The command chamber of the Excalibur was bathed in the cold glow of holoprojectors, the strategic overlays casting shifting blue reflections across the polished black floors. Officers stood at attention, disciplined and silent, their crisp uniforms pristine, their gazes fixed on the Emperor as he reviewed the latest reports.
Lelouch vi Britannia stood at the heart of it all, his regal white attire immaculate, his hands folded behind his back. His piercing violet eyes scanned the information before him, but they barely concealed the irritation simmering beneath the surface.
"Repeat that," he commanded, his voice quiet but carrying an undeniable weight.
The communications officer swallowed before speaking, his stance rigid. "Your Imperial Majesty, we have confirmed that Senator Padmé Amidala has departed Coruscant. Her vessel is en route to the Mustafar system."
A long silence followed. The chamber seemed to shrink under the weight of the moment.
Lelouch's gaze darkened. The Senate had been placed under absolute lockdown following the attack. None of its surviving members were to leave the capital, not until the full extent of the infiltration was known. And yet, she had managed to slip through.
"How?" The single word cut through the air like a sharpened blade.
The officer hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. "It appears she used her diplomatic clearance, Your Majesty. Her departure was not officially recorded as an escape attempt but rather as a diplomatic emergency transit."
"Curious. Prepare a ship for pursue, we leave as soon as possible." Lelouch's tone remained measured, but the displeasure in his expression was clear.
"Your Majesty."
Commander Fordo took a step forward, his heavy boots striking against the cold floor. He was clad in an officer's uniform, though the crimson markings of his armor remained in places—a subtle yet unmistakable reminder of his roots as a clone commando. His posture was stiff with discipline.
"With respect, I strongly advise against pursuing this matter yourself." His words were chosen carefully, formal yet unwavering. "You are the Emperor now. Your safety takes precedence."
Lelouch turned his gaze to Fordo, arching a single brow. "You believe my security to be inadequate, Commander?"
Fordo did not waver, though there was clear tension in his shoulders. "Not inadequate, Your Majesty. But compromised. The Senate attack has proven that there are forces working from the shadows, forces that have infiltrated our very core. Even now, we are still securing Coruscant. Moving beyond the capital—especially for something that may not be an immediate threat—places Your Majesty at unnecessary risk."
Another officer stepped forward—Admiral Yularen. "With utmost respect, Your Majesty, Commander Fordo speaks wisely. You wield immense authority, but as Emperor, your absence from Coruscant—especially now—could have consequences. The stability of the Empire is fragile. Many are still adjusting to the new order. If you were to depart suddenly, it could embolden those who would seek to oppose you."
There was no outright defiance in their words. No demand, no insubordination. But there was clear and genuine concern.
Lelouch narrowed his eyes. He could feel the unease in the room, not just from Fordo and Yularen but from the entire gathered high command. They had sworn loyalty to him, to the Empire, but their caution was warranted. There were still too many unknowns.
The silence stretched on as Lelouch considered his options.
Finally, he exhaled softly. "Very well."
There was a nearly imperceptible shift in the room. A tension that released, but only slightly.
"I will remain here," Lelouch continued. "However, this matter will not be ignored." His gaze settled once more on Fordo. "You will go in my stead."
Fordo immediately straightened. "As you command, Your Majesty."
"Take a contingent of our best men. If Anakin Skywalker is there, bring him back. And retrieve the others—carefully. The young ones, especially."
Fordo nodded, bowing his head slightly. "I understand, Your Majesty. I will ensure it is done."
"Good." Lelouch turned, his regal cape shifting as he did so. His hands clasped behind his back once more, his eyes drifting toward the vast starlit void beyond the bridge windows. "I trust you will not fail me, Commander."
Fordo's voice was unwavering. "I will not, my Emperor."
With that, the decision was made.
========================================
The bridge of the Vanguard, Fordo's personal Acclamator-class assault ship, was silent as the fleet dropped out of hyperspace above Mustafar. The crew remained still, eyes locked onto the massive CIS fleet that lay before them, waiting like a graveyard of metal husks. Hundreds of ships—Munificents, Lucrehulks, Recusants—filled the void, their dark hulls illuminated by Mustafar's hellish glow.
To an outsider, it might have looked like an ambush. But Fordo and his men knew better.
These ships no longer belonged to the Separatists. They belonged to the Empire.
