shoulder once to test the stiffness. Xena clicked off her datapad.
“Then congratulations. You survived your first real GAR field op. Try not to die.” Xena tucked the datapad under her arm. “The reckless journo covering the 21st Nova Corps wasn’t so lucky.”
“What happened?”
Xena scoffed. “What always happens?” She leaned against the counter, taking her rounded glasses off and pocketed them. “Embedded with the Navy. Got caught in an atmospheric breach during an orbital skirmish, pressure failure in the ship. Didn’t have time to seal his gear before the vacuum hit.”
Tavi felt that one in her spine. Not an explosion. Not blaster fire. Quiet death where your lungs collapse in your own chest before you even realise you’re gone.
“Republic Press Corps sent a statement saying it was ‘an unfortunate accident,’” Xena continued. “His agency pulled all their wartime correspondents from naval operations after that. No one embeds with the fleet anymore.”
Tavi let out a slow breath. “Good to know.”
“Yeah. So, try not to get sucked into space, too.” Xena smirked. “The Republic’s already running low on war reporters.”
"Nah, I’m only temporary." Tavi pulled her boots back on. "I’m working on a project for a grant I’m applying for. Not sure how long, but it’s mostly independent."
"That’s how most of the other guys started, too." Xena chuckled, shaking her head. "Then they changed their minds when the higher-ups threw a hefty sum their way. Which is insane, considering they don’t pay us shit." The last part came out with a bitter note that didn’t need explaining. She tapped something on her datapad before heading towards the exit to call her next patient. “Alright, you’re cleared. You should check in with the 104th before you leave base - debrief’s probably still ongoing.”
Of course. Even after pulling two Jedi from the wreckage, Wolffe would be standing in some war room right now, reviewing mission reports, casualty counts, damage assessments. Tavi figured he wouldn’t notice whether she showed up or not. Xena crossed her arms, watching her hesitate. “Or… you could get something to eat before you pass out from exhaustion like the last idiot reporter I had to patch up.”
"Debrief first. Then food." Tavi threw up an ok sign and hastily made her way out of the room. Just in time, her commlink beeped.
“Where are you?” Chiko’s unmistakable accent greeted her from the other line.
“Just finished the medical checkup.”
“Took you forever.” there was a pause, then the sound of shuffling. Chiko probably walked away from whatever commotion she was in. “Now, get out of the medical wing. Ugh… okay. Take the main corridor east until you hit Hangar 12, cut through the supply bay. Don’t get in anyone’s way, then take the central turbolift down to Level 5. Exit left, walk past two comm centres, then look for the reinforced blast doors with the 104th sigil on it. That’s the war room. “And try not to get lost. This base eats rookies alive.”
The call ended just like that. With a sigh, Tavi pulled half of her hair into a messy bun, adjusting the bag she carried on her shoulder before dragging her feet along the long trek ahead. The Republic Military Base was monstrous, sprawling across the entire military district like its own self-sustaining city. Turbolifts, corridors, barracks, landing zones, logistics hubs - it was easy to get swallowed whole in the belly of the beast. She remembered seeing Plo Koon and Ahsoka Tano disappear into another waiting LAAT the moment they touched down, heading straight for this very war room.
And yet, here she was, walking.
Hangar 12 came first, just like Chiko said. Then the supply bay. She moved fast enough to avoid looking like a straggler. Turn right, then the central turbolift. Finally, the reinforced blast doors loomed ahead, the bold sigil of the 104th Battalion stamped across the metal plating. Tavi fished out her press credentials, and held them up for the receptionist behind the security console.
“Tavi Drezz. Press clearance for the debrief.”
The officer scanned her ID and vaguely gestured to the facilities behind him. “War Room 3. You’re expected.”
The moment she stepped inside, every pair of eyes in the room turned to her. She offered a quick, diplomatic smile, and walked in as Wolffe beckoned her in with a tilt of his head. Standing beside him, Chiko was already deep into a discussion, outlining the communications strategy for the mission’s coverage.
