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arliganzey · 16 days ago

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I did the alt prompt today: Tell Fixer That! @deltasquadweek

Title: Some Light Kidnapping Rating/Warnings: T Word Count: 2k Special Guest Appearances: Walon Vau, Jaing Skirata, Lord Mirdalan, Clone Commando OC "Crash" (borrowed from @the-pyromaniacs-teki 😽), Etain Tur Mukan Summary: Delta Squad has assimilated into the Imperial army. Being commandos is the only thing they know, thanks to their training from Walon Vau. They know some commandos have deserted and are probably living it up with Skirata. But Delta isn't made for civilian life. Given the choice to leave, will they take it? Read it on AO3

Long gone were the days where missions would take them behind enemy lines. There was no more war. Only the Empire. And Delta Squad were Imperial Commandos, wielded at the whim of the Emperor’s Hand, Lord Vader.

It was assassinations, mostly. And intel gathering... for assassinations.

“Let’s shift it, Deltas,” Boss grunted his squadmates. Their transport idled, hovering above the ground. “In you go.”

Three black-clad commandos piled into the back seat of the shuttle. The doors shut, and the shuttle began ascending. They were to return to Imperial City with a thorough report of their findings on Ord Mantell. Another easy mission that could have been accomplished by a droid, but the Empire liked to advertise its power by having commando units visibly deployed in places that had yet to bow to the new galactic order.

“I hope you don’t mind a small detour,” said the shuttle pilot.

Boss froze, and so did Scorch. Three helmets looked toward the cockpit.

“Sarge?”

A hand lifted off the controls and held up a fist. Wait. Then he took something out of his pocket. There was a soft click, and Boss’s helmet went dark. He tore it off, ready to protest, and Sarge held up a fist again.

The others removed their helmets and looked at him as if he had an explanation. Boss shook his head.

“There we go,” Walon Vau said, looking back at them. “Now we can talk.”

“Sergeant Vau,” Scorch said, the shock palpable. That was him all right — grayer at the temples than they remembered, his hair a bit too long, and a new set of creases permanently streaking across his brow.

Vau looked from Boss to Scorch to…

“You’re not Fixer,” he told the third commando with a blink.

“No, sir.” The commando swallowed, shrinking into his seat. “I’m Crash.”

Vau paled and looked at Boss, golden eyes cold. “Where is Fixer?”

Boss gripped his helmet tight. “Stayed behind on Ord Mantell to finish data collection, sir.”

Yes, things were very different now. The squad had their orders and the luxury of time. Fixer could easily get his own transport back to base, and as long as he remained in contact, he was allowed to stay as long as he needed to.

There was a heavy silence. Boss, Scorch, and even Crash, knew Walon Vau was livid.

“You shouldn’t have left him,” Vau said, the muscles in his jaw tightening, his words carefully measured.

“Tell Fixer that, Sarge,” Scorch said. Nothing scared him more than Old Psycho, but this time, he wasn’t going to let Boss take the fall for leaving a brother behind. “He insisted.”

Vau looked at Boss, who simply nodded to confirm. Then he looked at Crash. “You. I trained you.”

“Yes, sir, you did. I served with Gravel Company, then I was placed with—“

“Nevermind. I need to make a call. Get that armor off, all of you, and put it in the airlock.”

—

Jaing leaned against the parked speeder and tossed the small length of pipe down the alleyway. A streak of gold fur and rippling loose skin gave chase, catching it out of the air with a clash of teeth and metal.

Lord Mirdalan trotted back, holding its head high with the bar clenched in its slobbery maw.

“Jate striil, mirda’la Mird’ika,” Jaing cooed, patting Mird on the head. His com rang. “Yeah? … Huh. That’s quite the wrinkle. All right. Should be easy enough. Talk soon.”

Jaing looked over at his companion. She looked up from her datapad and frowned. “Trouble?” she asked.

“Vau needs our assistance. Nothing major.” Jaing picked up the speeder and climbed on. She got on behind him, and Mird hopped into the side car. “Oya,” he said.

—

Fixer was bored.

No more sneaking into facilities. No more slicing terminals to unlock restricted areas. The whole galaxy bent to the will of the Empire, and if they didn’t bow down conceptually, then they did when facing down an Imperial Commando.

All Fixer had to do was ask nicely, and most people let him in.

He sat in the chair of the control room while his program scraped data and ran it against known wanted criminal names and aliases, recording all relevant information. Job applications, rentals, urgent care visits, bodega purchases. This company collected all kinds of information unbeknownst to most people, and the Empire got whatever it asked from them.

Best to do it in person to be sure nothing got left out. But it would take a while, so when Delta was done chasing down any leads, Fixer said he’d stay behind. It could take all night.

There was a knock on the door. Fixer groaned. “I said don’t disturb me.”

They knocked again.

Fixer took his feet off the console and got up, hand primed over his sidearm. “I said—“

He opened the door and saw a white glove holding a small device. “Shab—“ His helmet went black.

His body caved forward and he landed hard on his face plate, hands bound behind his back and tied in an instant. He struggled, but he couldn’t move, not even his legs. An EMP? A paralytic?

Fixer grunted as he was flipped onto his back. Someone tore off his helmet. He looked up into a freckled face with cropped platinum blonde hair.

“Fixer!” she said.

He was staring at a ghost. “Etain?”

Another face appeared. It was the same face as his own, but entirely different. A white glove waved—Kaminoan skin gloves. “Hey, Fixer.”

“Jaing. What the kark are you doing?”

“We’re picking you up. Vau’s orders,” said Etain. It made sense now, Jaing must have deactivated his HUD, and Etain must have used the Force to subdue him. “Can I let you up now, or are you going to shoot us?”

It was a simple question that he didn’t realize would hurt his feelings as much as it did. You’re an Imp now. You were just gathering intel on hidden Jedi. How can Etain trust you? “Uh.”

Jaing took something from his belt. “Time’s up.” He jabbed him with a hyponeedle.

Now everything went black.

—

“Hey, Sarge, can we stop for french fries and milkshakes on the way home?”

Vau could have ignored Scorch, or snapped at him, but he said nothing, the corners of his mouth tightening. The blue and white hyperspace star streaks danced across the older man’s face. If Boss wasn’t mistaken, he thought Sarge was about to smile.

“You’re in your underwear, Scorch. We’re not stopping anywhere,” Boss said.

“It wouldn’t be good for my figure, anyway.”

Boss sat in the copilot’s chair beside Vau while Scorch and Crash took the jump seats. The commandos were down to their blacks, their armor discarded into space before they left.

“We’re not going home,” said Vau. “We’re meeting up with Fixer and getting supplies.”

“Supplies for what?”

“It’ll have to wait until we have Fixer. I don’t want to explain myself twice.”

Scorch opened his mouth, and Boss shot him a glare, so he closed it.

The hyperspace jump was no longer than twenty minutes. “Wait here,” Vau told them. “I’ll be right back with Fixer.”

Boss waited for the cargo hold doors to shut before turning to the other two. “This all feels too tidy. Shouldn’t he be worried the Empire is going to come looking for us?”

“Why? Aren’t we going to be obsolete soon, anyway?” Crash asked.

“They’d send black ops to kill us,” Scorch said. “There’s no retiring from the Empire. Not for us, anyway.”

“Exactly,” said Boss.

“Atin and Corr seemed to get out just fine. Yayax squad too,” Crash pointed out.

Boss chewed it over. “Skirata and Vau did a lot of sneaky osik right under the Republic’s nose. But this is different.”

“Yeah,” Scorch unhooked his safety belt and got up. “... We did rob that bank one time.”

“No, you didn’t,” Vau’s voice rang through the hall before he stepped into the cockpit. He jerked his head at them to follow.

They traipsed down to the cargo hold where, sure enough, Fixer was waiting, along with Mird, and Jaing, and —

“General Tur-Mukan?” Boss was in shock.

“Hey, Boss. Scorch. Nice to see you.” Etain smiled in that nervous way like she was about to navigate a rickety bridge. “And—Crash, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Call me Etain, please, I’m not your commanding officer anymore.”

Scorch walked across the hold and stopped in front of her. Sensing his hesitation, Etain reached for him and gave him a hug, followed by Boss, and then they all looked at Fixer. He shook his head.

“Lovely reunion,” said Vau, leaning back against a crate. “Deltas, this is your last chance to go back to the Empire. Take it or leave it.”

Boss stared at him. He hadn’t quite thought through what was happening—the surprise of seeing Vau had taken up all his attention.

Maybe he thought Vau was merely borrowing them.

“I’d like to negotiate pay and benefits in writing before I agree to anything,” said Scorch. Fixer snorted.

Etain looked at Boss in that Jedi way of hers. She didn’t look much like a Jedi anymore in a raggedy flightsuit and boots. But she still was, and Boss knew what she was doing, and he couldn’t stop her.

He’d spent so long convincing himself of his lot in life, letting go of all the perilous thoughts of what if we left? The Empire kept them busy. But not as busy as Boss would have liked.

Not busy enough to fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. Yes, they spent most nights back in the barracks in Imperial City, sleeping in beds instead of makeshift resting places on two hour shifts. There was no need anymore for long deployments. He couldn’t remember the last time they were in a firefight. They still went everywhere in full kit. They carried blaster rifles so that every civilian who saw them knew there was a silent promise not to meet the wrong end of the barrel. The peace kept them all on edge. On patrols, Boss frequently found his finger on the trigger when there was no danger around at all.

Without the physical exhaustion of active wartime, when Boss laid down on his bed, he stared at the bunk above him and sometimes thought he heard Sev’s slow, even breaths.

He would rather endure torture at the hands of the Empire than those forty-five quiet minutes before his mind would let him rest.

And if he wasn’t thinking about Sev, he was thinking about Atin and Corr. Delta knew for months Skirata was harboring clones, and yet they did nothing about it. No one heard from Vau. For a few weeks after the war ended, Boss kept anticipating a message from the former training sergeants that never appeared.

Delta Squad was on their own.

But they were used to that. They preferred it that way.

“Boss?” Etain asked.

Vau continued to look at Boss, trying to measure his silence. Boss could have sworn Vau was able to read their minds as well as any Jedi. Vau looked as calm as ever, but Boss could see the way he’d folded his arms over his chest. His fists were clinging to his elbows, not tucked into his arms.

He was nervous about Boss’s answer.

“You haven’t told us where we’re going,” said Boss.

“Where do you think we’re going?” Vau spoke slowly and articulated every syllable with a sharp edge.

“To find Sev.”

Vau pushed himself off the crate and walked up to Boss. He looked like a slight man, and he was not quite as tall as Boss, but underneath it all, Boss knew Vau could floor him in an instant.

Boss shrank a little.

“Exactly,” said Vau. He looked to the others. “I have a lead. And if you want to go back to what you were doing, then I will leave you at the next fuel station. But you have a home on Mandalore if you choose to come with me.” He looked from Fixer to Scorch and back to Boss. “We are going to find Sev.”

As far as rousing speeches from Walon Vau go, this one was short and sweet. Fixer fidgeted. Scorch kept his eye on Vau. And Boss wasn’t looking anywhere at all–he’d shut his eyes with a sharp inhale.

“I’m in,” said Scorch.

“Me too,” said Fixer.

“Uh, me too,” said Crash.

And everyone looked at Boss.

“Let’s bring Sev home,” Boss said.

#au time lets gooooooo #deltasquadweek #delta squad #boss #fixer #scorch #sev #clone commando oc #walon vau #jaing skirata #etain tur mukan #imperial commando

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hellfiresky · 4 months ago

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Private Parts (Uncensored)

Contribution to @clonexocweek | Theme: What if?

What if the 79's hosts a comedy night?

Summary: When 79’s hosts a drag-themed comedy night, a surprise guest throws the whole night into dangerous territory. With a fucking non-clone brass lurking in the audience, Parts and his MCs (Fives and Hardcase) must walk the thin line between comedy and insubordination.

