"Commander Thorn, the report confirms: Chancellor Palpatine has been rescued and is currently en route to the Senate building. Count Dooku has been eliminated by General Skywalker. The Separatist forces are in full retreat," the clone trooper relayed with military precision.
Thorn gave a low, thoughtful hum, nodding slightly.
"Understood. You're dismissed."
The trooper gave a crisp salute before departing. Thorn waited until the footsteps faded, then exhaled a long, wearied sigh.
"So… it begins," he muttered.
With a quiet hiss, he removed his helmet. Beneath it, the familiar face of Jango Fett.
A single cybernetic eye glowed dimly in crimson, cold and precise. His dark hair, unnaturally perfect, was slicked back with care.
He turned his gaze to the viewports of the command center. Outside, his troops moved with silent efficiency, securing Republic resource depots in anticipation of possible counterattacks.
Overhead, the skies of Coruscant were choked in smoke and flickering light. Though Dooku was gone and the Chancellor saved, the war had not yet ended.
The battle still raged — distant and thunderous.
"I'd better move," Thorn thought grimly, turning from the viewport. He exited the command center, slipping through the depot's perimeter like a shadow.
By nightfall, he descended into the underworld — Coruscant's level 1313. Swathed in a worn, brown cloak that concealed the full armor beneath, Thorn moved with quiet purpose through dark alleys and neon-lit corridors, avoiding patrols of shock troopers, underworld enforcers, and roaming gangs alike.
Eventually, he reached his destination: an abandoned mechanic's shop, buried in the steel bones of the city.
The structure was unremarkable, blending seamlessly into the urban decay, its walls drowned in layers of graffiti and old political posters.
Thorn glanced around, ensuring he wasn't followed. Then, he raised his gloved hand and knocked — a strange, off-beat rhythm, deliberate but chaotic.
A pause. Then a muffled voice from behind the door.
"Who is it?"
"It's me. Mario," Thorn said flatly.
"Mario's dead," the voice responded, cold and mechanical.
Thorn narrowed his eyes, his tone sharp and quiet.
"long live the dead."
The locks disengaged with a soft click. The door creaked open, revealing a hooded figure standing in the gloom beyond, silently beckoning him inside.
The hooded figure slowly drew back his cowl, revealing a face identical to Thorn's — a fellow clone.
"Dogma," Thorn acknowledged, leading them further into the dim, derelict mechanic's shop. "Is everyone here?"
"Yes, Commander. All accounted for," Dogma replied without hesitation.
"Good."
They descended into the basement — a space barely illuminated by flickering lamps suspended from rusted beams. Shadows clung to every corner, and the feeble light cast long, wavering silhouettes across the concrete walls.
At the center of the room, a large section of the floor had been torn open. A gaping hole yawned in the cement, revealing a breached sewer pipe below.
From its depths rose the foul stench of rot, waste, and stagnant water — the unmistakable signature of Coruscant's underworld arteries.
Gathered around the pit stood five clones clad in modified Phase II armor, their markings distinguishable from standard-issue shock troopers.
"Commander," they greeted in unison, voices low and respectful as they stepped forward.
Thorn gave them a silent nod, handing a duffel bag to Dogma before settling onto a nearby pile of broken masonry.
"Report."
Dogma unzipped the bag and began distributing its contents — packets of rations, energy capsules, and field supplies — while the others gave their updates.
First was Slick, his tone measured and confident.
"The tunnel is ninety percent complete. If all goes smoothly, we'll breach the Jedi Temple sublevel within two days."
Thorn nodded silently, his gaze unreadable.
Echo spoke next. "Using the tech you provided, I've forged new identities for each of us and embedded them seamlessly into the Republic's internal systems. I've gained access to patrol schedules and placed us strategically at the key points you specified."
"Excellent," Thorn murmured.
Kix stepped forward. "I've stockpiled enough food, weapons, and medical supplies to last us for weeks — longer if we ration carefully. I also secured an old garbage scow for discreet transport if we need to move heavy cargo."
Then Thorn turned his eyes to the last man. "Fives… did you get it?"
Fives gave a slight grin and stepped forward, hauling a crate covered with a worn tarp. With a dramatic pull, he unveiled its contents: several sleek, brown-scaled lizards writhing in a specially sealed cage.
Thorn's eyes lit up.
"Ysalamiri…" he breathed. A smile tugged at the edge of his scarred face. "With these, we can mask ourselves from the Sith. The Force will not find us."
He looked around at his brothers — ghosts in red armor, shadows of a broken republic — and nodded with grim approval.
Thorn's gaze swept over the faces of the men before him — Fives, Echo, Kix, Tup, Dogma, and Slick — each one a brother-in-arms, forged in war, hardened by betrayal. As he looked upon them, a flood of memories surged within him… memories not entirely his own.
It had been six months since he had awoken on Scipio — in the shattered body of Commander Thorn. Six months since the impossible happened.
He had transmigrated.
Not reborn, not merely revived — but reborn with purpose. The man who now wore Thorn's face had arrived bearing three extraordinary gifts: the peerless skills and tactical genius of Bruce Wayne, the perfected super soldier serum coursing through his veins, and a deep, encyclopedic knowledge of the Cyberpunk universe.
But perhaps most crucial of all… he remembered.