“It was just a retrieval,” Plo Koon’s deep voice carried across the room, calm, but firm. “No need to throw in flowery statements.” The Kel Dor general stood across from Chiko with his hands clasped behind his back. “Besides,” he continued, “General Windu has informed us that he will not pursue Fett or his crew. He refuses to stoop so low as to hunt down a child.”
Chiko blinked twice as she pressed one of her obviously practiced career smiles at the general. “With all due respect, General, public sentiment isn’t as measured. The news of Boba Fett attempting to kill a Jedi? The fact that General Windu himself executed Jango Fett in the first battle of the war? That doesn’t sit well with people, and it’s fueling distrust - not just in the Republic, but in the Jedi specifically."
The sharp-dressed head of the GAR communications bureau pulled up a live feed of public discussion threads, independent news reports, and political analysis pieces. “There’s a growing narrative that the Jedi are untouchable, above consequences. That they can take a life, but won’t be held accountable.” She subtly pointed her stylus towards Tavi’s direction. “This isn’t about PR spin. It’s about shaping the conversation before it gets out of control. Tavi is here as an informed, independent correspondent. If we don’t engage with the press, we leave the narrative to those who have no interest in balance.”
"So what exactly is the plan?" Wolffe, arms crossed, exhaled sharply.
Chiko didn’t miss a beat. “Controlled narrative, proactive engagement, and message discipline.” She pulled up another set of briefing notes. “We get ahead of speculation by setting the record straight before it spirals. That means coordinated messaging across official Republic channels, selective media engagement, and limiting room for interpretation.”
The copper-haired woman turned to Wolffe. “From the military side, we keep it simple, the 104th executed a high-risk search-and-rescue mission. No embellishments, no unnecessary dramatisation. We focus on operational success, not the broader implications of Fett’s actions. The last thing we need is speculation linking this to clone sentiment or Jedi accountability.” She paused before giving a pointed look at Plo Koon. “But the Jedi need to set their position clearly. General Windu’s refusal to pursue Fett is a good angle. However, we really have to be consistent. Otherwise, it will weaken public trust.”
She scrolled further. “Key messaging: The Jedi do not target children. The GAR does not operate outside of its military jurisdiction. The Republic remains committed to justice, but not revenge. We reinforce discipline, not retaliation.”
Tavi absorbed the well-oiled mechanics of war-time crisis communications. It was the same approach she had seen in political strategy rooms across Coruscant, the same messaging discipline drilled into comms officers tasked with shaping public perception. Even in the humanitarian organisation she had worked in before committing fully to journalism, there had been an unspoken balance, but only on their terms. Chiko turned to her now. “That’s where you come in, Drezz. We don’t just control the message. We shape the optics. Your coverage is neutral, but access works both ways. You get the story, and we make sure it doesn’t become a feeding frenzy for Republic critics.”
“I agreed for this placement not because I wanted to be a PR writing machine, Chiko.” Tavi sighed.
“And you won’t be.” She tapped her datapad, barely looking at her. “Your work is independent. Your analysis is your own. But access is a currency, Drezz, and whether you like it or not, this is how the game is played.”
This wasn’t new. She had seen it before, the constant push and pull between transparency and control. What about the topics she had submitted to the SRN’s Galactic Centre for Crisis Reporting? The ones that actually mattered? The ones that dug into the intersection of war, identity, and radicalisation? The ones that explored how conflict shaped generations who had never known anything else? Cycles of violence weren’t just headlines. They were lived, inherited. Passed down in the form of lost fathers, burned cities, revenge taken before grief could even settle. And yet, here she was, being asked to shape the optics instead of exposing the machinery. But well, everything was expected.
“No one is telling you what to write. But if you want the stories that outlast war, you have to be in the room long enough to tell them.” Again, the message was clear. If she wanted access, she had to play along. Tavi stared at her for a long moment before she crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine.”
“It is fine.” Chiko shrugged, completely unfazed. She tucked a stray strand of copper hair behind her ear before turning back towards the gathered soldiers and Jedi. “In the meantime, maintain close contact with one of our comms officers and CC us in your report drafts. We’ll flag anything that might require additional context. Standard crisis communication protocols.” And just like that, Chiko was gone, heels clicking against the floor as the blast doors hissed shut behind her.