Pairing: Parts (Clone OC) x Several Clone Troopers (Hardcase & Fives & Bacara & Wolffe & Howzer & Rex - platonic, sibling dynamics, no clonecest/ship) Word count: 10,7k Warnings: Way too many real life swear words, Republic being shitty towards clones, clone rights, very sarcastic and critical towards the Republic, self-deprecating jokes.

Taglist: @orangez3st @msmeredithrose

79’s had always been a conventional bar, albeit clone-friendly. Well, very clone-friendly. Clone troopers practically got to drink their cheapest beer for free (pale ale, some troopers swore it was just repackaged pisswater). But when you’re officially considered property of the Republic, given the bare minimum BAS, and expected to die young and obedient, you take whatever you can get.

The bar, like any other on Coruscant, ran special nights to keep things interesting. Mostly ARC Night, officially named “Shock & Shots” - a testosterone-fueled event where Advanced Recon Commandos got up to some of the wildest shit known to the Republic. That included drinking contests that had led to at least one ARC getting medevaced out after chugging Mandalorian Tihaar straight from the bottle. Another one was Brass & Glass, where captains and commanders got their overpriced whiskey and Corellian brandy at half price, turning 79’s into an impromptu officer’s lounge whilst the shinies watched in awe (or boredom, if Cody was getting preachy). It was fun. Always had been. But for Parts? Still boring as hell.

Parts was a marine. A hard-charging, fungal-cloud-in-your-goddamn-armour-and-freeze-your-tits-off-on-Rhen-Var-surviving marine of the 21st Nova Corps. He didn’t get the cushy life of a Coruscant Guard trooper - those fuckers spent their days chasing pickpockets and breaking up the occasional bounty hunter attempt on some senator’s overly botoxed face. Big whoop. Out in the field, entertainment was a joke. Sure, some of the boys smuggled old HoloNet games. Some ran illegal sabacc rings. Parts once saw a trooper get genuinely emotional over a five-year-old issue of Swoophead Monthly because it had a full spread of a custom-modified swoop bike. If you were lucky, you got the GAR Broadcast - a looping HoloNet program hosted by Bettie-Bot VJ, a BD-3000 luxury droid with proportions that made even the straightest, most regulation-abiding shinies start questioning shit. Not Parts, though. He didn’t give a fuck about Bettie-Bot. Why didn’t they make luxury droids look like Pebrito Paksal? That Corellian actor? Now that was a man worth watching.

Stand-up nights. That was what saved Parts from dying of sheer fucking boredom. It had started small - Commander Bacara, surprisingly, had a dry and dark sense of humour, and he actually encouraged the boys to blow off steam by roasting the absolute shit out of each other. Rhen Var. Middle of a fucking snowstorm, nothing to do but huddle in a tent with some questionable “hot caf” (which was just ground up date seeds, filtered, and mixed with water). Someone set up a crate, a couple of glow rods for dramatic effect, and boom, stand-up night was born.

Parts killed. He had the best material. He was observational. He was sharp. He had a big fucking mouth, and people loved it. It spread. The Nova Corps started broadcasting it on the GAR intranet. Soon, other legions caught on. 501st had Fives and Hardcase, a duo so chaotic they needed a stage. 212th had Boil and Waxer, whose material somehow always involved the obvious tension between their marshal commander and general. Coruscant Guard had Hound, whose entire routine was just roasting Commander Fox, and the troopers fucking loved it. Ryloth’s sweetheart, Howzer? Shockingly hilarious. Who knew good hair came with good comedic timing?

For months, they plotted in a group chat that never fucking shut up. A nightmare of meme spam, drunken voice messages, and Fives insisting they needed a fucking theme song. Then it happened. They hacked into 79’s schedule. It was time. Not just for the officers, not just for the ARCs. This was for everyone.

Grand Clowns of the Republic Parts: So it’s settled???? Hound: Yup, all hail Hound and my boy Grizzer. Thorn: Bro brought the massif to the establishment, they had no choice but to say yes. Fives: Everyone align your calendars and schedule. I'll be back from Ossus in three days. Waxer: That means we only have 72 hours to make this shit legendary. Dogma: Can someone explain to me why we are doing this? Echo: Because the Republic pays us like shit, and morale is important Fives: AND because representation matters, you repressed bastard Cody: No Cody: No, I am not doing this. Wolffe: Neither am I Fives: Lies. Both of you are performing Fox: Wolffe, you owe me for that time I covered your ass back on Kamino Wolffe: … I fucking hate you. Hardcase: I ALREADY PICKED OUT YOUR NAME WOLFFE. Wolffe: I am going to start a war crime Howzer: Wait, why do we need a name again? Hardcase: PRETTY BOY WASN’T BRIEFED? Parts: BECAUSE WE WILL PERFORM IN DRAG

It started, like all great disasters, as a joke. One drunken night in the group chat, Parts and Fives got philosophical. “We have karaoke nights. We have stand-up nights. But you know what’s missing?” Parts had said, probably slurring from whatever substance the medic gave him after he got shot - straight to his chest, barely holding his comm up. “A government that respects us as individuals?” Fives bit back.

“Well, yeah, but also drag.”

Fives went silent for a second. “Holy fuck.”

"Holy fuck, indeed."

"You know what this means?"

"We are going to corrupt the entire GAR?"

"We are going to corrupt the entire GAR."

And that’s how it began. The next morning, Parts woke up to 200 unread messages in the group chat, half of them Fives screaming in all caps, and the other half Hardcase trying to convince everyone that there should be pyrotechnics involved. At first, it was just them. Just Fives, Hardcase, and Parts talking shit, bouncing ideas back and forth, coming up with the campiest, most chaotic possible versions of this. Then the boys from the 212th found out. Then Hound got involved, which meant Thorn got involved, which meant everything got ten times more unhinged. And then, in a twist of fate, Bacara saw the chat and, instead of shutting it down, just sighed and muttered to Parts in person, “This got out of control.”

That was basically approval.

Shore leave couldn’t come fast enough. And when it finally came, Parts was fucking happy to see his brothers. Not all of them made it back, of course, that was just the price of war. A price he had slowly, begrudgingly, learned to accept, because what the fuck else could he do? Was it sad? Obviously. It was devastating every damn time. But when half your employers saw you as expendable meat in armour and the other half didn’t even think you were worth paying properly, well. Shit. Parts could either cry about it or laugh, and laughing hurt less. It was like that for all of them, a whole army of men cracking jokes and being absolute fucking menaces just to cope. Life was short. Fuck, their lives were shorter - might as well fucking laugh in the process.

This was one of those rare occasions where a lot of the legions ended up on shore leave at the same time. 212th. 501st. 21st Nova Corps. Even some of the shinies (freshly arrived from Kamino and spent their time doing caf runs for the Corries) had managed to sneak their way into Coruscant’s lower levels instead of wasting time at the military barracks. It was electric when this happened, all these troopers - brothers, bastards, absolute dumbasses - spilling out into the city looking for entertainment, alcohol, and questionable choices. The Corries always loved it when the off-world units came in, because Coruscant duty was half shit, half fun. The entertainment scene was unmatched - clubs, bars, swoop races, gambling dens - but at the same time, they were fucking glorified cops with no Jedi oversight and no real combat. Worse, most of the good clubs were too damn expensive unless you went underground.

But the underworld. Now that was a different story. Parts had seen a lot in the underworld - had seen things that made battlefields look boring, had done things that weren’t in any Republic training manual - but what changed his fucking life? Drag night.

And it wasn’t even his idea to go. He never would’ve gone on his own. He was too busy running around hidden gems in the surface levels with his very secret, very confidential boyfriend, a boyish, disgustingly handsome Chiss named Arok. Arok worked as an info broker for the Pykes, which made him fun as hell and also a walking liability, so obviously, Parts was stupidly into him. There were rules about this sort of thing. Republic loyalty, military integrity, blah blah blah - but if Captain Rex from the 501st could date a fucking Mandalorian bounty hunter, why did he have to care about rules he never agreed to in the first place? And Arok was beautiful and dangerous, with cheekbones sharp enough to gut someone and a mouth that could talk his way out of anything except the times Parts shut him up with a kiss. One night, during their usual night out, Arok had literally fucking dragged him into an underground club deep in the Core’s underbelly.

And that was the night that changed everything. Because drag night was a fucking revelation. Parts hadn’t participated - he didn’t even know what the fuck was happening at first, thrown into the middle of it with no context, surrounded by a storm of glitter, synth music, and people dressed better than anyone in the Senate. There was something otherworldly about it. Regal, like a battlefield but with more glitter and less death. The sheer confidence, the power of the performers - they commanded the room like generals, but instead of armour, they wore velvet and silk and sequins, and instead of war, they demanded joy. It wasn’t just a performance. It was a declaration of presence. I exist, I am here, I am magnificent, and you are going to watch.

And Parts watched. And something in him clicked. It wasn’t even about gender, or identity, or whatever deep philosophical shit some Republic senator would’ve made it about. It was about owning the space you took up, and making damn sure no one could take it from you. It was about looking society in the face, spitting on its rules, and then making yourself so loud and beautiful they had no choice but to respect you. After that, it was only a matter of time before the idea for Drag Night at 79’s was born.

He already had the perfect fucking name for it.

As a marine, Parts was cold as hell. First in, last out. He had earned his name in his first mission, a legend in the 21st Nova Corps for surviving a horrifically bad landing during a high-altitude insertion. His gunship had malfunctioned mid-drop, smashing into the ground so hard it nearly cracked his fucking spine, but instead of dying, he had crawled out of the wreckage, dazed as shit, and still shot three droids in the face before passing out. From that moment on, he was Parts. Private Parts if he wanted to pull ranks (or the lack of it). Because half his fucking armour had shattered into spare parts, and because clones were assholes who thought names like that were hilarious.

The joke wrote itself. Private Parts had a new meaning. Impeccable drag name. Impeccable Army of the Republic. It was destiny. And it was going to be the greatest fucking thing 79’s had ever seen.

“Ya got everything checked, Case?” Fives elbowed the tattooed trooper next to him, the two of them crammed into the back room of 79’s that they’d definitely not been given official permission to use as a dressing room. The place reeked of cheap cologne, sweat, and whatever the fuck Hardcase had used to style his synthetic wig (it was probably some kind of engine lubricant, knowing him). In front of them, hunched over a cracked mirror, Parts was butchering his own damn face. He had no makeup skills. None. But that had never stopped him before, and it sure as shit wasn’t going to stop him now. He dragged a streak of eyeblack. Yes, actual eyeblack, the one used to reduce glare in battle, across his eyelid - smudging it like some tragic battlefield makeup tutorial gone wrong.

"Yep," Hardcase said, distracted, flipping a glow-in-the-dark wig over in his hands like it was a grenade he was about to throw. “But since we have no money, we gotta make do. None of us are gonna be as pretty as the queens in Uscru.”

“Uscru?” Parts scoffed, still wrestling with his war crime of an eyeliner attempt. “Please, those queens have budgets. We’re over here making ball gowns out of blankets and tarps.”

Hardcase shrugged. "Might as well just throw the wigs on and call it a day. As long as we’re funny, right?"

"And as long as we have fun." Parts threw his eyeblack across the table, missing Fives by half a centimetre. “Besides, drag ain’t mandatory. We just need these dumbasses to show up and perform.” He grinned. “Especially the commanders.”

“Oh, speaking of.” Fives cackled so hard he nearly dropped his drink. “You know we forced Rex to perform?” Parts paused mid-swipe, turning to squint at him. “Your captain?”

Hardcase barked out a laugh. “There’s only one Rex.”

“Nah, nah, you don’t get it—” Fives wheezed, bracing a hand on the cluttered table. “We tricked him into it. We said it was just a public speaking exercise.’”

