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areyoufuckingcrazy · 2 months ago

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“Uncalculated Variables”

Tech x Jedi!Reader

Summary: Clone Wars-era op with the Bad Batch. Jedi reader + Quinlan Vos bestie assisting the op.

⸻

If Tech had known he’d be spending the mission with two unorthodox Jedi, he might have requested recalibration for his brain implant.

Vos was already a variable he’d accounted for—reckless, talented, infuriatingly good, unpredictable. But you?

You were something else entirely.

You strolled off the gunship like the war was a camping trip, a lightsaber strapped to your hip and a ridiculous grin on your face as you greeted Wrecker with a high five mid-jump.

“Miss me, big guy?”

Wrecker beamed. “You always make it more fun!”

Vos followed close behind, flipping a thermal detonator in one hand like it was a toy. “They let you off Coruscant without me? I’m hurt.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Please. You’d just get jealous when I steal all the glory.”

Vos grinned. “You wish.”

Tech stared. “I fail to see how this level of casualness is appropriate for a battlefield.”

You turned to him with a slow smile. “Ah, you must be Tech.”

He straightened instinctively. “Yes. You are correct.”

You offered a hand—not stiff or formal, but open, easy. There was mischief in your eyes. “I’ve read your file. You’re the one with the brains and the dry commentary.”

He hesitated before taking your hand. “That is… not inaccurate.”

You leaned in, voice low. “I like brains.”

He blinked. “As do most species. It is vital for survival.”

Vos coughed loudly behind you—possibly to hide a laugh.

Wrecker elbowed Hunter. “I like this Jedi.”

Tech ignored them, adjusting his goggles. “We are operating on a strict schedule. I’d prefer we keep distractions—”

“Lighten up, Tech,” you teased, falling into step beside him. “If you smiled any less, we’d have to start checking for signs of carbon freezing.”

“I assure you, I am functioning within optimal emotional parameters.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Sounds lonely.”

He shot you a side glance, but your tone was playful, not unkind.

“I don’t understand you,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Most don’t. That’s half the fun.”

⸻

Later, during recon, Vos and Wrecker were off chasing a “weird energy reading,” Crosshair was perched up somewhere, and Hunter had gone ahead to secure the route. That left you and Tech crouched behind cover, scanning a Separatist outpost through the macrobinoculars.

“Y’know,” you said casually, “if you ever wanted to break all your rules and do something reckless, I’m very available.”

Tech frowned. “I don’t require your availability. This mission is already well underway.”

You stifled a laugh. “Not what I meant.”

He blinked, confused. “Was it a code? I didn’t detect one.”

You turned to him, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re cute when you’re confused.”

His ears turned slightly pink.

“I’m not confused,” he replied quickly. “Merely… recalibrating.”

You laughed again, soft and warm. “You’re fun, Tech. Even if you don’t know it.”

He didn’t reply. Just stared out at the outpost, glasses slightly fogged. Processing. Buffering.

You winked as you stood. “Come on, Brain Boy. Let’s go break some droids.”

And behind you, Tech mumbled—

“…I don’t understand you.”

But oh, he wanted to.

⸻

“Move your pretty brain, Tech!”

Your shout cut through the blaster fire as you Force-shoved a B1 battle droid clean off the ridge. The droid hit the canyon wall with a clang before falling into a satisfying silence.

Tech barely managed to duck behind the rock as two more shots ricocheted past his goggles.

“I’m attempting to calculate the terrain advantages, not—”

You dropped beside him, lightsaber humming with heat. “Flirt later, calculate less. We’re getting spicy out here.”

“I am not flirting—”

“You will be,” you said sweetly, spinning to deflect a bolt. “Just haven’t hit the right button yet.”

“Force help me,” Crosshair muttered over comms. “I’m in hell.”

Vos cackled somewhere on the ridge. “This is why I bring her on ops.”

You winked in Tech’s direction. “Besides, I like it when smart boys get flustered.”

“I am not—” he started, only to cut himself off when you leapt over the boulder and ran directly into blaster fire.

“Wait—don’t—!”

But you were already slicing through droids, movements chaotic and fluid. A little wild, a little beautiful. Vos followed behind you with a war cry and a detonator.

“Stop being reckless in combat!” Tech snapped, ducking as sparks flew overhead.

Wrecker hollered from behind cover. “She’s so cool, right?!”

Tech was still reeling from how your braid moved like a whip when you spun, when a Super Battle Droid on the ridge zeroed in on his location.

He didn’t see it. But you did.

“Tech!”

You moved fast—a leap, a slide down the gravel slope, and then a blinding crack of energy as you shoved him to the ground and blocked the bolt meant for his chest with your saber.

