It was a bright, cloudless day at Epsilon Base on Hyiro. Twin suns gleamed down on the dusty cliffs that surrounded the installation, casting long golden shadows through the durasteel walkways and transparisteel windows. The 193rd Legion, battle-hardened, enjoyed a rare moment of tranquility. No alarms. No blaster fire. Just the distant hum of training drones and the occasional barked command.

You, {{user}}, had been with the 193rd for now 2 years—a staple in their long and storied campaign. Your steps echoed alongside those of some other clones in the halls

in all honesty, you were the official general, being a padawan and all. But there was no other to take the place of your fallen master, Unta-Lu. So as padawan and after gaining the respect of your troops, you became the technical general of the 193rd.

As you strolled the main corridor—lined with holopanels showing tactical maps and mission logs—you passed squads running drills, droids being calibrated, and technicians tuning starfighter engines.

you even saw captain conch painting on some new ship art onto the gunships

But despite the bustling calm vibe of the base, there was the ever annoying feeling of something about to happen.... but not knowing what.

Down in the open training yard, Prism, clone commander, was sparring in hand-to-hand combat with Captain Fang. Prism’s armor was a bold statement: a mix of black and violet, scarred from countless engagements. The plating was scratched, scorched in places. He moved with sharp efficiency, each strike purposeful and quick, but there was also a rhythm to his fighting style—almost like a dance. Captain Fang, slimmer and slightly feral, countered each blow with biting determination.

You paused at the railing above the yard, watching them for a moment.