Parts let out a horrified gasp. “You fucking maniacs. Rex is gonna murder all of you.”

Hardcase wiped a tear from his eye. “Worth it.”

Parts, feeling emboldened by their collective commitment to clownery, yanked a brunette wig onto his head, fluffing it with the kind of grace one might use when shooting a droid. “Well?” he tossed the wig’s synthetic curls over his shoulder. “Do I look like Senator Amidala yet?”

Fives lost it. Hardcase was doubled over, choking. “Amidala - Amidala in armour. Armourdala!”

“Yeah, battlefield chic.” Parts smirked, adjusting the wig.

“You’re a fucking menace.” Fives absolutely lost it.

"Correction," Parts grinned, tilting his head just enough for the neon bar lights to catch the absurd shimmer of his highlighter. “I’m Private Parts. And tonight, boys—” He turned to the mirror, inspecting the look he had assembled. “Tonight, I’m gonna be a fucking queen.”

Parts did not expect the turnout to be that… good. Like, what the actual fuck. He peeked from behind the curtain, half-expecting the audience to be just his usual batch of idiots and some drunk shinies, but no - this was a full-blown GAR gathering. Commanders, captains, even the stiffest, most regulation-abiding bastards in the whole damn army had shown up. He swore under his breath, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him from fucking ascending.

Bacara was there, of course, his own goddamn CO, sitting with Commander Blackout, looking every bit like the two most dangerous fuckers in the galaxy had somehow ended up at the worst possible talent show. Fox and Cody shared a table, both looking like they were already regretting being there. Rex sat with his men, and - was that Jesse? With a girl? What the fuck? Parts squinted. He wasn’t sure if she was real or if Jesse had just coerced some poor soul into this.

The private took a breath, turned away from the audience, and looked back into the absolute war zone that was the dressing room. The performers were hyping each other up in various states of questionable preparedness. None of them was in drag. Well, Howzer had glitters in his fades. Wolffe was wearing some kind of silky material shirt. Fives had replaced his kama with silk scarves, and Hardcase had thrown on glow-in-the-dark wigs. So, technically they were also in “drag” if you looked at it sideways and with the lights off.

And then there was Parts himself. The only one actually in full drag.

He adjusted his dress, ignored the existential crisis forming at the base of his spine, and - oh. His eyes caught on someone in the crowd. Front row. Arok. The stupidly good-looking Chiss info broker who had dragged him into this world in the first place, sitting there smug as hell, sipping something that looked way too expensive for this establishment. Parts swallowed. He looked cute as fuck. Shit.

Parts shook it off, straightened his back, and turned to the poor souls he was about to wrangle into MC duty.

“Ayo, vod, who’s gonna MC?” he raised a brow at Wolffe, who was standing there with the expression of a man enduring divine punishment. Wolffe did not move. Did not blink. Did not fucking breathe. Parts could practically hear the calculations running through his brain, weighing the cost of his dignity against whatever debts he owed Fox for covering his ass back on Kamino.

Then, Parts turned to Howzer. “Or maybe you, sir?” Howzer, who had up until this point been unbothered, leaning against the makeshift vanity with the stance of a man who had never known a bad hair day, suddenly looked very, very interested in the exit.

“I’LL DO IT!” Two voices, in perfect fucking unison.

Parts barely had time to turn his head before Fives and Hardcase shoved past him, their glow-in-the-dark wigs bouncing, looking like two men who had been waiting for this exact moment their entire goddamn lives. Okay. Not bad. Not bad at all. If there were two people in the GAR who could command a room, it was these chaotic dumbasses. Fives and Hardcase weren’t just entertainers - they were fucking legends.

The entire Torrent Company was like that. Popular as shit. Serving under Anakin Skywalker did that to you - he was the Republic’s golden boy, the Hero with No Fear, and probably the reason none of his men had a proper grasp of military professionalism. Fives and Hardcase had spent years absorbing Skywalker’s unhinged energy, plus whatever teenager slang their thirteen-year-old general Ahsoka had drilled into them.

"This drip deserves a stage!" Fives shouted, doing an absolutely unnecessary spin in his silk kama.

"Let’s fucking go!" Hardcase smacked Parts in the back. And Parts could only grin back. If anyone could hype up a bunch of battle-hardened, traumatised, and heavily drunk clone troopers, it was these two. He stepped back, letting them take center stage, and turned to look at the audience again. The room was packed. Commanders, captains, even a few officers who were absolutely going to pretend they were never here. Parts exhaled slowly, adjusted his wig, and braced himself. This was it. The greatest fucking disaster the GAR had ever seen was about to begin.

The second the lights hit the stage - which was just tables pushed together - Fives and Hardcase exploded onto it like they were born for this shit. “LADIES! GENTLEMEN! AND NON-CONFORMING BADASSES OF THE GRAND ARMY!” Fives’ silk kama was lopsided, but he didn’t give a shit. “AND THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE HERE BECAUSE YOU WERE BLACKMAILED, COERCED, OR OTHERWISE FUCKING FORCED INTO ATTENDING!” Hardcase added, his glow-in-the-dark wig was pushed a bit too much to the back of his head.

The crowd erupted. Parts, watching from the sidelines, was biting back a laugh. These two were good. Fives adjusted his mic. “Welcome to the first - AND ABSOLUTELY NOT LAST - GAR DRAG NIGHT!” Hardcase leaned in, his grin was so wide it could have split his face in half. “That’s right, ladies, we are gathered here today to celebrate, to entertain, and most importantly - to watch a bunch of grown-ass clone troopers have a complete and total breakdown in real-time.”

Raucous cheering from the back tables. Parts peeked out again - yep, Rex had his head in his hands. Cody looked like he was considering making a run for it. Fox was sitting so stiffly he looked like he was about to implode into a dust. Fives clocked it immediately.

“Oh, what’s the matter, boys?” He grinned directly at their table. “You look tense! You’re telling me the finest, most elite, most battle-hardened leaders of the Republic can survive an entire war but can’t handle a little heels and hairspray?”

Hardcase gasped, “Unbelievable. These are our commanders? These are our protectors? These are the men leading us into battle?” He violently shook his head. “Honestly, boys, I think we deserve a raise.”

Someone in the back yelled, “FUCKING SAY IT AGAIN.”

The bar fucking erupted. Troopers pounded their fists on the tables, boots slamming against the floor. Parts could barely hear himself think over the absolute roar of it.

Fives raised both hands, commanding silence. “A raise?” he said innocently. “Oh, boys, don’t be ridiculous. The Republic already gives us so much.” Hardcase gasped again, putting his hand over his chest. “You’re right, vod. We already get so many benefits.”

“Oh yeah. Like the privilege of being government property.” Fives nodded solemnly. Hardcase pretended to wipe away a tear. “I mean, you’re telling me we get to risk our lives for a system that doesn’t even think we deserve citizenship? What a fucking honour.”

The cheering turned wilder. Shouts and yells clouded the room. “Oh, and don’t forget the wages, vod,” Fives continued, pacing the stage now, fully in his element. “I mean, what else could we possibly need? We get… what? Three credits a week? A meal plan?” He paused. “That sometimes we have to pay for if you want extra protein cubes?”

Hardcase nodded sagely. “And the best part? The longer you live, the more of a financial burden you become!” Fives turned to the crowd. “Because let’s be real, boys. What happens if you get too injured to fight?” The laughter turned bitter almost immediately. Silence. Until someone yelled from the back, slurred and angry, “They fucking kill you.” Fives simply spread his arms wide. “Exactly! And you wanna know the best part? The Senate call us heroes.” He put a hand over his heart. “They say they care. But last I checked, none of them are fighting to get us paid.”

The bar fucking howled. And Fives, a fucking menace, just kept going. “I mean, honestly! We could have been anything! We could’ve been doctors, we could’ve been musicians, we could’ve been…”

“STRIPPERS!” someone from the 104th shouted, and the room nearly fucking collapsed.

Fives grinned. He had been waiting for that exact moment. “Well, good news, vod! Tonight, we finally get to choose what we wanna be! We got a spectacular lineup for you tonight. Some of the GAR’s most talented, most charismatic, and most absolutely-fucking-blackmailed troopers are gonna be taking this stage”

“AND SPEAKING OF CHOOSING YOUR DESTINY!” Hardcase cut in. “Our next performer. Nay, our first fucking performer of the night - is living proof that YOU CAN HAVE IT ALL!”

“That’s right, folks! He’s got talent! He’s got beauty! He’s got a complete and utter refusal to get fucking promoted!”

The crowd lost its shit. Parts grinned from backstage, fixing his wig in the mirror, already bracing himself for whatever the fuck these two were about to say. Fives continued, barely holding back laughter. “Ladies, gentlemen, and all distinguished guests - allow me to introduce the only marine in the entire GAR who has served under Commander Bacara, survived some of the worst shitholes in the galaxy, dropped from high-atmosphere insertions straight into hell, and still said, ‘No thanks, I’d like to stay a Private because it makes my drag name fucking perfect.’”

Hardcase threw a fist in the air. “Because why the fuck would you ever mess with perfection?!”

“Because what is a marine without his rank?!” Fives turned to the crowd.

“WHAT IS A NAME WITHOUT MEANING?!” Hardcase screamed.

A pause. And then, in perfect fucking unison:

“INTRODUCING… PRIVATE PARTS!”

The audience went feral. And Parts strutted onto the stage like a goddamn queen. The cheap, makeshift dress swishing around his thighs, showing off calves sculpted from months of dropping straight into warzones with nothing but a rifle and armour. His makeup was done with a powder borrowed from a bartender, a red lipstick, and the earlier eyeblack. His wig was styled just enough that it had the illusion of looking like Amidala’s hair. And when he stepped out, tossing his wig over one shoulder, placing a perfectly manicured (okay, definitely armour-paint-stained) hand on his hip, he oozed confidence. “Well,” he purred. “If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s serve.”

Parts barely had time to brace himself before the cheers hit him like a seismic charge. Even his own CO, Bacara, was clapping. Commander Blackout raised his glass in his direction. This was why he did it.

The clones had always accepted each other. They had to be. They were all they had. That was just how it worked. Your sibling was your sibling, no matter what. He remembered a few months back, when one of the troopers had come out as a woman - Sister. And it was her own brothers from the 7th Sky Corps who gave her that name, who made sure the whole GAR knew exactly who she was. Because in a system that didn’t let them choose anything, they chose each other.

“Thank you, thank you! It’s your favourite trooper with the best ass-ets - Private Parts, reporting for duty!” He let the mic linger at his lips, waiting for the next wave of applause. “And by ‘duty,’ I mean the duty of keeping my fine ass alive long enough to collect all three credits they owe me for a full week’s work.”

Another burst of laughter from the crowd.

“I serve under Commander Bacara, and let me tell you… that man is cold. I once told him I was sick, and he just said, ‘Don’t.’” From the side of the stage, Fives and Hardcase were full-on wheezing. Both of them trying their best not to knock over the sound system beside them.

“You ever met someone who was SO committed to violence that even the Jedi looked at them and went, ‘Damn, maybe chill a little?’ BRO, THAT’S BACARA.”

That cracked up the room, troopers pointing at Bacara who was sitting at the front row like they had witnessed his war crimes firsthand. “You know it!” someone, definitely a fellow marine from the 21st, shouted. From the stage, Parts noticed that the bar was getting even more packed. Civilians and clones alike, elbow to elbow, drawn in by the sheer force of the show. Parts smirked before he continued his read. “Maybe if you just got railed properly, you wouldn’t be out here trying to fight the entire climate system of Hoth.”

Troopers were pounding their fists on the tables. None of them dared to read the marshal commander like that. And Bacara. To his credit, the man didn’t even try to defend himself. He simply sipped his brown drink, completely unbothered by the fact that he had just been publicly diagnosed with untreated rage issues and a chronic need to get dicked down, or just generally get laid, whatever his preference was.