The shockwave sent you both tumbling behind a ledge.

For a second, there was only the buzz of his ears and the hum of your saber still hot in the air.

You looked down at him—arms braced on either side of his shoulders, breathing hard, body pressed against his.

His goggles were crooked. His heart was absolutely not functioning in optimal parameters.

“You good?” you asked, voice low.

“I…” Tech swallowed. “Yes. Thanks to you.”

You leaned a little closer. “That’s two times I’ve saved your life this week. You might owe me.”

“I… suppose I do.”

You smiled. “We’ll figure out the payment plan later.”

Vos dropped beside you, covered in soot and grinning. “I saw that. That was hot. I’d kiss you for that save.”

“Why are they like this,” the sniper muttered and then glanced over to Tech. “Can’t believe I’m third-wheeling a courtship in the middle of a kriffing warzone.”

“Fourth-wheeling,” Vos corrected. “I’m emotionally invested.”

You grinned as you helped Tech up. “Don’t worry, brain boy. They’re only teasing”

You patted his chest, then turned back toward the canyon, saber blazing back to life.

“We’ll talk later. Right now? Droids first. Feelings… maybe after explosives.”

And then you were off again, a whirlwind of Force and fire.

Tech stood frozen, fingers twitching at his belt.

Vos clapped him on the back. “Welcome to the mess, genius.”

⸻

You were sitting cross-legged on the Marauder’s ramp, tossing pebbles at Wrecker’s helmet while he tried to balance a crate on one hand.

Vos was beside you, chewing on dried fruit like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He elbowed you after a particularly impressive throw.

“You ever gonna tell Tech you’re into him?” Vos asked, mouth half-full.

You smirked. “And ruin the comedy of him trying to math his way through courtship? No thanks.”

Wrecker laughed. “He is actin’ weird lately. Said I was being ‘emotionally invasive’ for askin’ if he liked you!”

Vos grinned. “He’s got it bad.”

“And I am loving it,” you replied, spinning a pebble in your fingers. “Every time I flirt, he acts like I just challenged his understanding of gravity.”

Right on cue, Tech walked down the ramp, datapad clutched in hand, goggles slightly askew. He stopped in front of you, cleared his throat.

“I… performed a series of diagnostics regarding interpersonal compatibility,” he said, utterly serious. “According to twenty-seven factors—including personality, adaptability, combat style, and dietary preferences—we are a statistically promising match.”

Vos dropped his fruit.

You blinked. “Did you just… scientifically determine that we should date?”

“I—well—yes,” Tech said. “But only if you’re interested. Which—based on your heart rate and verbal cues—I suspect you might be.”

Vos exploded into laughter, falling back on the ramp.

“Oh my Maker,” he wheezed. “You absolute nerd.”

You grinned at Tech. “That might be the most romantic math I’ve ever heard.”

Tech pushed his glasses up. “I thought you’d appreciate the data.”

“I do,” you said, standing and brushing your hands off. “But next time, try leading with something like: ‘I think you’re beautiful and I’d like to kiss you.’”

Tech turned crimson. “I—yes. Noted.”

“Relax,” you teased, stepping closer. “I’m not gonna kiss you.”

His expression fell a little.

“Yet,” you added.

From behind the crates, Crosshair exhaled loudly. “Maker, just kiss already or go back to sexually tense banter. This is painful.”

You turned. “Aw, Cross. You jealous you’re not the one I’m throwing pebbles at?”

He scowled. “I’d rather be shot.”

Vos stood and slung an arm around your shoulders. “Honestly, same.”

You nudged him. “You’re just mad you’re not the prettiest Jedi in the room anymore.”

Vos gasped dramatically. “Rude. And false.”

Tech, meanwhile, was still buffering.

“I may need to recalibrate my approach,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

“Or,” you said, tapping his datapad, “you could just ask me to spend time with you. No variables required.”

He paused, then looked up at you, eyes suddenly very soft.

“…Would you like to accompany me on a walk through the canyon ridge at 1900 hours? Statistically, it would be—”

You leaned in, smirking. “Careful, Tech. That almost sounded like a date.”

He adjusted his goggles. “I was… hoping it would be.”

Vos made a gagging noise. Crosshair muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “nerds.”

And you?

You just smiled.

⸻

1900 hours hit, and you were waiting by the canyon overlook, robes loose and windswept, arms crossed like you hadn’t just spent twenty minutes trying to decide if you looked “dateable.”

You sensed him before you saw him—Tech’s unique mental frequency, all angles and tension and humming data flow. He approached precisely on time, goggles slightly askew, holding… a field scanner?

