Star Wars: Eyes of God Chapter 11 - Clones

Kyle skimmed the data spike's files again, weighing his options in his head, but most of them were just too high risk, especially with his lack of equipment. Razor Claws it is, he decided, idiots chopping droids in a warehouse, probably lax on patrols, easy in-and-out with Stuart leading the way, he'd get to the safe and have a nice little pay day.

He pocketed the datapad, channeled chakra to his legs, and bounded across rooftops toward sector twelve, sticking to shadows and pipes, dropping Stuart from his coat near the warehouse vent before slipping the rat inside with a mental command.

Meanwhile, deep in that very warehouse, four Razor Claw goons lounged around a battered table littered with half-empty bottles of Corellian ale and a flickering holoprojector showing old podrace reruns, as they dove into yet another pointless squabble while ignoring the pile of stripped astromechs waiting to be fenced.

"Look, all I'm saying is, if you had to fight a rancor with just one weapon, it'd be a vibroblade every time," grunted the burly Weequay named Zorg, his leathery skin creased in annoyance as he slammed his mug down, spilling foam onto the table. "Blasters? Pfft, one shot and the thing's armored hide just laughs at you. Vibroblade gets in close, slices right through, bam! Rancor steak for dinner."

The skinny Rodian, Sklarg, buzzed his proboscis in disbelief, leaning forward with his suction-cup fingers gesturing wildly. "Are you brain-fried from too much glitterstim, Zorg? Vibroblade? Against a rancor? You'd be rancor chow before you got within spitting distance! No, it's gotta be a thermal detonator. Toss it in the mouth, boom! inside out rancor confetti. Simple, effective, and you don't even break a sweat."

Zorg rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his scarred chest plate. "Thermal detonator? That's cheating! The question was one weapon, not a pocket nuke. And what if the rancor doesn't swallow? Then you're just standing there with your pants down while it burps fire. Nah, vibroblade's personal, honorable, like a real warrior."

From the corner, the twitchy human Renn piped up, adjusting his cybernetic eye.  "Honorable? This is the underlevels, not some Jedi temple duel. And you're both wrong anyway. It's obviously an annihilator rifle. Disintegrates on a molecular level, no rancor left to worry about. Science beats brute force every time."

Sklarg snorted. "Annihilator rifle? That's banned in like, twelve systems! And expensive! What, you gonna pawn your own kidneys to afford one? Plus, if the rancor's charging, you miss once and you're paste. Thermal detonator's reliable, Hutts use 'em all the time!"

Zorg laughed, a gravelly bark. "Hutts use 'em 'cause they're too fat to swing a blade! And Renn, your fancy Annihilator? One EMP from a storm and it's a fancy club. Vibroblade don't need batteries, idiot."

The fourth guy, a lanky Zabrak named Vex, who was polishing his horns absentmindedly, chimed in with a cheerful grin. "You guys are overcomplicating it. Why not just use a lightsaber? Cuts through anything, and it makes that cool vwoom sound. Plus, you look super heroic waving it around."

All three turned to stare at him, Sklarg spluttering first. "A lightsaber? Where you gonna get one of those, the Jedi gift shop? And even if you did, you'd probably chop your own leg off first swing!"

Zorg nodded vigorously. "Yeah, Vex, stick to your pretty horn buffs. Lightsabers are for Force weirdos, not real fighters like us with vibroblades."

Renn groaned, rubbing his temples. "This is why we never get promotions. Arguing over hypothetical rancors while the boss is out fencing droids."

Sklarg pounded the table. "Thermal detonator or bust! Who's with me?"

Vex shrugged. "I still say lightsaber. It matches my tattoos."

Their bickering echoed on, oblivious to the tiny, reanimated rat slipping through a vent in the wall, its Rinnegan eye glowing faintly as it scurried toward the other room, relaying every word and sight back to Kyle perched high above on a distant rooftop, a smirk forming on his lips as he whispered to himself, "Idiots. This is gonna be easier than I thought."

