Where Every Scroll is a New Adventure
Hiya! I absolutely love your writing and always look forward to your posts
I saw that request about the commanders catching you with their helmets on and I was wondering if you could do that but with the bad batch?
Again, love your writing. I hope you have a great day/night!
Hey! Thank you so much—that means a lot to me! 💖
I actually was planning to include the Bad Batch too but wanted to start with just the commanders first.
⸻
HUNTER
You weren’t expecting to get caught.
You were standing in the cockpit, wearing Hunter’s helmet—not for mischief, really, but because you were genuinely curious how he functioned with his enhanced senses dulled. You wanted to know what it was like to see through his eyes. To feel what he felt.
The helmet was heavy. Too heavy.
He walked in mid-thought, and you froze.
Hunter didn’t speak. He just stood there, half in shadow, his brow furrowing slowly like he was processing an entirely new battlefield situation.
You didn’t say anything either. You just… stood there. Helmet on. Stiff-backed. Guilty.
Finally, he stepped forward.
“…That’s mine.”
You took it off and held it out sheepishly. “I wanted to see what you see. It’s filtered. Muffled. How do you live like this?”
Hunter took the helmet from your hands and gave you a long, unreadable look.
“I don’t. I adapt.”
Then he brushed past you—close, deliberate—and you swore his fingers grazed yours just a little longer than necessary.
⸻
WRECKER
“Whoa!”
You heard the booming voice before you could even turn.
You were in the loading bay, helmet pulled low over your face as you tried to figure out how the heck Wrecker even saw through it with one eye. It was like wearing a bucket with a tunnel vision problem.
He charged over with the biggest grin you’d ever seen.
“Look at you! You’re me!”
You pulled the helmet off, grinning. “I don’t know how you walk around with this thing. It’s like being inside a durasteel trash can.”
“I know, right? But it looks great on you!”
He took the helmet back, turning it in his hands, then gave you a wide-eyed look.
“You wanna try my pauldron next?! Or lift something heavy?!”
You laughed. “Maybe next time, big guy.”
Wrecker beamed. “You’re so getting the full Wrecker experience.”
You weren’t sure what that meant, but you were both strangely okay with it.
⸻
TECH
You had only meant to try it on for a second.
But you made the mistake of reading one of his datapads while wearing it. And once the internal HUD booted up? Well, curiosity took over.
Tech returned from the cockpit to find you hunched over in the corner, still wearing his helmet and scanning system diagnostics.
His voice was clipped. “You’re tampering with active interface systems.”
“I’m learning,” you shot back, not looking up.
He blinked, then stepped closer, fingers twitching in that nervous way he did when he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or horrified.
“You activated my visual overlay filters.”
“I figured out the encryption pattern.”
Now that caught his attention.
He slowly knelt beside you. “How long have you had it on?”
“…Twenty-three minutes?”
He swallowed. “And you’re not… disoriented?”
“Nope. Just slightly overstimulated.”
There was a pause.
Then, quietly: “You may keep it on. Temporarily.”
You turned. “You trust me with your helmet?”
He cleared his throat. “Don’t make it a habit.”
But he was already adjusting the fit at the sides of your head.
⸻
ECHO
Echo did not find it cute.
He found it concerning.
The helmet wasn’t just gear. It was part of his reconstructed identity—a thing he wore not because he wanted to, but because he had to.
So when he saw you on the edge of his bunk, wearing it—your legs swinging slightly, gaze distant—his chest tightened.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
You looked up, startled. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I was just… wondering what it’s like. Living with this.”
He stepped forward slowly, kneeling to your eye level. “It’s not something I’d want you to understand.”
You pulled the helmet off, placed it in his hands. “I didn’t think about that.”
He let out a quiet breath, then shook his head. “No. You did. That’s why you’re here thinking about it.”
You gave a soft smile. “I wanted to know you better.”
He swallowed hard. “You already do.”
⸻
CROSSHAIR
You knew exactly what you were doing.
And that was the problem.
You sat in the sniper’s perch in the Marauder, elbow on one knee, head tilted just slightly as you stared down at the deck below—wearing his helmet.
You heard the footstep. The sigh.
“Really?” His voice was lazy, drawled out like he wasn’t fazed, but there was a subtle tension underneath.
You didn’t look at him. “I wanted to see what it was like. Looking down on the rest of the world.”
He chuckled once, dry and sharp. “And? Is it satisfying?”
“No. It’s lonely.”
Crosshair was quiet for a long moment. Then he climbed the ladder halfway, leaned against the edge of the platform.
“Don’t get comfortable in it.”
You turned your head, voice just a little softer. “Why not?”
“Because if you wear it any longer, I might start to like it.”
You handed it back.
But you were both thinking about that line for the rest of the day.
I had a crazy thought today: What if Echo wasn't the only part of the Algorithm? What if the Techno Union had another person (Reader) hooked up at a separate location? They would have both Echo and Reader work together to solve complex strategic problems. What kind of relationship would form between the two, and what would happen after Echo was rescued?
Echo x Reader
The first time you heard his voice, it was distorted—filtered through wires, machinery, and pain.
“Who are you?”
You blinked through the sluggish haze of chemical sedation. The light above you flickered, casting your enclosure in sickly green. For a moment, you thought it was another hallucination. The Techno Union’s experimental sedatives had a way of blending reality with memory.
But the voice came again, clearer this time.
“You’re… not one of them.”
“No,” you rasped, throat raw. “And you?”
He paused. Then, quietly, like a truth long buried:
“CT-1409. Echo.”
That name—Echo—stirred something in the recesses of your mind. A ghost of a clone you’d heard rumored to be dead. Lost on the Citadel. But if he was here… then you weren’t alone in this twisted hell.