“Bacara is by the book. Perfect soldier. Follows orders to the T.” Parts adjusted his wig, tilted his head just enough for the lights to catch the shimmer of his plastic earrings. “I’m just saying, vod. You tell Bacara ‘jump,’ he jumps. You tell him ‘execute,’ he executes. You tell him ‘Order 69,’… and that kama and codpiece are gone.”

That was it. Bacara, Marshal Commander Bacara, the man who had personally led the marines through some of the most inhospitable hellholes in the galaxy, who had fought through avalanches, blizzards, and enemy fire without flinching, choked on his drink. This personification of war machine was fucking wheezing, coughing into his fist, eyes watering as he shook with laughter. Soon after, the entire table of commanders fucking lost it. Cody, who had been sitting there stiff as a goddamn cadet on inspection, slammed his fist on the table, laughing so hard he had to physically turn away. Rex had his face buried in his hand, shoulders shaking. Fox, the most stressed man in the Republic, was openly cackling - violently smacking Cody’s shoulders.

It felt like winning the war. Parts basked in it, hands on his hips, watching men who had spent their entire lives fighting, bleeding, dying - finally just fucking laugh. This was why it mattered. Because it wasn’t just about war. It wasn’t just about the next deployment, the next battle, the next fucking mission. There was more than the war. And for the first time in a long time, Parts felt like he’d found something real.

“But enough about Bacara - tonight, we’re on Coruscant!” Parts paced the stage. “The city of lights! The shining heart of the Republic! Where everything is so clean, so polished, so perfect. Why? It’s almost like there’s an entire force dedicated to keeping it that way!” He paused. “Oh, look! The Coruscant Guard is here! Give it up for the guards, everyone!” From their respective seats, Fox, Thorn, Stone, Hound, and a handful of other Coruscant Guard troopers stood up immediately, all at once. “No, no. Not just clapping!” He shook his head, eyes wide with mock disappointment. “Tip them. Come on, be generous! They need the extra credits for the emotional damage of serving under the Chancellor alone!”

Was there a tiny, nagging anxiety in the back of all their heads that somehow 79’s was bugged and the Chancellor himself was about to hear a bunch of clone troopers shit-talking his crusty, ancient ass? Absolutely. Did they care? At this point, even Fox was probably ready to roast the old raisin himself. Stone, unexpectedly the most unhinged one out of all the Coruscant Guard commanders, which was saying something considering the company he kept, actually walked into the crowd, bucket in hand. “Help a trooper in need!” he called out. “Every credit goes directly to my therapy fund!”

Parts leaned into the mic, voice solemn. “Just one credit a day can provide a Coruscant Guard trooper with the emotional stability he so desperately lacks.” Before he began again, Parts whispered into the mic in a conspiratorial tone. “I actually met a Coruscant Guard trooper earlier,” The crowd quieted just enough to listen. “Told him I was on my way here to perform, and you know what he did?” Parts placed a hand on his hip, smirking. “The bastard tried to fine me.”

There were some cackles in the crowd. All of them knew - it was probably done as a joke, or some stiff shiny did that without knowing. Parts raised a finger, pointing skyward. “You wanna know what my offence was?”

“My bedazzled codpiece.”

Parts saw how that single line that he made last minute - that he thought was not funny - was enough to set the bar on fire. It was either because he was actually funny, or they were all under-entertained (and was a bit tipsy). “Sir, my name is Private Parts. That’s a birthright, not a felony!” He wasn’t done. “If anything, the only crime here is Fox’s caffeine addiction.”

The marshal commander barked out a laugh.

“Someone check on that man! Fox is the most overworked clone in the Republic!” The private turned towards him. “Commander, be honest. When was the last time you got a full eight hours of sleep?”

Fox shouted from his seat, “Kamino.” Beside him, Cody’s face turned red from laughter. He reached over and tousled his younger brother’s hair. And that was a sight - the commanders acting like shinies, like they weren’t the hardened warriors of the Republic, like they weren’t the men carrying an entire galaxy’s weight on their backs.

“And you know what’s wild?” Parts pointed back at Fox. “Fox hasn’t slept in years, but he still looks better than half of y’all civilians.”

One civilian audience actually clutched his chest like he’d been personally victimised. “Tragic!” Parts declared. He took a slow step back, gesturing towards the wings. “We also have other performers lining up here tonight! But seriously, some of these performers are like our Phase 1 armour, completely fucking basic.”

A unified, horrified gasp from the audience.

“Donate more?”

Surprisingly, some troopers were throwing small changes onto the stage. Someone tossed a ration bar, which was caught mid-air by Hardcase. He looked at it, ripped it, and ate it. “Now, before you all start throwing your entire fucking paychecks at these boys, let’s keep the show moving!” Parts flipped his wig over his shoulder. “Because trust me, the next performer is just as fucking broke as the rest of us! Everyone, give it up to the one and only. Here because he owed Fox something. Commander Wolffe!”

Wolffe was one of those commanders. Famous. Not the fun kind of famous. Not Jesse accidentally got himself latrine duty for a month because someone caught him running an illegal moonshine distillery in the barracks. Not Fives and Hardcase are banned from three cantinas famous. Not Parts resisting to get promoted to retain his name famous. No, Wolffe was famous for being terrifying. If Bacara was the most feared, Wolffe was the most intimidating. Strict. No-nonsense. The man could silence a room just by existing in it. Most troopers had only ever seen him on the battlefield.

Seeing Wolffe reluctantly drag himself onto the stage, looking like a man who had just been drafted into public execution, was a sight to behold. No one knew how he was around his fellow commanders. How he acted when he wasn’t surrounded by his men and battle tactics and casualties. And right now, Fox and Cody were yelling at him like he was their annoying little brother who had just embarrassed himself in front of their entire extended family. It was strange. Refreshing. A rare fucking moment of life in the middle of a war that didn’t let them have any. And then Wolffe grabbed the mic. And just stood there. With his arms crossed and blank expression. Staring out at the wild, drunk, screaming audience. Slowly averting his gaze to his men, the vicious Wolfpack, who were literally howling like maniacs just because they could.

“I don’t know why I’m here either.” Wolffe hummed to the microphone.

“Apparently, when you work in the Grand Army of the Republic, you don’t just fight a never-ending war - you are also forced into public humiliation.” That successfully broke the audience again. Most of the shinies who were usually standing at attention whenever they breathe the same air as the commander laughed their ass off - losing all sense of decorum.

"Don’t look at me. This is Plo Koon’s fault. He said I needed to 'loosen up.' Said I needed to 'connect with my brothers.' Like I don’t already spend every fucking waking moment surrounded by them. Like I don’t already have to share rations, bunks, battlefield trenches, and the occasional near-death experience. ‘Connect with my brothers,’ he says, as if I haven’t spent years side-eyeing every dumbass decision made by the fine, upstanding members of the 104th." Wolffe let out a long pause before deadpanning, "Commander, please. I barely tolerate them on the battlefield."

The audience went wild at that. From his corner of the stage, Parts exhaled. Okay, everything worked out so far.

"So, of course, the moment I walk in, the entire bar already knows I’m only here because I owe Fox a favour. Yeah. I don’t wanna be here. I don’t wanna be in this situation. I don’t wanna be in this itchy outfit—" Wolffe pulled on the silky grey shirt that Hardcase procured from maker-knows-where. "And the worst part? The reason I even owe Fox is because he covered my shebs back when we were shinies on Kamino. And that was… I shit you not… because I lost a bet and had to steal one of the instructors’ binocs. You know, those training binocs they used to train you at recon classes? Thought I was being real clever, sneaking up like some commando. Got it off the guy, felt like an ARC - until I immediately tripped over my own boots and knocked myself out. Fox had to haul my unconscious ass back to the bunks before anyone noticed, because if the instructors found out I was out there committing petty theft, I’d still be doing push-ups in Tipoca City to this day."

The crowd chuckled - more out of shared nostalgia than anything else. The type of reaction that says, Yeah, I did some dumb shit too. Because, let’s be real, every single one of them had been in his shoes - stuck on that grey, eternally damp, depressing excuse for a planet, where the only form of entertainment was either starting fights, breaking rules, or seeing how much you could get away with before an instructor made you regret existing. They all knew exactly what he meant. The endless drills, the constant discipline, the same fucking corridors over and over again. You had to make your own fun or you’d lose your mind.

"And for that one singular act of brotherly kindness - Fox has been holding this over my head like some debt collector. Years later, I’m out here, fully grown, with an eye scar and an existential crisis, and that smug bastard just goes, ‘Wolffe, remember Kamino?’ And next thing I know, I’m standing in a fucking drag show in the middle of 79’s, questioning every decision that’s led me here." The reaction was… lukewarm. A few chuckles, but no real pop. They basically said - Alright, that was kinda funny, what else you got?

Wolffe exhaled, scratching the back of his head. "Oookay. That didn’t work. Tough crowd. Fine, here’s a little extra for you—" he lowered his voice. "The instructor was Alpha-17, if any of you actually care." Now that got a reaction. A ripple of groans and winces swept through the audience before they turned into laughter.

"Yeah," Wolffe nodded, satisfied. "Now you get it."

"You think war’s bad? Try dealing with a squad who believes in team-building activities."

Wolffe let the words hang in the air before turning his head slowly towards the Wolfpack’s table. "Boost. Sinker. Comet." He let their names drop. A ripple of laughter finally moved again through the crowd. "You don’t understand," Wolffe continued, still staring at them. "These idiots tried to make trust falls a thing. Trust falls. In the middle of a warzone. I’ve got battle droids shooting at me, artillery fire raining down, and Boost is behind me going, ‘C’mon, Commander! Fall back, I’ll catch you!’ Like I’m about to let my entire life depend on a man who once walked straight into a parked LAAT/i because he was too busy arguing about limmie scores."

That got a louder laugh. Wolffe sighed and massaged his temple. "And don’t even get me started on the time they tried to implement ‘mandatory morning affirmations.’ Nothing wakes you up for war like hearing, ‘You are strong. You are capable. You are valued,’ while you’re trying to eat your ration and contemplate the meaninglessness of existence."

The laughter swelled, and the commander himself laughed. It was good seeing him in that light. It was good seeing everyone in that light. "You know," Wolffe switched gears, "I actually had a few jokes prepared about the Galactic Senate." He let that sit for a moment, then added dryly, "But I’m trying to keep my job."

In the front row, Cody - smacked the table, he was wheezing so hard like he wasn’t about to be deployed in the next 48 hours. "But before I leave," Wolffe continued, sweeping his eyes across the room, "I wanna give a shoutout to the real survivors of this war." That got their attention, and a hush fell over the room.

"Anyone who’s ever worked under Commander Fox."

Silence before the room erupted. It was almost tradition at this point, if you were in someone’s house, you roasted them. And they were on Coruscant, in Fox’s jurisdiction. It was only right. Besides, Wolffe had earned this moment. He was up there because Fox had threatened him into it. The room knew it. Fox knew it. And, judging by the smirk on his face, Fox expected it. What Parts didn’t know was how the hell this entire lineup got cobbled together. He had been given a list of the night’s lineup, assuming it was the usual crowd. Then, out of nowhere, the Grand Clowns of the Republic group chat got hijacked by a bunch of commanding officers, and to this day, no one knew who had invited them.

Was it a prank? A glitch? A sign from the galaxy? Didn’t matter. What did matter was that suddenly, high-ranking officers - people who regularly made life-or-death decisions - were now here, on the same list as his usual batch of amateur stand-ups, about to tell jokes. Wolffe, meanwhile, had had enough as he stepped off the stage, looking equal parts relieved and done with the entire ordeal.