Kyle directed Stuart deeper into the warehouse with a mental nudge. Perfect. He could slip in, ghost past these morons mid-argument, snag the haul, and be out before they finished debating rancor tactics. And with that cash? That Aratech suite were as good as his. Or at least it was a good start. But first, patience. Stuart crept closer, avoiding a puddle of oil, as the gang's voices droned on.

"Okay, new question, what if the rancor's wearing beskar armor?"

"Then you're screwed no matter what, you bantha-brain!"

Their laughter filled the air, none the wiser to the furry spy in their midst. Stuart darted through the warehouse's underbelly, mapping out the layout in his mind. The main floor had  scattered crates forming natural chokepoints, three entry points including a side loading dock and a roof access hatch, maybe a dozen guards total scattered in lazy patrols, and the safe tucked in a back office behind a reinforced door, probably where the boss holed up counting creds.

"That's what I'm talking about," Kyle said with a grin, his voice a low murmur on the rooftop as he mentally sketched the details for later reference.

He guided Stuart back through the vents with a subtle chakra pulse, the rat scampering out to his waiting hand where he absentmindedly petted its matted fur and muttered, "Well done, little guy," before the cold stiffness reminded him it was a corpse, making him grimace and set it down quickly on the ledge, glad Zarni wasn't around to witness the weirdness and call him out on it.

Dropping down silently, Kyle slipped through the side loading dock entry closest to the safe, hugging the shadows as he channeled chakra to his feet and hands, scaling the interior walls like a spider. He dropped behind the first guard, a human nursing a flask, clamping a hand over his mouth and snapping his neck with a quick twist, dragging the body into a crate stack before it hit the ground; two more went down the same way, a Rodian sliced across the throat with a chakra rod he'd fashioned into a dagger, he hid him under a tarp, and a Weequay choked out with the Force until his eyes bulged and rolled back, stuffed behind some droid scraps.

Making his way to the safe room, Kyle noted the single entrance; no vents or windows, just a straight shot in and out, so stealth was out; he kicked the door open with a chakra-enhanced boot, the metal buckling as he thrust his hand forward.

'Almighty Pull.'

The boss, a fat Nikto scrambling for his blaster, flew from his desk chair straight into Kyle's grip, papers scattering like confetti, and Kyle slammed his head down onto the duracrete floor with brutal force, the skull popping like an overripe watermelon in a spray of red gore and brain matter that splattered across his coat and the walls.

Kyle wiped a chunk of gray matter from his cheek, annoyed at the mess staining his clothes but otherwise unfazed, the tang of blood just another underlevel aroma as he stepped over the twitching corpse toward the safe.

Concentrating with the Force, he extended his senses into the mechanism, tumblers clicking under telekinetic nudges—it was tougher than using the Deva Path's raw pull, requiring finer manipulation like threading a needle, but the control let him feel everything drop into place until the door swung open with a satisfying clunk. He rifled through the contents, pulling out stacks of credit chits totaling maybe 20,000 and a hefty DL-44 heavy blaster pistol with a custom grip, but that was it, no jewels, no data spikes with black market codes, just chump change that left him disappointed, muttering a curse under his breath as he pocketed it all.

"Shouldn't be surprised," he thought, shaking his head at the sparse haul. This was a piece-of-shit operation after all, bottom-feeders scraping by on droid scraps, not some Hutt vault overflowing with riches.

He sighed, slipping back out the way he came, ghosting past the remaining guardsr, bounding up to a large pipe coiled around a towering hab-block where he sat, overlooking the warehouse.

This pace was too damn slow, he mused, fingering the credits in his pocket—small scores like this wouldn't stack up fast enough for the big plans, especially if every hit didn't even cover a night's suite, let alone gear or a ship to chase Ahsoka's deployments.

How to ramp it up? Hitting a bigger jackpot like a Venom sisters depot could mean massive payouts, but the security would be tight, too risky without backup. How could he make more money if he couldn't hit the higher value targets. He could scrounge some fresh corpses from the streets, experiment with chakra rods until he could puppet full-sized humans like remote drones, turning them into an undead squad which couldn't be used to hit multiple places at once, or push his limits and use shadow clone jutsu—he could sense his chakra reserves had ballooned lately, enough to spit out a few solid clones without passing out.