They Called It the Algorithm.
The Techno Union had no use for your body—just your mind. Your military experience, your understanding of Jedi tactics, your intuition. You’d been captured during a failed mission on Raxus, and while you expected torture or death, you hadn’t expected this: to be strung up like some living datastream, brain siphoned and cross-linked to an interface you didn’t understand.
They called it a miracle of modern war-efficiency. You called it a cage.
And Echo… he was the other half of it.
You weren’t in the same room—your pods were separated—but your minds were connected via the neural interface. Whenever they activated the system, your consciousness merged with his, just enough to collaborate on what they called “Strategic Simulations.” War games. Problem solving. Target prioritization.
You both knew the truth: they were using your combined intellect to predict Republic troop movements. Every algorithm you helped solve, every solution you helped generate, killed people you once called comrades.
“I hate this,” you whispered one day, during a low-activity cycle when the painkillers dulled your tongue. “I hate being part of this.”
A pause. Then his voice—steady but soft.
“So do I. But I think better when you’re here.”
You blinked. “…Thanks?”
“No, I mean it.” There was an awkward silence. “When I thought I was the only one… I was slipping. Couldn’t hold onto myself. But then you came. You reminded me who I am. Even in here.”
You swallowed, chest aching at the vulnerability in his voice.
“You’re not just a number, Echo,” you said. “You’re a person. And I see you.”
He didn’t answer right away.
“I see you too.”
⸻
Over Time, a Bond Formed.
There were days the interface ran endlessly—your minds linked for hours, pressed together in shared thought. You knew when he was angry, when he was calm, when he wanted to scream. You learned the rhythm of his reasoning, the cadence of his sarcasm, the echo of grief.
You shared stories in the dead zones. When the machines weren’t listening.
He told you about the 501st. About Fives. About Rex.
You told him about the Temple, your Master, your reckless flying.
Sometimes, you joked about escaping together. About finding a beach somewhere.
“Too many clones for me to trust the ocean,” he’d mutter. “One tide shift and half of them are trying to build a battalion out of sand.”
You’d laughed, a rusty sound. It felt foreign in your throat.
But that laughter became a kind of resistance. So did your connection.
The Techno Union noticed.
They began separating your sessions. Isolating your minds. Severing the link.
The day they cut the neural tether entirely, Echo’s voice disappeared from your thoughts like a light going out. You screamed against the restraints, powerless.
He was gone.
Days Passed. Then Weeks.
You started talking to yourself. Pretending he could still hear. Whispering plans you’d never execute, memories you weren’t sure were yours anymore.
Your mind began to unravel.
Until one day, the alarm blared.
You jerked awake as the facility shook. Outside your pod, Skakoans ran like ants. The machinery sparked. Your interface glitched.
And in the flicker of emergency lights—
A face.
Metal and flesh. Scarred and beautiful.
“Echo?” Your voice broke.
His eyes widened. “You—”
And then the moment was gone. Soldiers stormed in behind him. A trooper in matte black and red—Clone Force 99, you recognized them in a flash—pulled him back.
“They have another one,” Echo shouted. “She’s hooked into the system—she’s part of it!”
The taller clone, Hunter, paused. “Where?”
“There!” Echo pointed. “Don’t leave her!”
You tried to scream, but the interface surged, flooding your mind with static. Your body spasmed. Everything went white.
⸻
You Woke Up in a Medical Bay.
For a terrifying second, you thought it was still the Techno Union—until you saw the blue stripes on the armor around you.
The 501st.
And standing beside your cot, his Scomp link resting awkwardly against his side, was Echo.
Alive.
Free.
He looked thinner than you remembered. Hollow-eyed. As if he still didn’t quite believe it was real.
Neither did you.
“Hey,” you whispered, tears stinging.
He swallowed. “Hey.”
He crossed to you, hands trembling slightly as he reached for yours.
“I told them not to leave you,” he said. “I—I made them go back.”
“I knew you would.”
He laughed—a shaky, broken sound—and sat beside you.
“I thought I lost you,” he admitted. “When they cut the tether, I thought—”
“I know,” you murmured. “I felt it too.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. There was no need. You’d already shared your minds. Now all that remained was your hearts.
But Freedom Wasn’t Simple.
You were debriefed for days. The Jedi Council wanted answers. The Republic wanted data. Rex and Anakin debriefed Echo constantly, praising his resilience while ignoring the toll.
The 501st welcomed you cautiously. You weren’t a clone, not a general, just… someone in between. A survivor like Echo. A curiosity. A symbol.
The worst part? The silence between you and Echo.
Not intentional. Not cruel.
Just… fragile.
He was different now. Wary. Reserved.
You tried to reach him. But he kept walls up.
He still spoke to Rex and Jesse and the occasional whisper to Fives’ ghost, but you could tell—something had changed. Like being out of the system had broken something inside him.
One night, after lights-out in the barracks, you found him alone in the hangar.
“I miss the link,” you said.
He turned, surprised. “What?”
“I miss knowing what you felt. What you were thinking. Now… I don’t know how to reach you.”
His face twisted—pain, guilt, grief.
“I don’t want you to see what I am now,” he said. “I’m not the man you met in there. I’m more machine than—”
“Don’t say that.”
He looked at you, exhausted. “You don’t understand.”
“I do,” you said, stepping closer. “I was there. They took everything from both of us. But that connection we had? That wasn’t because of wires or data streams. That was real. And it still is.”
He stared at you like a drowning man seeing shore.
And then—finally—he let you hold him.
He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. The pain was still too fresh.
But when you curled into him that night, metal against flesh, scars against scars, you both knew: the war wasn’t over.
But you weren’t alone anymore.