Parts barely had time to acknowledge him before checking the next name on the list. Howzer. Huh. Okay. That wasn’t bad. Howzer was surprisingly charming. Funny, even. At least during their online sessions. He had that effortless charisma that made people like him, made them listen when he talked. Parts could work with that. Was he still hoping for Gregor? Absolutely. But too bad, Gregor had an immediate distress call on the frontlines, and there was nothing funnier than war completely ruining your plans at the last second.

"Alright, alright," he raised his hands for silence. "Try to get yourselves together, yeah? We got a long night ahead of us. Next up…" He gave the audience a moment. "Captain Howzer. Get your charming ass up here."

Howzer had the kind of charm that made every other officer - clones and organically ejected people alike - furious. Like, how can someone be this naturally charismatic? How dare he walk into a room and make people like him without trying? And now he was walking up to the stage like he was about to give an inspiring CORTalk speech instead of telling jokes in the middle of a packed bar full of drunk, emotionally stunted soldiers who’d probably just spent the last sixty minutes trying to decide whether it was worth using their one (1) approved monthly therapy session or just set up the simulation room to let off steam.

"Good to see you all," Howzer started, smiling so wide it crinkled the sides of his eyes - making the heartthrob of the GAR looking even more charming. "I gotta say, I love this whole thing we got going on - clones getting together, sharing laughs, not getting shot at for once. It’s nice. It’s…" he considered his words carefully. "a refreshing change of pace. But let’s be honest, we’re all still on edge. I swear, every time someone opens a door too fast in here, at least one of you reaches for a blaster you don’t carry." A solid wave of laughter swept across the room. One of the shinies at the front let out a full-bellied laugh, and Howzer pointed at him. "See? That guy knows what I’m talking about. That’s years of trauma, my man."

He let the crowd settle before starting again. "You know, I was gonna do a whole thing about how we never get to relax, because let’s be real, no one here knows how to do that properly. What do we do with our ‘leave’? Do we rest? Do we recover? No. We find increasingly reckless ways to almost die for fun. We got guys joining swoop races in the Underworld, guys drinking homemade jet juice that tastes like ass, we got Hardcase.” The audience howled at the mere mention of the famously hyperactive trooper. “But the worst? The absolute worst?"

The captain in turquoise-marked armour looked at the crowd. "The guys who go straight back into combat simulations." Immediate cackles came from the audience. Someone from the 212th shouted, "It’s for training!" to which Howzer, without missing a beat, responded, "Brother, you already do that every day. What are you training for? A second death?" And another successful jab that earned a solid laugh.

"Speaking of self-destructive tendencies, let’s talk about the Coruscant Guard for a second." Of course, The Guard let out a collective groan. Parts, who definitely did not approve of playing favourites but was also not about to shut down the funniest thing happening tonight, just chugged his watered-down ale from the side of the stage. "I gotta give it up for them," Howzer cocked his chin towards the cluster of red-armoured troopers in the back. "You lot live a thankless existence. You wake up every day and immediately have to deal with the absolute worst non-clones the galaxy has to offer. Senators.”

The bar immediately rumbled with laughter. There it was again, another punch at the people who were supposed to protect them, supposed to represent them, supposed to treat them like actual sentient beings - but let’s be real, that wasn’t the case. Oh, sure, there were some that cared. Some that fought for them. Some that looked at them and saw people. And then there was Orn Free Taa. At this point, Parts was making a mental note to treat Hound to a full week of proper lunches, just so he and Grizzer could do a full sweep of the bar for bugs. Because if a single word of this got out, the Senate would be filing complaints before sunrise.

"The Senate gets real passionate when the Holonet cameras are rolling. ‘Clones deserve fair treatment! Clones should be valued! Clones are the backbone of the Republic!’ But the moment you ask about pay, benefits, literally any legal protections whatsoever, suddenly it’s all—” Howzer adopted a high-pitched, overly concerned voice, tilting his head like a confused bureaucrat, “Ah, well, the logistics of that are quite complicated…”

The audience barked out another bitter laugh. Because, yeah, you had to laugh. You had to. The alternative was sitting with the realisation that your entire existence was a fucking clerical error away from being erased. “And I know some of you are thinking, ‘Well, Howzer, it’s not that bad.’” He held up a hand, nodding. “Bro. If we die and don’t get recovered from the battlefield, the Republic charges our battalion for lost equipment.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Because some of them knew it was true, had heard the whispers, had seen the reports, and then the audience exploded. Howzer just stood there with his arms crossed, nodding along, waiting for the noise to settle. “Now,” he dryly said, “I really hope that’s just a rumour.” Howzer paused for a second. “Because that would be insane. That would be criminal. That would mean the Republic literally sees us as, oh wait, what’s that word again?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, eyes sweeping the room before snapping his fingers. “Oh, right. PROPERTY.’”

Another howl of laughter, this time it was tinged with that comforting self-deprecation, because fuck, he was right. Howzer let the sound roll over him before delivering another blow. “You ever try to return a piece of Republic property? The paperwork works just fine. If I steal a speeder, that shit is tracked, located, repossessed within hours. But you ask where the fuck our healthcare went? ‘Oh noooo, the budget disappeared, guess we’ll never find it, too bad, so sad. Wha whaaa.’”

Directly in front of the stage, Fox slammed his head against the table, laughing his ass off. “Funny how that works,” Howzer muttered, taking a sip of a drink that was handed to him by cackling Hardcase. "Anyway, thanks for coming to comedy night, drag night, or whatever you want to call this insanity. Tip your bartenders, hydrate, and, uh… someone make sure Fox doesn’t quit his job before the night’s over. Goodnight!" And with that, he strolled off the stage, leaving behind absolute wreckage.

From across the room, Boil and Waxer, dedicated clowns in Parts’ comedy club but, more importantly, the unofficial bouncers for the night - caught Parts’ eyes and did the cutthroat hand across their necks. That was all it took. The three MCs up front - Parts, Fives, and Hardcase - immediately straightened. Because whilst this was supposed to be their space, their night, Coruscant was still Coruscant. There was always a line you didn’t cross. And if someone important was in the room now, well, best to tread carefully.

Parts let out an exasperated sigh. It wasn’t unusual for 79’s to pull a crowd. What was unusual was the silent warning from Boil and Waxer, two men who had spent the better part of the war making jokes, shutting them down. He and the others had learned a long time ago that there was a fine line between blowing off steam and saying too much. This was not the place to have an actual heart-to-heart about clone rights, about war, about what it really felt like to be treated as property. But comedy was a loophole. You could say anything, so long as it came with a punchline, so long as the laughter kept coming. But that only worked if no one in power really started paying attention.

"Who came?" Parts whispered to Hardcase. The blue-tattooed man was on his comlink with Boil, pressing a finger on his left ear to get better clarity amidst the rowdy bar. "High-ranking," Hardcase answered loud enough only for Parts and Fives to hear. "Brass."

“How high?” Fives, scarves wrapped around his hips in lieu of his usual kama, broke character in an instant. His ARC training kicked in like a second skin, scanning the room with new eyes, every exit, every blind spot suddenly tactical considerations rather than just part of the bar’s familiar layout.

Hardcase pressed his comlink closer to his ear to hear Boil’s voice amidst the noise before he let out a nervous chuckle. Then, through gritted teeth, he dropped the name. "Tarkin."

This was bad. Really bad. They still had plausible deniability, no one had said anything explicitly treasonous yet. But that didn’t matter. The wrong person in the audience changed everything. It turned harmless jokes into lawsuits. And Tarkin wasn’t just any brass. Tarkin remembered things, and filed shit under “to be handled later.” You didn’t just brush past someone like that. You didn’t get two chances with Tarkin. Parts clenched his fists, itching to rip off the makeshift dress and wig, fun as the bit was. He could be kitted up in under a minute, armed and ready, if it meant keeping his siblings safe.

"What’s the strategy?" Parts kept his hushed voice. Fives scratched his goatee. "I mean, we could move to safer ground? Shut it down early, act like the whole thing was a joke that got out of hand…"

"Not an option," Hardcase firmly cut in. "Shutting it down fast looks suspicious. We bail now, and whoever’s watching us starts asking why."

He wasn’t wrong. The second they looked too careful, that’s when the real problems would start. Tarkin wasn’t here for fun - he was watching. And if they gave him anything that smelled like an organised effort, the next thing they knew, there’d be investigations, reassignments, a sudden crackdown on anything resembling clone autonomy. Fives nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. So, plan B, we lean in."

"Lean in how?" Parts narrowed his eyes. Before he could get an answer, Fives stole the microphone in his hands and strode back onto the stage, grin locked in place, the perfect picture of a man with absolutely no fear.

"Captain Tarkin is here, everyone!" Fives announced, voice bright, loud, completely unfazed. "Make some noise for him!"

The crowd’s reaction was instant. It wasn’t outright panic - these were clones, trained for war, not easily rattled - but there was a noticeable shift, just like how they would in the battlefields when an unexpected threat had just walked into the perimeter. And at the front table, the commanders - Bacara, Fox, Cody, Wolffe - all straightened immediately. Parts hated this. Hated that their one rare moment of peace, their one night to actually be something outside of soldiers, was now under scrutiny. Hated that even here, even in this space, they had to be careful. Had to adjust. Had to dance around the fact that they weren’t citizens, weren’t people, at least not in the eyes of men like Tarkin.

And yet, as much as he hated it, Parts knew exactly what Fives was doing. The ARC trooper knew how to control a room.

"Speaking of captains," Fives continued smoothly as if he wasn’t actively trying to keep an entire room from panicking, "there’s another captain in this room, a very special captain, who had no idea he was about to be dragged into a drag show!"

A more relaxed laughter started rippling through the bar. "And why is that, you ask?" Fives placed a hand to his chest. "Because, my dear brothers and sisters and siblings alike, this man - our fearless leader, our role model, never reads the group chat!"

Parts couldn’t even pretend to be mad at the execution, Fives was doing exactly what was needed. He was shifting attention. He was forcing Tarkin’s presence into the background by bringing in a new target, someone everyone in the room could focus on. "And wouldn’t it be a blast," Fives fed off the energy, "if we dragged him onto this stage right now?"

The crowd was frothing. Everyone knew exactly where this was going, and they were all in. "Everyone, please welcome…" Fives milked the pause for maximum theatrics. "Captain Rex!!"

The roar from the 501st troopers was instantaneous. Some were already getting up like they were about to physically haul him up there. Rex groaned and slouched himself in the booth he was sitting at. "No."

A firm, clear rejection from the captain, but it didn’t matter. His own traitorous men were hyping him up, and to make it worse, he felt the familiar weight of judgmental stares from his fellow commanders at the front. None of them was going to help him. They were enjoying this. Rex scowled, flipping his men the bird. Then, for good measure, he flipped his ori’vod the bird, which should have been the end of it - except Wolffe immediately smacked him upside the head, followed by Cody backhanding his shoulders.

Rex sighed, long-suffering, before dragging his feet towards the stage. As soon as he grabbed the mic, he muttered through gritted teeth.

"Are you fucking me?"

"Nah, sir, you’re our saviour. Now joke about something, I don’t know. Whatever brainrot jokes you picked up from Anakin and Ahsoka." Fives grinned.

Rex looked out at the expectant, gleeful faces of his men. Looked past them to where Tarkin sat, impassive, watching, assessing. Yeah. He had to sell this. Fine. He tapped the mic twice, and sighed.

"Alright," Rex deadpanned. "I’m Captain Rex of the 501st Legion. I work with Anakin Skywalker… uh… yeah. Pray for me."

That was all it took. The room erupted again, because everyone knew. Anakin Skywalker was a lot. "You think I’m joking," Rex paced the makeshift stage with his dry tone. "I don’t even try to give him a battle plan anymore. I start to explain strategy, and then he gives Ahsoka the look, and poof, suddenly I’m flying."

Laughter filled the room. No one had suffered under the absolute chaos that was General Anakin Skywalker more than Rex. "I’ve given up trying to understand the general. Don’t get me wrong, he’s amazing, I’d go to hell and back for him. But if you ever see me standing there, completely still, staring off into the void? That’s me buffering. That’s me trying to process why I’m alive after another one of his manoeuvres."