He remembered the galaxy — its politics, its players, its prophecies. He remembered the rise and fall of empires, the flicker of lightsabers in the dark, and the chilling breath of the Sith behind every shadow.
Armed with this knowledge, this power, and the shattered legacy of a fallen clone commander, the new Thorn wasted no time.
Embezzlement of war funds. Bribes accepted from criminal syndicates and corrupt politicians. Confiscation — and quiet redistribution — of prohibited goods. The sale of Republic weapons on the black market.
These were the crimes etched onto Thorn's record — if anyone had ever dared to look closely. But none of it had been for personal gain.
Every credit, every secret deal, every calculated betrayal had served a singular purpose: preparing for the day the galaxy would bleed.
Preparing for Order 66.
Thorn knew it was coming. He had seen the signs, traced the patterns, and listened between the silences. While the Jedi remained blind to their fate, he sharpened his blade in the dark — and assembled a team of ghosts.
The first was CT-5385, codename Tup — the spark that ignited it all. His inhibitor chip malfunctioned early, exposing the grim reality of what lay buried in every clone's skull.
He orchestrated Tup's "death" on Kamino, administering senflax — a powerful agent that induced a deathlike sleep. Tup was declared dead, cremated on record. In truth, he was smuggled out in silence, reborn into the shadows.
Next came CT-5555 — Fives. Brilliant. Defiant. Dangerous. After uncovering the truth behind Tup's condition, Fives had become a hunted fugitive, framed by the very Chancellor he had tried to warn. But Thorn got to him first.
He found Fives before the Coruscant guards did. And like Tup, brought him into the fold.
Embezzling war funds, accepting bribes from criminal organisations or politicians, confiscating prohibited goods, selling of military weapons on the black-market.
Thorn had amassed a large amount of credits spending every last of it in preparation of order 66.
Not only that, he had gathered a team of misfits, CT-5385 codename Tup, his first recruit who had his chip malfunction, leading to his realization of order 66.
Thorn had faked Tup's death on Kamino injecting him with senflax, putting him in a death like state before removing him without anyone the wiser.
CT-5555 code name Fives, who had also discovered the truth after Tup's so called death, deceived by Palpatine and made a wanted fugitive on Coruscant, Thorn had managed to capture him first, taking him into hiding.
CT-1409 — Echo — was next.
Captured by the Techno Union, he was twisted into a tool of war, transformed from loyal soldier into a living algorithm.
Imprisoned, augmented, and wired into the Separatist command systems, Echo became a weapon aimed at the very Republic he once served.
But Thorn would not abandon him to the enemy.
He deployed Tup and Fives on a silent retrieval mission — no backup, no glory, only shadows.
They returned with the tech-savvy clone, battle-scarred and half-machine, but alive. More than that, Echo now carried with him a wealth of Separatist intelligence — stolen from within, etched into his augmented mind.
But victory came with consequences.
The whispered rumors of Tup's death, the mysterious vanishing of Fives, and the unspoken truth behind the inhibitor chips began to ripple through the ranks. CT-6116 — Kix — followed the trail too closely, asking the right questions, uncovering too much.
And the Sith took notice.
Count Dooku ordered his capture.
Kix was seized by Separatist agents and ferried through the stars, destined to face the Dark Lord's interrogation. The Republic, unaware of his importance, fired upon the vessel during transit.
Damaged and desperate, the ship made a blind jump into hyperspace — vanishing into the void and crash-landing on an uncharted planet in an unknown system.
But Thorn was watching. Always.
He mobilized his most trusted operatives — Tup, Fives, and Echo — and sent them across the stars on a single mission:
Recover the lost clone—and they did, adding a new clone into the fold.
The last to join Thorn's ranks were CT-2775, codename Slick, and CT-6922 — Dogma.
Slick, once condemned for treason and espionage after questioning the Republic's clone slaves. Dogma, imprisoned for the wrongful execution of a clone general — a loyal soldier who had simply followed orders without knowing the full truth.
Both were cast aside. Forgotten. Labeled traitors by the very system that had bred them.
But Thorn saw something different — not liabilities, but lost assets. Warriors forged by disillusionment and hardened by betrayal. Men who had glimpsed the rot beneath the armor.
Unwilling to let capable brothers waste away in confinement, Thorn orchestrated their escape. Quiet. Precise. Untraceable.
By the end of it, he hadn't just freed two clones — he had recruited two survivors.
"Commander?"
"Commander?"
Thorn blinked, pulled from the depths of his thoughts. His eyes, hardened by memory and foresight, refocused.
"Huh? Yes—what is it?" he said, his voice low. He gave a small shake of the head, as if trying to scatter ghosts.
Fives stepped forward, unease etched into his expression. The weight they all carried hung heavy in his voice.
"How should we proceed?"
Thorn's gaze lingered on him for a moment — on all of them — then shifted to the datapad in his hand. His voice, when it came, was calm but edged with urgency.
"Rest. We'll need it. The path ahead isn't forgiving."
He passed the datapad to Fives.
"Be at these coordinates tomorrow. Don't be late."
With that, he turned and strode toward the exit, the worn hem of his cloak trailing behind like a shadow.
The six clones stood in silence, watching their commander disappear into the gloom.
"Understood, sir," they said in unison — voices steady, yet carrying the quiet storm of what was to come.