The lab was immaculate.
Walls of sterile white curved outward in concentric circles, filled with glowing blue canisters, surgical platforms, incubation pods, and long console stations humming with data. Shepard stepped into the chamber like a king entering his throne room.
"This will be your facility," said the Kaminoan supervisor, calmly gesturing with one long, slender arm. "You are to study the cellular degradation rate of our standard clone units. The accelerated aging process continues to produce unstable genomes after roughly ten years. Your task is to resolve this."
Shepard nodded. "I understand. I'll begin immediately."
And he did.
But what they didn't know—what no one on Kamino suspected—was that Shepard had already begun. From the moment he arrived, a handful of his nanites, no larger than dust motes, had drifted through the air vents, into the console systems, and down into the very heart of Kamino's central database. Unnoticed, undetected.
They devoured nothing.
They copied everything.
Within days, Shepard had full access to Kamino's complete archive—every clone batch, genetic experiment, medical record, supply chain, restricted project, and even communications with the Galactic Senate. He became, silently, the most informed being on Kamino.
Yet, to everyone else, he remained a diligent worker. A reserved and precise scientist who clocked in each day and tirelessly ran tests. His official project—reversing clone aging—moved swiftly under his guidance. He used a nanite-protein bridge to reinforce telomeres in the clones' DNA, effectively halting the degradation that caused rapid aging. It was a radical improvement—and it worked.
Six months later, he submitted a full report with controlled testing, results, and simulated projections.
The Kaminoan High Council approved his findings unanimously.
He was promoted to Clone Engineer.
A year passed.
In that time, Shepard's reputation among Kaminoan elites grew. He was efficient, discreet, and effective. The Republic, though distant, began requesting more oversight—but none interfered directly with him.
Meanwhile, outside the scope of Kamino's awareness, Shepard expanded his influence.
Using encrypted networks and untraceable proxies, he began offering "medical consultations" to the richest beings in the Mid and Inner Rims—senators, crime lords, corporate magnates. The deal was simple: exchange credits for biological rejuvenation. His nanites, now fully integrated into his blood, allowed him to transfer programmable colonies into willing patients—resetting aging cells, healing defects, even replacing organs.
Within months, he was wealthy beyond comprehension.
And with wealth came reach.
He located a dead, storm-wracked moon in the Outer Rim—off all charts, buried beneath sensor static and forgotten trade routes. There, with bought workers, droids, and reprogrammed navigation buoys, he built Facility Zero, his personal laboratory and safe haven.
Inside its black steel halls, seven incubation vats stood like titans. Each held one of his finest creations—super clones, birthed from Mandalorian DNA but enhanced far beyond natural limits.
He didn't just solve aging. He rewrote biology.
Each clone had increased bone density, adaptive muscle fibers, reinforced neural pathways, and tactical micro-AI implants that synced with Shepard's nanite architecture. He spliced in traits from other species—Zabrak pain tolerance, Togruta spatial awareness, even trace regenerative markers from Vratix DNA. But most importantly, he trained them.
In the year of quiet, while the galaxy slept, Shepard prepared his army.
He named them Unit Seraph.
They studied strategy, blasters, infiltration, slicing, starship piloting, and languages. He simulated warzones from Hoth to Geonosis. He made them killers. Not mindless like the Republic's future army—but thinkers. Leaders.
And when they looked at him, they saw more than a creator.
They saw a commander.
Now, back on Kamino, he stood before a new set of orders.
A datapad lay open on his lab table. The Kaminoan overseer's voice buzzed faintly from the recording:
"The client has approved the next phase. We are to use the genetic template provided by a Mandalorian bounty hunter—Jango Fett. The Republic requests a full-scale clone army. You are to begin sequencing immediately."
Shepard stared at the message, the storm outside once again lashing the domes of Tipoca City.
"So it begins, huh," he whispered.
The Clone Wars. The rise of the Empire. The Sith behind the curtain.
But unlike the canon timeline, he was now a variable.
A ghost from another world with the power to shape flesh, code, and stars.
He turned to his terminal and activated the secure uplink to Facility Zero. A live feed shimmered to life, revealing the seven clone vats and the armored figures within, floating in cold blue liquid.
Shepard leaned in close, eyes cold and calculating.
"This war won't go the way they think it will."
He had built warriors, not soldiers. Not pawns.
He had time. Power. Wealth. Knowledge.
And now…
An army.