Another wave of laughter cracked through the room. Rex let the noise die down before inhaling deeply, then exhaling, rubbing a hand over his face before he started again. "...Also," he dropped his tone dangerously close to sincerity, "I’d like to formally apologise to my boys for all the stress, trauma, and irresponsible shit we’ve been through." The blond paused to let the entire audience coos at the unexpected softness. "It will happen again."

Tup - sweet, unfortunate Private Tup from Torrent Company was gasping for air. His face was red, shoulders shaking, and every time he tried to inhale, another wheeze slipped out, sending the 501st into another round of hysterics. The entire 501st troopers present at 79’s had been losing their minds the whole time Rex was on stage, making the most noise out of anyone in the bar, like a bunch of rowdy cadets who had just watched their instructor trip and eat shit during drills. It wasn’t every day their beloved hardass of a Captain got publicly dragged into something ridiculous, and they were relishing it.

And sure, Rex was one of the better ones. He wasn’t as rigid as some of the other commanders. At least he didn’t have Bacara’s terrifying tendency to drill his men like how Alpha-17 made him do it before he was made marshal commander - but on the field? He was still fucking strict.

"There is no escape. I have tried." Rex clicked his tongue. Rex turned his feet towards the MCs, then back at the crowd. "Before we end this wonderful night of completely regulated, very Republic-approved bonding…" He pointed his palm at Parts. "Private Parts, you look fantastic."

Scattered hoots, cheers, and whistles came from the marines. Parts twirled in his dress dramatically. Rex just held up a hand. "...And Fives and Hardcase?"

"Yeah, Cap?"

"Enjoy it while you can. Because tomorrow, you’re on freshers duty." That successfully drew another round of claps from the crowd. Another day another save by none other than–

"CAPTAIN REX, EVERYONE!" Private Parts threw his arms up, soaking in the applause. "Thank you for coming. Listen to Howzer and tip your bartenders, don’t start a fight you can’t finish, and for non-clones, if you wake up hungover next to a commander, congratulations, you’re officially a Jedi general!”

The crowd was still electric, the final cheers for Rex rolling through the air like the last embers of a fire, but the energy was slowly changing. The second Private Parts dropped the mic back onto the stand, the DJ took the cue, lights dimmed, the atmosphere returned back to normal. The music came back just loud enough to remind everyone that this was still just a bar, that this was still 79’s, still their home, and that whatever had just happened? Whatever almost happened? It was over. Done. It had to be. It better be.

Parts let out a long relieved sigh, feeling the weight of it settle in his bones. The close call. The way they had to dance that line so fucking carefully and now they had to act like none of it ever happened. He elbowed Boil as the man returned from his unofficial duty, almost knocking back Boil’s drink like he’d been physically holding back the urge to swing on someone all night. "Is he gone?"

Boil wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Yeah, left twenty minutes ago. Probably on his way to some emergency meeting, clutching his pearls about how Captain Rex was making fun of his Jedi at 79’s."

"Joke’s on him," Hardcase smirked, "Anakin is in our group chat."

"Yeah, we invited him, but, you know… husband duty." Fives cackled, violently clapping Parts on the shoulder. "Congrats on the drag night, vod! Even though, technically, you’re the only one in drag." Parts rolled his eyes, still shaking out the last of the tension from earlier, but before he could respond, Fives threw an arm around his shoulders, turning back towards the bar and raising his voice. "Officially the most badass private in the fucking GAR! WHOOP WHOOP!!"

The entire bar erupted in agreement. "PRIVATE PARTS, GALACTIC ICON!" A fellow marine yelled from the bar. Hardcase cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "GET THIS MAN A MEDAL! OR AT LEAST A BETTER WIG!" That earned a wide grin from Parts. He was fucking stressed out and exhausted but grinning, riding the lingering adrenaline as the cheers swelled around him. And then… Bacara.

Parts saw him before he got close, because Bacara wasn’t exactly subtle.

"Private."

Bacara’s tone was neutral. No amusement, no judgment, no edge. "Commander." Parts snapped into attention immediately - because even though Bacara had been crying laughing an hour ago, even though he had clutched his ribs when Howzer delivered the Senate joke, this was still Marshal Commander fucking Bacara. The same man who could juggernaut through a battlefield in a fucking second and maybe faster. The same man who could, and would, command him to do one hundred burpees for less than five minutes.

For a moment, Bacara just studied him, his muddy brown eyes, mirroring his own - only older, and more exhausted. Then he finally opened his mouth. "You handled that well."

That was not what Parts had expected to hear. Sure, Bacara had a sense of humour. After all, he let Parts run these stand-up nights, let his men have their moments of relief, but this was still Bacara. Marshal Commander Bacara. The guy who took everything seriously.

"At ease."

Parts hesitated before forcing himself to relax, at least, as much as someone could relax while standing in front of a literal war machine in human form. He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "Yeah, well," he muttered, "not exactly what we had in mind for the night."

"You kept it under control." Bacara patted his shoulder. "That’s not easy to do."

And for a second, Parts didn’t know what to do with that. Because his commander got it. He knew what it took to keep that balance - to take something dangerous and make it palatable. To hold a room full of soldiers in the palm of your hand, to guide them somewhere just edgy enough without letting them fall off the ledge. To let them think without making it look like thinking. That wasn’t easy. And Bacara, of all fucking people, had noticed.

“…Thanks,” Parts finally answered, still a little thrown off by the sincerity but absolutely not about to turn down a rare, fucking impossible compliment from a Commander. Bacara gave one last appreciative nod before stepping back into the crowd, rejoining the other commanders. Private Parts rolled his shoulders, letting the last of the tension finally bleed out of him.

"You’re fucking insane, you know that?"

The voice came from behind him, a familiar posh accent. Warm as it was amused. Before he could even turn, arms wrapped around his waist, tight, solid, pulling him in like the last anchor in a chaotic night. And Parts melted. Because fuck yes, finally.

Arok smelled like smoke, spice, and a data terminal running too hot. "You love it," Parts murmured, leaning back into the embrace, letting the towering Chiss tuck his chin over his shoulder. The Chiss huffed, pressing a quick kiss against the side of his head, and Parts closed his eyes, letting himself breathe. Because yeah they had barely pulled that off. This whole night could have ended in disaster. But it hadn’t. So Parts let himself relax into Arok’s warmth, to feel his hands splay over his ribs, to feel the bass vibrating through the floor, to listen to his brothers drinking, talking, laughing. The night wasn’t over. And for this moment, they were okay.

#clonexocweek #clonexocweek2025 #clonexocweek2025 day 6 #clone trooper oc x Fives #clone trooper oc x Hardcase #clone trooper oc x command batch #hellfiresky #star wars fanfiction

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st4rstudent · 8 months ago

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drew them over an anime base because i thought it'd be funny

#clemart #star wars #star wars oc #my ocs #CEE-58 #Cobalt #M1-TZ #thanks for the base ludwig #m1-tz came out so cutesy in the sketch so i had to continue #my super tactical droid and commando droid that i force to do cute little poses against their will #and analysis droid too but tbh cee can get by with it because of their hudge eyeballs #i dont know if i'll ever render them because it'd take genuinely forever. i probably wont anytime soon but maybe i will #drew this really sloppily and fast while i work on lining a collab :eyes emoji:

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multi-fan-dom-madness · 2 years ago

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Hello! Spreading more asks around for the first kiss prompt!

I'd love to see the prompt - "don't you dare tell anyone about this." "wasn't planning on it." With Crosshair, but the second part being said by the reader possibly with a wink? If that's too specific just the prompt going either way. (The inner Crosshair simp must be fed!)

Love and Wrecker Hugs! ❤️🖤

ahhh!! this was the perfect prompt for Cross and I had a lot of fun writing it! thank you bb!! I fully intended to wait to answer all of these all at once but I'm too excited so, I present:

First Kiss - Crosshair

Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin, folks. Prompt in bold.

Warnings: some angst (because it's Crosshair), a little bit of a toxic relationship but it's fine, mention of my OC Captain Flare, medic!reader, gn!reader, fluff, confessions

Word Count: 1.4k woops

TBB divider by the wonderful @wizardofrozz, other divider by @dystopicjumpsuit

You’ve worked with Clone Force 99 now for nearly a full year, and while you could technically be reassigned at any moment, both Cody and your supervisor, a bitter old bat, assured you that the Republic had bigger fish to fry than the logistics of shuffling one nat-born medic every few campaigns. And so you’ve stayed with the outcasts. They’ve become something akin to family, at least to you. You know most of them feel the same—Wrecker never fails to express his brotherly affection for you, Tech continues to adjust the ship’s thermostat to a temperature that is best suited to you when you’re feeling off, and Hunter’s silent nod and smile tell you all you need to know.

Crosshair, though, is a tough nut to crack.

At first, you swore he hated you. Despite the rest of the squad’s assurances that he’d come around, you’d been skeptical. It wasn’t until several months into your assignment, on a mission you really shouldn’t have been on as the team’s medic, when you saved Crosshair from commando droids that something changed. He still snarked you, still flicked his used toothpicks at your face to bother you. But he slowly began to open up to you. He included you in inside jokes, actually listened to your medical advice, and even let you hold his Firepuncher once.

So despite the hospitality and friendliness of the rest of the squad, it’s Crosshair that your heart has chosen to love. You know he cares about you. You just don’t know to what extent.

Because even though he still maintains an impenetrable wall around himself, he looks after you. On missions and otherwise. When you go out on shore leave as a squad, he glowers at anyone who dares even look in your direction.

And that’s exactly the situation you find yourself in tonight. Planetside, on Triple Zero, you’d convinced the others to have a night out with you before you shipped back to the warzone in a few days. The missions have been nearly incessant, and you’re all starting to feel the strain.

Leaning back against the sticky bartop, you survey the crowded dance floor. Hunter, Tech, and Wrecker lounge in one of the coveted corner booths, looking more relaxed than you’ve seen them in a long time, dressed in civvies and nursing the cheap booze served by the 79s management. A smile lifts your lips. They deserve this, just one night off, to remind them what the war is for.

But you came here wanting more than to drink weak, watery beer. Taking a swill, you glance sidelong at Crosshair perched on a barstool next to you.

He hasn’t left your side since you walked in. Normally, his presence is comforting, especially in unfamiliar settings, on unfamiliar planets, around unfamiliar people. But 79s hosts none of those things. In fact, the way he’s ordained himself your personal shadow is beginning to grate. You know he’s scaring off any of the regs who might otherwise ask you to dance, or offer a drink, or even just a friendly hello. You know he’s hovering to protect you.

You just don’t understand why.

Sighing, you take another swill of your drink. “Kark, what’s a person gotta do to get a dance around here?”

Crosshair doesn’t answer, just shifts his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

You huff. “Cross, c’mon. I don’t need a babysitter. Go drink with the others. I’ll be fine.”

“S’not you I’m worried about,” he mutters. “S’them.” He jerks his chin toward the dance floor, gesturing broadly to the gathering of regs.

“I can handle them,” you say, an edge of ice to your voice. Frustration at his inability to actually say what he means boils below your skin.

Crosshair, predictably, ignores the bite of your words. “Didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“Great,” you say, pushing away from the bar, “glad we’re in agreement.”

Shoving your half-empty bottle into his hands. He looks down at it with a bewildered expression, then up at you, his eyes narrowed into slits. You give him a sarcastic, two-finger salute before dipping into the crowd.

You find a clone—Flare, you think he says his name is—who is more than willing to dance. His grasp on your body is unfamiliar but respectful. The pair of you sway and grind through several songs (you’re certainly not keeping track, too focused on trying to avoid the impulse to see if Crosshair is watching). When Flare whispers into your ear, his lips brushing your skin, your eyes slide shut, desperately wishing he were someone else.