For a moment, Tavi stood there. Was she supposed to follow? Was the meeting adjourned? She turned to catch Plo Koon’s attention just as the Jedi general let out a long sigh. “That’s the comms bureau for you, boys,” he mused. Then, he turned his attention to Wolffe, “I will visit Skywalker and Windu in the medical wing. I’ll coordinate if we need follow-up. Keep your men sharp, Commander. Even in quiet moments, war does not rest.”
Tavi took his departure from the room as her cue to leave. But before she could make it two steps toward the door, the commander called out from behind her, “Did you get your pictures?”
“I did.” She turned on her heels to face him. Gosh, was there ever a single emotion on his face that wasn’t some variation of permanent annoyance? “I did.” She reiterated.
Wolffe barely acknowledged her answer as he idly scrolled through his datapad. “Medical check?”
“Done.” The exchange felt almost like a debrief between a commander and one of his rookies.
“Any injuries?” His tone remained cold.
“Eh, just a bruise.”
Wolffe tossed the datapad onto the desk beside him with a clatter that made Tavi’s eyes widen.
“No injuries, then.”
“No. Nope.”
“Good.” His cybernetic eye reflected the hologram from the holotable beside him as he eyed her with scrutiny. “Chiko Renalla informed me that you’ll be stationed with us for the next few missions. Maker knows what’s gonna happen - we haven’t had a journalist embedded with us in a while.” He studied her face for a moment. “Learning from your first deployment with us, you really need to listen when we tell you what to do. If I tell you to sit, you sit. If I tell you to stay back, you stay back. You almost fell out of the LAAT back there because you were too focused on getting your shot.”
Tavi took a slow breath. Of course. Another military man with a need to command everything and everyone in his orbit. Precaution, sure. Necessary, even. But still annoying. “I did what I had to do.” The words came out before she could smooth them over.
“This is the part where you ask me for quotes.” The commander said it like he’d already clocked her entire process within the first 24 hours of knowing her. With his arms crossed, he continued. “And don’t even try to get one from my general. The clearance for a Jedi to give a press statement is insane. Your piece would already be published before you even get one of them approved.”
Tavi pinched the bridge of her nose. Fair point, but still. She was too exhausted for this - zero sleep in the past 24 hours, running on nothing but caf and sheer stubbornness, the fatigue of a long hyperspace ride in a military gunship with no proper passenger seating still weighing on her. “Sure, okay. Can I get your quote?”
“NOPE.” He popped the ‘p’ and turned back to his men, which immediately sent his squad into barking laughter.
Tavi just stared at them. That was such a frat boy move. Which, she supposed, made sense. In non-clone years, these 9 to 10-year-olds would be somewhere in their early to mid-20s. That explained the cocky, jock energy rolling off them. But still, she’d met far wiser clones in the Outer Rim. Maybe being part of one of the most famous squads in the Grand Army did that to a person. She was about to drop it and leave when Wolffe grabbed a ration bar from a nearby box and tossed it in her direction. Reflex kicked in, she caught it mid-air. Wolffe didn’t even pause his stride as he walked out of the room. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Eat.”
She was left standing there, ration bar in hand, unsure whether she’d just been insulted or looked after.
“Hmm?” Tavi didn’t look away from her screen, toggling her commlink’s loudspeaker as Cormen’s call came through. A steaming cup of caf with milk sat within reach, untouched for the past few minutes as she flipped through her latest captures - curating, sorting, separating. Which shots made the shortlist? Which ones were meant for the archives? Which ones told the story, and which ones just existed?
“Heard you got approved in SRN,” Cormen’s rough voice crackled over the commlink. Of course he knew. The senior journalist had his ears everywhere. Tavi rolled her eyes, dragging a selection marker over an image of Plo Koon and Ahsoka holding the gunship steady. “Don’t get my hopes up high. I’m still waiting for them to officially mail me back.” She reclined on her chair, stretching the knots out of her shoulders. “Mission with the 104th went well, though.”