What to do...

Dead bodies meant dealing with rot and horrible smells, plus the creep factor even for him, so nah—shadow clones it was.

Kyle perched on the pipe, digging into fhe memories he had of Naruto. Splitting chakra evenly among duplicates was nearly all he knew about the technique, though he knew a few other things. Hand seals were key: Tiger, then a cross with index and middle fingers, channeling chakra in a burst to manifest copies. His Rinnegan gave him perfect chakra control, like threading energy through a pinhole without waste, but theory was one thing, practice another.

First try: He formed the seals, molded chakra in his core, and released. Poof, a wobbly clone flickered into existence, looking like a distorted mirror image with half his face sagging, before it dispersed in a puff of smoke, leaving him lightheaded but undrained. "Shit, too little chakra," he muttered, shaking it off.

Second attempt: Seals again, this time pushing more chakra outward. Two clones popped up, but one was a midget version stumbling like a drunk, the other a hulking mess with arms too long, both vanishing almost immediately in smoky failure, a larger tug on his reserves making him grunt.

Third go: He refined it, visualizing the split like dividing a pie evenly, thankfully he could dot his thanks to his perfect control and low and behold—bam, a single perfect clone materialized beside him, identical down to the blood-specked coat and smirk, but the effort hit harder than expected, his chakra was dipping low like a battery on red, sweat beading on his forehead as he panted.

"You alright there, boss?" the clone asked, leaning against the pipe with a shit-eating grin that mirrored Kyle's own cocky expressions, eyes twinkling with amusement at his original's flushed face.

"Stop being a dick," Kyle shot back, wiping sweat from his brow, though he couldn't help a tired chuckle—the clone was him, after all.

Kyle took a few minutes to recover, leaning back against the pipe with deep breaths while he waited for his chakra to replenish, the drain leaving him woozy like he'd run a marathon on empty, while his clone stood there idly kicking at a loose rivet, launching into a rambling pitch about the benefits of them tag-teaming Zarni in a threesome.

Kyle eventually snapped, "Shut the fuck up! I'm not having a threesome with myself, that's weird, man."

"So masturbating is weird?" clone Kyle asked, crossing his arms with that same shit-eating grin, eyebrow arched like he was winning some debate.

"If I was masturbating you, then yes!"

"It's still your own penis," the clone argued, gesturing downward.

Kyle just sighed, rubbing his temples. "Is this really how other people see me?" he muttered to himself.

"Come on, man... I just want some of that zarniussy. I'm a clone, I literally have the life span of a mayfly."

"Stop complaining and go down to that warehouse—show me I didn't just waste my time making you."

The clone rolled his eyes. "Aye aye, boss," he said before leaping off the pipe in a chakra-enhanced bound, landing silently below and heading toward the Razor Claws' hideout.

Luckily, just as with the corpses, Kyle could see through the eyes of his clones, handy for coordination, but he figured it'd get kinda annoying if he had more than two. The clone kicked the warehouse door open with a casual boot, the metal screeching as it buckled inward, and called out in a mocking sing-song, "Anybody home? Delivery for the dumbass brigade!"

The guards inside flustered, Zorg dropping his ale mug with a shatter, Sklarg fumbling for his blaster while buzzing curses in Rodian, Renn's cybernetic eye whirring in panic as he yanked his pistol from its holster, and Vex tripping over his chair mid-horn polish, all of them scrambling like roaches under a light.

The clone rushed forward in a blur, jumping high with chakra-boosted legs to avoid the first wild blaster shots that scorched the air, landing on Zorg's shoulders and twisting mid-air to snap the Weequay's neck with a crunch, then vaulting off to drive an elbow into Sklarg's proboscis, caving it in with a wet splatter of green blood before stomping down on the Rodian's throat until it gurgled and went still; Renn got off a shot that almost hit the clone's arm, but the clone closed the gap, grabbing the human's cybernetic eye and yanking it free in a spray of sparks and gore, then shoving the barrel of Renn's own blaster into his mouth and pulling the trigger; Vex swung a vibroblade wildly, but the clone dodged, kicking him in the balls hard enough to make the Zabrak double over vomiting, then finished him with a chakra-enhanced punch through the chest, ribs cracking as his fist burst out the back in a fountain of blood and viscera.