A moment later, Flare yelps and his arms are ripped from around you. Eyes shooting open, you whip around to find Crosshair, every line of his body radiating anger, his fists clenched at his sides. Kriff.

“Sorry,” you call to Flare as you grab Crosshair’s bicep and haul him through the crowd to the front door. “What the fuck are you doing!?”

Scoffing, Cross yanks his arm free, though follows hot on your heels as you emerge into the cool night air. “Could ask you the same thing.”

“I was dancing,” you say.

This is going to be an argument, you just know it, and you don’t want to subject all these strangers to the impending shitstorm. So you keep walking, leading Crosshair around the corner where it’s quieter.

“Bantha-shit,” he hisses. His firm grip on your shoulder spins you around. “His hands were all over you.”

“He wasn’t doing anything I didn’t want,” you say, glaring at him. “Maker, what is your issue? I can’t even have a fun night out without you stepping all over my plans, can I?”

“No,” he spits. “Not if it means—” He cuts himself off and looks away, jaw clenching and unclenching. His chest heaves with emotion, two high spots of color on his cheeks.

Something in you softens, anger cooling into confusion. “Not if it means what, Cross?”

Nostrils flaring with every inhale, he shakes his head minutely, eyes pressing shut.

You hesitate, but after a moment, you sigh. Reaching up, you gently cup his face to draw him back to you. His eyes flutter open to meet your own. This is the closest you’ve been to him, you realize, in your entire time with the squad. Besides his medical exams, this is the most you’ve touched him, too. The realization sets your heart pounding.

“Don’t shut me out,” you say. “Please.”

He studies you for a moment. Across his face flits several emotions, none of them identifiable, and you begin to grow worried that all the progress you’ve made with him is about to be tossed over the ledge of this Coruscanti sidewalk.

A worry that is dashed as soon as he surges forward and kisses you, one hand cupping the back of your neck to steady you. A sound of surprise squeaks out of you. Then you’re melting against him. Tilting your head, you deepen the kiss, one hand settled over his heart. It beats hard and fast under your palm, nearly in tempo with your own racing pulse. His lips are chapped and rough against yours, but you don’t care, because it’s him, and this is all you’ve needed these past few months.

When he pulls away, he doesn’t go far. His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes remain screwed shut. He releases a shaky exhale.

“Cross, I—”

He kisses you again. “Don’t. Don’t apologize.”

“How did you—”

“Because I know you,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Warmth blooms deep in your chest, right where you’ve made space for him in your heart. “Y-Yeah. Alright. But—”

“No,” he grumbles. “You need to know that I- I’m sorry. For being a di’kut. I should have made a move sooner.”

A soft chuckle spills from you. “Yeah, you should’ve.”

At last, his warm, amber eyes flutter open to meet yours. Your breaths mingle in the small space between your faces, and the intensity of affection in his gaze nearly makes your knees collapse. Smiling up at him, you catch the barest hint of a smile in return. For a moment, it’s just you and Crosshair in one another’s embrace, the sounds and smells of the side alley of 79s fading away.

The moment is shattered when he speaks again. “Don’t you dare tell anyone about this.”

Laughing in earnest, you can’t help but shake your head. The others are going to find out about this new development sooner or later, but as you meet his gaze again, you realize he doesn’t mean the kiss. Sobering, you nod. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

You can’t resist winking, though. He rolls his eyes and grumbles, but tucks you against his side all the same to lead you back to the barracks.

List of Ragu: @the-hexfiles @dystopicjumpsuit @clonemedickix @freesia-writes @littlemissmanga @wolffegirlsunite @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @sinfulsalutations @523rdrebel @sunshinesdaydream @moonlightwarriorqueen @sev-on-kamino @starrylothcat @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @mandos-mind-trick @idontgetanysleep @eyeluvmusic21 @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @bobaprint @thorsterstrudle @droids-you-are-looking-for @goblininawig @dreamie411 @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @9902sgirl if your name is struck thru I can't tag you so check your settings! (to be added or removed from my taglist, click here!)

#tbb crosshair x reader #crosshair x reader #the bad batch x reader #first kiss prompts #rhiwrites #rhiplies #tbb x reader #tbb x gn!reader

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sorry-but-no-sorry · 2 years ago

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Reg and Error’s shenanigans part 13 !

@exhaustedtech99

Sound from FunkyFrogBait

#reg n error shenanigans #error n reg shenanigans #clone trooper oc #star wars clone wars #clone trooper #clone trooper reg #clone trooper error #commando trooper error #commando droid #commando error #reg drink your fucking water

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adhd-coyote · 7 months ago

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And here’s the next batch of 193rd oc redraws! We’re almost done now! This time it’s Isu Squad, who I’ve already rambled about in this post, but I’ll ramble a little more here <3

Isu Squad is made up of Smoke, Mirror, and Wraith. They’re a Commando Squad that was permanently transferred to the 193rd after a mission gone wrong killed Vertigo, their squad leader, and severely traumatized Wraith. The 193rd took them in with open arms, of course, and they’ve settled in quite nicely.

Smoke is the slicer of the squad. She’s feral enough to rip a bastard’s throat out and extremely protective of her remaining squadmates. She and Mirror have been attached at the hip since the day they were decanted, hence the matching names. And speaking of names, Smoke lives up to hers. While she has a large presence and a reputation for commanding attention, her she thrives in stealth operations. Slipping in and out of even the most secure facility is more like a fun game than a high-stakes mission.

Mirror is Isu Squad’s demolitionist. They were Vertigo’s second-in-command, and as a result have now become the default leader of Isu Squad. The electrical scarring on their face was caused by a training accident when they were younger; the electricity damaged their eye enough that they had to get it replaced with a cybernetic. They’re the ice to Smoke’s fire, per se. Some have compared them to a droid with how emotionless they seem sometimes. They have an extremely long fuse, and their anger is cold. You do not want to get on their bad side, because they hold grudges for a very, very long time.

Last but certainly not least, Wraith is their sniper. He and Mirror have always been the quiet ones, but he got even quieter after the mission that killed Vertigo. Now, he mostly prefers to sign instead of speak aloud. Smoke and Mirror have grown extremely protective of him since Vertigo’s death, which he honestly doesn’t mind much. It means at least one of them is always near him, and since he hates being alone, it works out great. Vode who don’t know him well tend to avoid him, because the silence combined with his staring problem mean he’s unintentionally unsettling. Unfortunately, this makes it difficult for him to connect with vode outside of his squad, but he’s never been extroverted anyways.

Feel free to ask more about them, I love to talk about my babies <3

#coyotes clone chaos #193rd battalion #isu squad #smoke #mirror #wraith #clone commandos #clone trooper oc #my oc #my art #credit to mellon soup for the poses #star wars #the clone wars #clone troopers

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lykancense · 7 months ago

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Yoooo here’s another piece of my clone oc Grit! He defects from the empire a year after order 66 and becomes a scrapper, bit of a job to job kind of guy. A far cry from his time as a commando medic. In the process he befriends a pit droid with full sentience programming named Eener (yeah its funny) or Een for short.

#star wars #art #my art #artwork #clone troopers #digital art #illustration #original art #star wars tcw #oc grit #oc art #my ocs #sw tcw #clone trooper oc #sw tcw oc #artists on tumblr

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kartaylirnaak · 8 months ago

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Might I be able to ask about Match the 212th ARC. Why the name? Do they like to match things? Or is it like matchstick and fire is their friend?

You most certainly can! I will very happily ramble on about him.

Match is my 212th ARC Trooper OC. He's a Sergeant and is in an ARC pair with Wooley, who is also an ARC in this AU. Match is quiet, reserved, and doesn't same much, if at all. There's a quiet, shuttered sadness to him and he can be a little intense sometimes. He cares and worries deeply but isn't always the best at expressing it. Match is an expert in wilderness survival, especially jungle survival, for Reasons (I put him through The Horrors). He's fairly lean and wiry for a clone and, when fighting, has a viciousness and brutality to him, along with a keen eye, sharp intelligence, and heightened situational awareness. But he wasn't always this way.

I have no idea where the name came from. It just sort of morphed out of thin air when I started coming up with him. Initially, I wasn't that keen on the name but it kind of stuck and now he's Match. I haven't come up with any in-universe reasoning behind his name yet but I have come up with plenty more backstory and information about him. I was organising my OC's in a spreadsheet to try and keep track of all of them and decided to open a new doc to collate my thoughts about Match. It wasn't going to be much, just a little more than what I could fit into a spreadsheet.

16k+ words later

I now have a lot more backstory and detail about Match and I'm still nowhere even close to finished. It also evolved from ramblings into actual chunks of fic. I'd love to be able to write a whole fic and more about him but that's be a mammoth undertaking that I'm not sure I'll ever manage. So now I have all these sections of fic about him that I wish I could share but there's no context to them so they don't make a great deal of sense in isolation.

Below the cut is the condensed version of Match's backstory, which is still over 2.2k words 😂 It's very rough so there's definitely some clunky writing in there.

I've also included a section of fic I wrote about Match's backstory, where I introduce a different OC, mention another, and the 212th's fandom CMO (Helix) also makes an appearance.

Match's backstory

Match starts off as a shiny in the 212th fairly early on in the war. He’s very loud, brash, cocky, arrogant and egotistical. Thinks he’s top shit and knows everything. He’s constantly getting disciplined and being dressed down by his CO’s for doing stupid shit that endangers his brothers, but it never seems to get through to him. During a battle, his squad is ambushed by droids and he and the commando droid he’s fighting are thrown off the path and down a cliff by an explosion. Match is badly injured but manages to survive and shoot the commando droid, who ended up wedged in a tree. He collapses and is then stunned and captured by Trandoshans, has his wounds perfunctorily treated while he’s out, and wakes up in a cage on a ship, dressed in civies, and with a bunch of other caged natborns. They’re all dumped out onto a beach near a jungle and then shot at, so Match and the natborns that survive all bolt for the jungle. (If this sounds like that episode from TCW, yes that’s where I pinched it from). Match then has to survive in the jungle all by himself while being hunted by the Trandoshans for sport. It’s brutal and terrifying and he has to do some truly fucked up things in order to survive. It’s a constant fight for survival, everything is life or death, and he’s constantly being hunted by the Trandoshans or creatures in the jungle. Match is forced to adapt in order to survive and stay alive. The experience changes him and he becomes quiet and withdrawn, not talking for days at a time. He’s completely alone and isolated and he knows he’s never going to be found. Match survives for over a year and a half in the jungle. He crafts his own weapons, armour, camouflage, supplies, gear, shelters, traps, and everything else he needs to survive.

The jungle forges him into something new.

Something different.

Over a year and a half after Match was captured, he’s watching the latest batch of natborns be dumped out onto the beach and spots that one of them is different, likely a Jedi. They drop down silently in front of him a day later and as very little gets the drop on Match in the jungle these days, he nearly puts a knife and axe through them. Turns out the Jedi is the 212th’s padawan (Jedi OC), who joined the 212th after Match was captured. Something something “will of the Force”, picture a bunch of Commanders rolling their eyes at their General’s here. Bit clichéd but let's be real, it’s not as bad as some of the nonsense that happened in TCW. Anyway, Match now has a baby Jedi. Accidental ad’ika acquisition has been foisted upon him. He teaches them how to survive in the jungle and looks after them, fiercely protecting them against everything. The baby Jedi looks after Match, helping with jungle survival but also helping him slowly remember a little of what it’s like to be around others again. He has someone to talk to now and he relearns, in a way, how to talk again (rocks don’t talk back to you). He has to learn to deal with touch and human interaction again, for when they have to hand things to each other or help each other through the forest or huddle for warmth when the wind picks up and the storms rage and the temperature drops. This lasts for about a month to six weeks until they enact the padawans' plan to escape. There’s a bit of angst around that because Match knows he’ll never be found but the baby Jedi keeps going on about hope and plans, which is all just futile to Match. They have a bit of a fight about it but reconcile and then go and steal the transponder and some electronics from the next Trandoshan ship that arrives. The padawan gets a message out to the 212th, who turn up and rescue them. Match gets shot protecting the baby Jedi during the rescue and nearly dies.