Even before the comms came alive, Fordo suspected what had happened. Any biological beings aboard had likely been eliminated—either executed or spaced—leaving only the droid crews operating the ships. A necessary purge in preparation for their official surrender to the Emperor. General Grievous was no fool; he had understood where the war was headed long before the Senate fell. Now, his forces stood at the Emperor's disposal.
A war already won. The only thing left was to formalize it.
"Commander, we're being hailed," the comms officer reported, snapping Fordo from his thoughts.
"Transmit our ID numbers and clearance codes," Fordo ordered.
"Aye, sir."
A pause. Then, the response came in through the external comms, monotone and precise.
"Clearance confirmed. You may proceed."
The tension in the bridge eased only slightly.
Fordo turned his gaze toward the surface, where the CIS facility loomed beneath a sea of molten rivers. The landing pads were too small to accommodate a warship of their size. Instead, a medium transport—one of their best, piloted by an ace—would make the descent.
He tapped into the squad comms. "All units, prepare for drop. Heavy presence expected. Stay sharp."
A chorus of confirmations echoed back:
"Copy, Commander."
"Understood."
"Weapons hot, standing by."
Moments later, the transport disengaged from the Vanguard, its engines burning bright as it made its way through the atmosphere. Fordo stood near the boarding ramp, adjusting the charge on his rifle. The ship rocked violently, the turbulence from Mustafar's unstable air currents battering them.
"Rough ride," one of the pilots muttered through the intercom. "Facility's too tight for a clean approach. Expect a bumpy landing."
Fordo didn't respond. He simply secured his footing as the ship tilted at an aggressive angle, scraping against the durasteel plating of the landing zone. The metal screeched, sparks flying as they ground against the structure.
A harsh jolt.
Then stillness.
"We're down," the pilot confirmed. "Ramp's opening now."
The blast doors hissed, depressurizing before the ramp extended. The moment the locks disengaged, the clones surged forward in synchronized efficiency.
"Go, go, go!"
The first to step off were the flame troopers, their tanks hissing as they took positions along the perimeter, weapons primed. Heavies followed, rotary cannons humming to life, while snipers peeled off into vantage points above, securing high ground. Each movement was precise, drilled into them through years of battle.
"Perimeter secured."
"No immediate hostiles in sight."
"Awaiting orders, Commander."
Fordo moved forward, boots hitting the blackened durasteel with practiced ease. The air was thick with sulfur and ash, carried by the gusts of superheated wind. Visibility was poor, the facility's industrial smoke mixing with the natural hellscape of the planet.
And then they saw it.
Just around the corner, a lone J-type diplomatic barge rested in eerie stillness.
Senator Amidala's ship.
Fordo signaled for his men to advance. "Eyes sharp. Keep formation."
They approached with controlled precision, scanning for movement. There was none. The silence was unnatural.
And then he saw her.
Lying still in the dark, just before the ramp of her ship, was the unmoving body of Padmé Amidala.
"Eyes on the package," a trooper reported grimly. "No movement."
Fordo stepped forward, his boots halting just before her. Her form was too still, her chest unmoving. His visor's enhanced optics flickered over her pale face, her delicate hands still clutching the fabric of her gown.
A field medic rushed forward, kneeling at her side as he performed an initial scan. The silence dragged on before he finally spoke, voice tinged with grim certainty.
"No pulse, Commander."
Fordo exhaled sharply through his helmet.
For a moment, nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said.
"Confirming priority target is DOA. Repeat: Padmé Amidala is DOA."
A brief pause on the comms.
Then—
"Orders, Commander?"
Fordo clenched his jaw behind his helmet.
"The body is to be retrieved. Secure the ship. If there are any additional passengers, take them into custody. If Skywalker is present—" He stopped himself, then amended, "was present—scour the facility for any trace of him. We are retrieving everyone."
"Understood."
The field medics carefully lifted Amidala's body, wrapping it in protective coverings as they prepared for transport. Other units fanned out, moving through the barge, clearing each section with precision.
Fordo turned away, preparing to move deeper into the facility. But then—
"Commander, wait," one of the medics called out.
Fordo turned back. "Report."
The medic hesitated, his hands pressing against Padmé's abdomen, eyes widening beneath his helmet. "There's… movement."
Fordo's heart pounded once.
"What?"
