I've just come across this recently. This looks SO cool & incredibly detailed. If ANY OG Lucasarts Star Wars game deserves a remake, it's this gem of a video game, Star Wars Republic Commando (2005). Thank you so much Oleksandr Maziura for this Republic Commando Intro Remake.
In addition: Taun We's hand gesture was a really nice touch (showing her care & empathy towards Baby Boss). Also, after encountering that A-DSD Advanced Dwarf Spider Droid in the Training Simulator, I remember when playing the game I'd IMMEDIATELY toss a good ol' Detonator towards 'em, target 'em & then order ALL Squad Members to concentrate fire on THAT Target.
Back in the day I used to ❤️ using the Engage Target Command and see my Squad just unload their array of Blaster, Sniper & Anti-Armor rounds (in addition to their Thermal & EC (Electro-Static Charge) Detonators) while my Target's health just slowly drained away. Nothing beats Concentrated Firepower!
Scorch × Reader
Blaster bolts lit the Shipyards catwalks like strobe lights in a night‑club. Not the vibe you’d planned when you sliced the maintenance door for a clean bounty grab. One step in—boom—three Separatist commandos, a Vult‑droid wing overhead, and four Republic commandos in matte Katarn armor stacking up beside you.
Boss—orange pauldrons, voice like a field sergeant holo‑ad—barked, “Unknown armed asset on deck C‑7, identify.”
You spun your WESTAR pistol. “Asset? Cute. Name’s [Y/N]. Freelance.”
To your right, the green‑striped commando muttered, “Freelance complication.”
Behind him, the crimson‑visored sniper gave a low chuckle. “Complication’s bleeding already.”
And then the demolition expert—Scorch, yellow stripes, joking even under fire—leaned out, lobbed a flash, and yelled over the alarm, “Hey, freelancer! Where’s your head at? Left or right? Pick a lane before someone decorates the floor with it.”
Something about the grin in his voice made you smirk. You dropped behind a crate with them just as the flash popped. “Guess it’s with you nerf‑herders for the next five minutes.”
Five minutes stretched into an hour of shutdown corridors, hacked bulkheads, and mortar echo. Fixer sliced the security mainframe; you handled the underside maintenance ports he couldn’t reach without alerts. Your bounty (a Neimoidian logistician) was fleeing in the same direction as Delta’s target datapack—perfect overlap.
Sev provided overwatch, grimly amused, “Bounty hunter’s got decent trigger discipline. Don’t shoot her yet.”
Boss’ voice echoed over the comms, “Mission first. Everyone out alive—optional.”
Scorch, planting shaped charges, kept the tone light. “C’mon, Boss. Optional? I was just getting to like her. She laughs at my jokes.”
“I’m laughing at the absurd probability I survive this.”
“Stick with me, you’ll live. Probably. Ninety‑ish percent.”
you and Scorch sprinted down a service tunnel to place the last charge.
He tossed you a spare detonator. “Push that when Sev says ‘ugly lizard,’ okay?”
“Why that code?”
“Because he only says it when a Trandoshan shows up, and that’s exactly when we want the bang.”
Sure enough, Sev’s dry voice soon crackled, “Ugly lizard, twelve o’clock.” You hit the switch. The deck buckled, cutting off enemy reinforcements. Scorch whooped, slammed his gauntlet against yours. “Told ya. Harmonic teamwork.”
⸻
With the datapack secured and your bounty stunned in binders, you and Delta reached the evac gunship. Boss motioned you aboard. “Republic intel could use your debrief.”
You eyed the Neimoidian. “He’s my paycheck.”
Fixer chimed in “Republic will pay more for him and the pack.”
“And we didn’t vaporize you. Factor that into the fee.” Sev said dryly.
Scorch stepped closer, visor tilting. “Look, [Y/N]—head’s gotta be somewhere, right? Why not keep it above water instead of floating in space? Ride with us, collect a bonus, maybe grab a drink later.”
You raised a brow. “With commandos?”
He shrugged. “I make a mean reactor‑core cocktail. Ask Sev, he hates it.”
“Because it’s toxic,” Sev deadpanned.
You exhaled, Chaos, adrenaline—these kriffers matched the tempo of your life better than any cartel employer had.
“Fine,” you said, hauling the Neimoidian up the ramp. “But the drink’s on you, Demo‑Boy.”
Scorch’s laugh filled the gunship bay. “Knew your head was in the right place.”
⸻
.Hours later, in a Republic forward hangar, the bounty transfer finished. Boss handed you a cred‑chip far heftier than expected. “Hazard compensation,” he explained.
Fixer simply nodded—respect acknowledged. Sev offered a half‑grin. “Next time I say ‘ugly lizard,’ you better still be on our channel.”
Then Scorch leaned against a crate, helmet off, sandy hair plastered, scorch‑mark across one cheek. “So… drink?”
You twirled the chip between gloved fingers. “Where’s your head at now, Scorch?”
He winked. “Currently? Somewhere between ‘mission accomplished’ and ‘hoping you stick around long enough for me to find out what other explosives we make together.’”
You laughed—a real laugh, no alarms or blasterfire backing it. “Buy me that reactor‑core cocktail, and we’ll see.”
As you walked out side by side, the distant clang of sortie sirens sounded almost like drums.
And in the thrum of the hangar lights, you realized: this rhythm—wild, unpredictable, deafening—might be exactly where your head belonged.