He wakes up in the medbay on the Negotiator, having had surgery and spent over a week in bacta. He’s survived but his body and mind are fucked. He could never find enough food in the jungle so he’s skin and bone for a clone. The results from all the tests the medics ran on him are all over the shop. He’s covered in scars, has a bunch of old injuries that didn’t heal properly, and picked up all kinds of mystery jungle diseases and parasites. Match is also deeply traumatised from everything he’s been through. The jungle never leaves him and it’s always there in his mind. He still thinks in terms of relating everything to the jungle and has to actively remind himself that he’s not there anymore.

But the jungle is always there.

Waiting.

There aren’t many clones left who remember Match from before he was captured. When Cody visits him in the medbay, Match apologises for how he behaved before and asks to be punished, to which Cody’s response is ‘absolutely the fuck not’. While Match is deeply fucked up, he’s still functional, so he has a long recovery as he heals and gets back into shape. He’s never able to fully return to the baseline body mass of a CT and he stays wiry and lean for a clone. The jungle also shaped him into a brutal fighter. He’s now fast, ruthless, and lethal, easily capable of putting down most clones quick and hard, even while recovering. He struggles to adjust though, still stuck in the mindset of the jungle where everything is a fight for survival. There is no room for practice or training in the jungle. There is only life or death. It causes some problems initially but Match was put in Waxer’s platoon for a reason (he often gets the tough cases) and everyone tries to help him adjust as best they can.

Match has changed. The arrogant little shit of a shiny from before is gone. Replaced by a quiet, reserved, and watchful clone who doesn’t say a great deal and often falls back on protocol because he doesn’t know what to do in social situations anymore. He’s a highly effective and efficient trooper now but outside of that, he struggles with a multitude of issues, including hypervigilance, dissociation, overtraining, and nightmares. He’s also filled with an immense amount of shame and guilt at how he acted and behaved as a shiny before he was captured. Match doesn’t paint his armour for quite a while because he thinks he doesn’t deserve it. That is until Boil basically shoves a can of armour paint at him and makes him turn up to an armour painting session.

Match ends up having to be an acting Sergeant in the field during a battle because two squads both lose half of their members and he’s the oldest left and he has four shocked and injured vod’ika staring up at him. So he cobbles them together, gets them through the battle, makes his report on what happened to Waxer, and then goes to make sure they’re all as ok as possible and looks after them. It’s only when they won’t leave him alone that he realises he’s accidentally acquired vod’ika. He ends up being promoted straight to Sergeant of his cobbled together squad because they worked quite well together and bonded as a group, plus Match performed well under fire. Match doesn’t think he deserves it because he just did what he always did in the jungle. Survived. But the vod’ika keep looking at him like he’s hung the stars and there is no way in hell he’s behaving like he used to, so he takes on the responsibility and teaches them what he knows.

Cody’s been keeping an eye on all of this and has been conveniently dropping by with various other experienced clones when Match is doing his own training. Match can last the longest out of the standard CT’s when sparring with commanders, ARCs, or commanders, like Cody, Wooley or Gregor. This is how Match meets Wooley, who will end up being his future ARC partner, even if Match doesn’t know it yet. He likes Wooley and has a healthy respect for him and his skills, even if he does think he’s too bright and cheery and talks too much.

You can’t talk in the jungle.

They’ll hear you.

Match ends up having to be an acting Lieutenant during a later campaign when Waxer is injured and Match is the only Sergeant left because the rest are gone or too badly injured. At the time, Match does what he has to do. During a campaign or battle, the same mindset from the jungle returns. He does what he has to do to survive, just now it’s mixed with doing what he has to in order to keep as many other clones alive as well. Match has now somehow acquired more vod’ika but he absolutely does not want to be a Lieutenant. He still doesn’t think he deserves to be a Sergeant, let alone a Lieutenant. There isn’t a space for him to be promoted to anyway once Waxer recovers. Cody has been keeping an eye on all of this and decides now is the time to send Match to ARC training. Match has a massive internal crisis about this because he thinks he definitely does not deserve the honour of even being considered for ARC training, let alone being an actual ARC. Cody puts Match through his own preparation training for ARC training so Match spends his evenings being thrown around the mats by the Commander and Wooley, learning as much as he can, and getting to know both Cody and Wooley better. He still doesn’t think he deserves to be in this position but he doesn’t talk about it because that would involve Talking To People. Rocks never talked to him in the jungle. Both Cody and Wooley clock this and try to get through to Match that he does deserve this. Match still doesn’t entirely believe it but he can understand their more rational arguments that he now has the skills, ability, and potential to be an ARC.

Seventeen is inspecting all of the ARC candidates who are lined up in the training room at the start of this round of ARC training. He stops in front of Match, who internally is freaking the fuck out, but outwardly does not even fucking blink. Match is very good at staying completely still now, especially in the presence of a threat. The jungle beat that lesson into him. Seventeen just looks at him before stating, “You saved the little Commander” (referring to the 212th’s padawan). Match, who is looking straight ahead with a dead stare, having reverted back to survival coping mechanisms that he developed to survive on the island, answers with an automatic “Yes, Sir.” Seventeen gives him a look, grunts, gives Match the tiniest of nods, and moves on, which for Seventeen is high praise. All the other ARC candidates in this round of ARC training are internally freaking out and wondering who the hell this vod is that already has Seventeen’s approval. Match just wants to be left alone and avoid any kind of attention and make it through ARC training.

Match tops almost all of the categories in this round of ARC training and is top 3 or 5 in the rest. He sets a new record in jungle survival and is equal second of all time in wilderness survival. His main competition during training is a vod named Jesse from the 501st, who is far too friendly (idk what the timelines are doing at this point so we’re just rolling with it). At least the giant Republic cog tattooed on his head would help him camouflage in the jungle a little.

The jungle is always there.

Waiting.

Match lasts the longest in their final no holds barred hand to hand spar assessment against Seventeen and is one of the few that doesn’t technically lose because the Alpha Medic supervising the spars (which are basically just fights) calls an end to it because Match refuses to stop. He must survive. Match joins Jesse and another vod in the medbay later who also had their fights stopped before they were turned into paste. Jesse was quite pleased with himself, even as he bemoaned the reception he was going to get from someone called Kix, who is apparently going to kick his ass even worse. The other vod is completely out cold. Match paints his kama in a camo pattern similar to the camo pattern on the ARFs armour in the 212th, with only the barest hint of gold paint lightly brushed through it. It’ll help blend into dappled light. The rest of his armour might be too damn bright but at least some of his legs will be camouflaged.

Match and Wooley work as an ARC pair as part of the 212th and Ghost Company. They go where they’re needed and complement each other well. They’re also both part of the specialised squad that accompanies the 212th’s padawan on missions. There’s a pool of troopers in Ghost Company with various specialisations that are drawn on depending on the needs of the mission. This will pretty much always involve Match and Wooley because wherever their padawan goes, they go. The General has the Commander and their padawan has at least one ARC. They’re all very serious about keeping their jetii alive, Match especially so about keeping the baby Jedi alive. That’s been with him ever since the jungle and will never leave.

Just like the jungle.

It is always there.

—

Section of fic about Match Context: This is after Match has been rescued and is recovering in the medbay of the Negotiator.

Waking is easier this time.

Match comes to a slow awareness of his surroundings. The white walls and bright lights and beeping machines are still there. The mask on his face is gone, replaced by tubes that fill his nose and do not feel welcome at all. Match think’s he’d prefer the mask back. He gingerly shifts his jaw and it immediately cracks, making his eye twitch and drawing out a pained grunt. His side twinges at the noise but the slicing pain from before doesn’t return. He carefully shifts slightly and is relieved to find that it doesn’t feel like he’s being stabbed again. Instead, there’s a deep penetrating ache in his shoulder, thigh, and ribs. The rest of his body feels like one big bruise. Deciding to risk a little more movement, Match turns his head to the side to confirm that, yes, there are machines next to him. There’s also the door along with a wall with a window that gives a view out into what looks like a larger medbay.

Why is he in a room by himself?

Turning his head to the other side reveals more machines, cupboards, and a chair for some reason. Match is pondering the existence of the chair when a vod with eye searingly bright blue hair and a splash of patterns on the side of his face pokes his head around the door.

“Eeeyyyyy, he’s awake!”

Yes?

The vod hollers out to the medbay at large with a string of words and letters that make absolutely no sense to Match and then bounces over to him.

“How you doin’ bud? I’m Fluid, but everyone calls me Flu because they all think they’re sooooooo funny giving a medic the name of something we can’t catch. Fancy heightened genetically engineered immune systems and all that.”

This vod is far too loud, in every sense of the word.

“But you managed to pick up some very interesting mystery jungle flu down there. That produced some wild results in the battery of tests we had to run, let me tell you.”

The jungle gave Match a lot of things.

It took away even more.

The vod keeps nattering away as he looks at a datapad and does things with the machines and rifles around in the cupboards like he’s trying to make every noise imaginable.

“So on a scale of being ripped apart by our friendly neighbourhood Force wielding Sith gremlin, to being thrown around the mats by the Commander for his sadistic pleasure, to stubbing your toe on that little lip of the door on the last training room that really shouldn’t be there because everything’s supposed to be standardised, what’s our pain like today?

What the fuck is a Sith gremlin?

“Are we gonna have to use numbers? Numbers are so boring. Utterly useless too, seeing as they don’t accurately convey pain and, despite us all being clones and all, we definitely process pain differently. But you try telling the longnecks that and just watch them get all pissy. That’s a recipe for being recon’d at the very least so let's keep that between you and me, pal.”

The loud, blue haired vod is looking at him expectantly so Match guesses this is where he’s supposed to respond.

“What’s a—”

His voice gives out, cracking into a rough croak and a hacking cough that makes his ribs really fucking hurt.

“Oop, one sec, here ya go, that should help.”

The straw from a hydro pack is brandished in his face and Match sucks down his first gulp of water that hasn’t come from somewhere dubious in the jungle.

It tastes plastic.

“Alrighty, howzat then? Bit better, yeah?”

“Thanks,” Match manages to croak out. Fuck, his voice sounds and feels rough. Flu seems to be of the same opinion and decides to make it known.

“Damn vod, that is some heavy gravel you’ve been garglin’. Don’t worry ‘bout talking too much at the moment, your voice is in about the same state as the rest of you, which is to say, pretty damn beat up.”

This vod has said more words in the past few minutes than Match has said in over a year and a half.

Repeatedly honed instincts mean Match doesn’t miss the movement across the window and his eyes track a familiar clone as they hand a datapad off to another medic and then walk through the door.

This is someone he remembers from before. And someone who remembers him.

“Flu, stop terrorising him.”

“Now, Sir, would I ever do something like that?” Flu answers, clutching at his chest and somehow managing to be even more dramatic.

A deeply unimpressed look is all Flu gets in return.

Match would be more confused at whatever is going on but right now he’s more occupied with looking at Helix in trepidation. He can’t run from a threat. Isn’t even sure how well he can move, and there’s only one way out of this room.

“Go be a menace elsewhere.”

“But at least I’m your favourite menace,” Flu replies, as he cheerfully slaps the datapad against Helix’s chest.

“No, that’s Pinch.”

A scandalised gasp.

“Wounded. Deeply wounded, Sir. So deeply and fatally wounded. I am in the death throes and seeing the light.”

“No dying in my medbay.”

Flu leaves with an exuberant “Yessir” flung over his shoulder as the door closes on his exit and finally brings about some peace and quiet.

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