The clone tried to use the Force mid-fight, reaching out to pull a blaster from the air, but nothing happened. Kyle, watching through the link hummed, "I suppose since you're composed of chakra, that makes sense. No midi-chlorians to tap into the Force."

But the clone grinned bloody-toothed, forming hand seals instead and activating the Deva Path—summoning black chakra rods from his palms that he hurled like spears, impaling a fleeing guard through the eye and another through the groin, the rods piercing clean through in graphic sprays of blood and screams, then using Almighty Push to blast the last two into the walls with bone-shattering force, their bodies crumpling like wet sacks, innards rupturing on impact.

Kyle was impressed, nodding to himself on the pipe as the clone stood amid the carnage. He mentally commanded it to loot what was left and head to the next spot, the next razor claw droid warehouse.

He then formed the seals again, pushing through the lingering drain to create two more clones—poof, they materialized beside him, chakra split thinner but holding as he sent them out too. Soon he'd have a nice little fortune stacking up, credits flowing in from multiple hits, enough to book that suite and finally claim Zarni's promise.

Kyle leaned against the pipe, his chakra slowly recharging as he watched through the clones' eyes—the first one ransacking the Razor Claws' warehouse for every last credit chit and sellable droid part, other two clones were already en route to their targets, moving like shadows through the underlevels.

He planned it out in his head, piecing together the data spike's maps: The Razor Claws had a network of small chop shops scattered across sector twelve—half a dozen outposts like this one, low-hanging fruit with minimal guards and predictable layouts. He'd send the clones to hit them all, a coordinated blitz. They'd loot clean, converge back with the hauls, and consolidate before the syndicates even noticed the buzz.

Then, equipment upgrade time. The Razor Claws' take would be peanuts—maybe 100k total if he was lucky, enough for basics but not the premium gear he craved. Nah, that was just seed money. The real jackpot lay with the Venom Sisters, those spice-peddling bitches holed up in the eastern vents, their dens flush with glittering ryll and death sticks stacked high, credits flowing from addicts desperate for a hit. And yeah, the intel mentioned gambling ops too—backroom sabacc tables and rigged slots where losers bet their last chip.

A single raid there could net millions, enough to buy a ship, bribe officials, and book that Aratech suite for a week straight, where he'd finally have Zarni naked and spread-eagled on silk sheets. But to pull that off clean, he needed proper kit, no more improvising. Top priority: Remake his lightsaber, scavenging kyber crystals from black market dealers or ripping one from a dead Jedi's hilt if he had to. Armor too, maybe cortosis-weave to block blades, and a stealth field generator for ghosting through security. All that required cash upfront, so Razor Claws first, build the war chest.

And training…. can't slack there. His Rinnegan gave him perfect recall of every jutsu from his Naruto show memories: Rasengan for close-quarters blasts, Chidori for piercing strikes, hopefully unlock more Rinnegan abilities. Maybe he could combine the force with chakra to make the attacks more powerful. Hopefully, the chakra-Force mashup wouldn't fry his circuits; last thing he needed was a mid-heist seizure. But if it all clicked? He'd be unstoppable. He would easily be able to get revenge on the blood oracle for what he did. Once he had drained this place dry he'd do just that and then get the hell out of this hellhole.

(AN: Kyle now knows the shadow clone jitsu. For anyone afraid of sex scenes involving the clones don't worry it won't be happening. I always thought it was super strange when authors did that. I mean I get it's them but it's also not them. Like why did the girls go along with it? I'm pretty sure my girlfriend would be unhappy if I told her I'm busy to fuck this clone. Idk maybe that's just me. Anyway hope you enjoyed the chapter.)