“Pfft. 104th.” A scoff, followed by the distinct sound of Cormen lighting a cigarra. “That was just the Wolfpack. The entirety of the 104th would be vastly different.”
“How bad?”
A smirk practically bled through the comms. “Let’s just say, the Wolfpack is the easy part.”
“What happened was, Chiko basically made me her PR piece at this point.” She took a sip of her now lukewarm caf, mumbling through the words as she concentrated on her task. “Disappointed but not surprised.”
“Renalla?” Cormen barked a laugh. “Yeah, that’s a tough one to deal with.”
Tavi dragged a selection marker over a shot of Wolffe’s visor reflecting the explosion of the venator. “She’s good at what she does,” She admitted. “Too good. Knows exactly how to leverage every angle. Thinks access is a privilege, not a right.”
“She’s not wrong.” A long inhale. “And you’re not new to this game, Vee. You knew walking into that war room that access was going to cost you.”
Tavi sighed, dragging a rejected shot into her archive folder. “I just didn’t think the cost would be this damn high.”
“Look.” Cormen’s voice was steady, the sound of someone who had seen this exact problem unfold way too many times. “I can guarantee you’re getting the grant. The panel loved your approach. But the problem is the comms bureau. They’re boxing you in, turning you into an in-house journalist. A mouthpiece.”
Tavi rubbed her eyes and groaned to herself.
“As long as you didn’t sign any contracts tying you to their chain of command, you’re still free to write your stories.” Cormen took a drag from his cigarra, exhaling over the commlink. “Will they like it? Definitely not. But that’s the game. So play it smart.” The chain-smoking man let the silence filled the space long enough before adding, “Write double. One for them, one for your project. Give them what they want, but don’t let them dictate the angle. Still be critical, you’re good at that, kid.”
Tavi stared at the screen still filled with images of Vanqor, of wreckage and rescue. Two versions of the truth. One that made it past the Republic’s filter, and one that told the story the way it actually unfolded.
She exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Alright.”
“And I bet you’ll get that long-awaited email this week. Get some sleep.” Cormen hung up the call. Tavi sighed, rubbing her temples before closing out the last of her files. A quick double-check - photo edits saved, holocamera storage backed up, drafts archived. Satisfied, she powered down her portable computer. Her datapad inbox was full of unread messages from her mother. Probably asking if she was alive, if she was eating, if she had finally considered a stable career. Tavi tapped out a quick reply:
Back at my apartment. Everything’s fine. Love you.
It was enough to keep her mother from calling. She shuffled towards the fresher, grabbing a cotton swab and pouring a few drops of cleaning solution onto it. The grime it wiped away was absurd, considering she’d already showered. Fieldwork did that. No matter how much you scrubbed, the ashes of war still stuck to you. Serum. Moisturiser. Routine done. Finally, she collapsed onto her bed, sinking her body into the sheets. For a moment, she just stared at the ceiling, the distant hum of Coruscant’s skylanes bleeding through the transparisteel window.
“Two Jedi, buried under the wreckage of a downed Republic warship, were pulled out alive after a high-risk search-and-rescue mission led by a squad from the 104th Battalion on Vanqor. Commander Wolffe’s squad, known informally as the Wolfpack, deployed within hours of the distress call. Assisted by General Plo Koon and Padawan Commander Ahsoka Tano, the unit navigated unstable terrain and deteriorating wreckage to retrieve Generals Mace Windu and Anakin Skywalker. The operation, carried out under extreme time constraints and high structural risk, was successful. For the Republic, it was a win. But for the men who executed it, it was another mission in a war with no end in sight.”
She mouthed the words to herself, mentally cutting, refining, rearranging. Maybe the right words would come in her sleep. Maybe not. She grabbed her datapad from the bedside table, quickly scribbling down the intro before it slipped away into the haze of exhaustion. Satisfied, or at least too tired to care anymore, she shut it off, set it aside, and pulled her sleeping mask over her eyes.
Tomorrow, she’d clean it up and write her narrative. Tonight, she let the war rest.