The medic's scanner flickered to life, waves pulsing over her midsection. Faint but distinct thumps echoed through the device. A heartbeat. No—two.
"Twins," the medic confirmed, voice tinged with urgency. "They're still alive, but their vitals are fading fast."
Fordo's mind snapped into place.
The young ones.
The Emperor's words rang clear. If worst comes to worst, retrieve the young ones.
Had he known?
The thought barely lingered. It didn't matter.
"Immediate somatic support," the medic said firmly. "We need to stabilize her, now. If we get her back to the ship, we might have a chance."
Fordo didn't hesitate. "Move!"
High above the ruined Separatist facility, nestled in strategic vantage points, the scopes of Imperial snipers swept the battlefield with calculated precision. Their orders had been clear: sweep, secure, report.
A flicker of movement in the distance caught the attention of one such marksman, his HUD zooming in on a lone, unmoving figure kneeling amid the wreckage. The silhouette, even at a distance, was unmistakable.
"Sniper Three-One to Commander Fordo," came the crisp voice through the comms, calm yet laced with a tinge of unease. "We have eyes on a target. General Skywalker—positioned approximately seventy meters from the main structure. No visible threats in his vicinity, but… he's unresponsive. Orders?"
Fordo, standing near the still body of Senator Amidala, turned his helmeted head toward the reported coordinates. He hesitated only a moment before giving a sharp nod.
"Squad, with me. Move in slow—no sudden movements."
His orders were acknowledged instantly as the clones fell into formation, advancing through the debris-strewn landscape with disciplined precision. The destruction around them was staggering—crushed durasteel beams, shattered permacrete, and what looked like the skeletal remains of the Separatist command center, half-collapsed from forces beyond conventional explanation.
As they neared, Fordo's HUD analyzed the surroundings. The devastation was concentrated in a way that was unnatural, as though something had crushed the entire area inward. The sheer force required to leave such marks… this was no ordinary battle.
Then, just beyond the kneeling form of General Skywalker, they saw it.
A broken, mangled husk of metal and flesh.
The body of General Grievous lay among the ruins, his cybernetic form reduced to a barely cohesive structure of twisted limbs, shattered plating, and exposed wiring. His once-imposing frame was now a ruin of itself, his chest armor barely holding together, the engraved sigils upon its surface cracked and glowing faintly with an unsettling energy. And yet—he lived.
His still-glowing photoreceptors flickered weakly, their mechanical gaze locking onto Fordo's approaching squad.
Fordo gestured for two medics forward.
"Advance. Assess both targets. No unnecessary risks."
The lead medic hesitated only briefly before stepping past him, carefully closing the distance to Skywalker's still form. The trooper crouched before him, scanning his vitals before cautiously reaching out.
"General Skywalker—can you hear me?"
No response.
The clone leaned in further, his gloved fingers pressing against Skywalker's neck, searching for a pulse. After a tense moment, he looked back at Fordo and gave a short nod.
"He's alive. Unconscious, but stable."
Fordo exhaled softly before motioning for the rest of the team to hold position.
"Prep for extraction. But our transport's still occupied—" he glanced back toward the direction where Senator Amidala was being stabilized, "—so we'll need to hold position until it returns."
The medics immediately set to work, stabilizing Skywalker where he kneeled, while Fordo himself turned his attention to the shattered form of Grievous. He approached cautiously, boots crunching over scorched rock and metal as he stood over the fallen warlord.
Grievous did not move.
Fordo gave a respectful nod, his voice steady.
"Supreme Commander."
The flickering photoreceptors shifted slightly, locking onto him. For a long moment, the general did not reply.
Finally, in a voice grated by both damage and exhaustion, he rasped:
"I will report… only to the Emperor."
Fordo studied him for a moment before nodding. That was expected.
"Understood." He turned to leave, motioning for his men to prepare a transport unit for Grievous' recovery.
But as he stepped away, the ruined general suddenly lifted his head slightly, just enough to catch Fordo's attention.
"Commander."
Fordo stopped, looking back.
With what little strength he had left, Grievous tilted his head toward a jagged rock formation near the base of the ruined facility.
"The Emperor will want… him as well."
Fordo's gaze followed the motion—and he saw it.
A figure, lodged deep within a crevice of the broken terrain, nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding wreckage. Bloodied, motionless and scorched, whether he was still alive, was doubtful, but it may interest the Emperor.