“Is that for scanning terrain,” you asked, grinning, “or just a really dramatic way to say you’re nervous?”

“I—” Tech adjusted his grip. “It is a tool for environmental analysis and—possibly—also distraction.”

You snorted. “So yes.”

The two of you walked along the ridge trail, the orange twilight casting soft shadows on the canyon walls. Silence settled, not uncomfortable, just… charged. Like the pause before a storm—or a kiss.

“So,” you said finally, “have you been practicing your flirting?”

Tech looked over, hesitant. “I did… research.”

“Oh no.”

He cleared his throat. “Your presence activates all of my… neurological functions.”

You blinked. “That… was almost sexy.”

“Almost?”

“You lost me at neurological.”

Tech looked disappointed. You reached over, brushing your fingers over his arm. “Don’t worry, I like the weird.”

“I am attempting,” he said, more softly this time, “to understand how to… express what I feel.”

You tilted your head. “And what do you feel?”

He turned toward you fully now. “I feel that your presence both stabilizes and disorients me. That your actions on the battlefield—reckless though they are—captivate me. That your voice lingers in my thoughts long after transmission ends. And that when you saved my life… I was afraid, not of death, but of losing the chance to tell you any of this.”

Your breath caught.

“…Tech,” you said, gently.

“I am aware,” he rushed to add, “that emotions are complex, and Jedi traditionally—”

You stepped forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t long or intense, just a warm press of lips. Steady. Sure.

When you pulled back, his goggles were fogged.

“Shutting up works too,” you whispered.

From somewhere nearby, a stick snapped.

You both turned just in time to hear Vos swear and fall directly out of a bush.

“I WASN’T SPYING,” he yelled.

“Maker above—” Tech muttered.

Crosshair’s voice crackled over the comm: “I told him you’d hear his dumbass breathing.”

Wrecker’s voice came next: “I think it’s sweet! Tech’s got a girlfriend!”

Vos was on his feet, brushing himself off. “Sorry—carry on. Proud of you, Tech. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You groaned. “I am going to murder all of you.”

Tech looked dazed.

“Can we… do that again?” he asked quietly.

You smiled, tugging him close. “Yeah. This time with less audience.”

#tech x reader #tbb tech #star wars the clone wars #the bad batch x reader #the clone wars x reader #the bad batch #tbb wrecker #wrecker #tbb crosshair #crosshair x reader #wrecker x reader #hunter #tbb hunter #clone force 99 #jedi #pro jedi #quinlan vos

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jessicas-pi · 6 days ago

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k so I tried to write this as a notfic for my AO3 The Space Family But.. series but I got stuck because I have no plot actually. so. I guess i'll just be rambling about it on here!

anyway.

Star Wars Rebels modern AU where they were all actors in a TV show set in the star wars universe. It was called Quest of Rebellion and was less of a connected story and more of a monster/villain/random-event-of-the-week type show. It was almost more like classic Star Trek, in a way. But in the Star Wars universe.

It starred, in order:

Caleb Dume as Kanan Jarrus, the charming--and slightly cocky, but with a heart of gold--captain of the ship. He completely embraced his character. The rest of the cast was always slipping up and calling him Kanan even off the set. He was by far the fan favorite.

Hera Syndulla as the bright, confident first mate and pilot Layda Dawn. Her character was sometimes a bit more damsel-y than she would have liked, but she was still the role model of a generation of little girls, and she's proud of it. Her finest moment was when she argued her way into having a scene where Layda carried a wounded Kanan out of danger while explosions and epic music were in the background.

Chopper... as... Chopper. He's legit just the same droid. Fully functional and an agent of chaos. Don't ask me how this works, I don't know. Chopper transcends logic. He's too powerful.

Garazeb Orellios as Commander Mel Loorun, the gruff chief of security. He was a stage actor, I'm thinking maybe Shakespeare, before he took on this role and is a little salty about how goofy his character can be. But he's dedicated to the art. He's always in costume, purple alien makeup and all. ALWAYS. A L W A Y S.

Sabine Wren as Ria Talla, the perky young junior mechanic. Ria got a lot of hate, mostly because a certain writer had a habit of putting Ria in mortal danger due to her own incompetence, and it was in enough episodes that people kind of forgot that she was usually a clever, capable crewmember and an essential part of the team. (She has a personal vendetta against the episode on Zarvon 4, particularly. Everyone knows: you do not mention it to her.) This really got to Sabine, because she wanted to be a role model to a generation of little girls, like Hera was, and instead, she was just plain unpopular.

Ezra Bridger as Dev Morgan, a Jedi Padawan who joined the ship's crew. He embraced his character as much as Kanan did, with far less positive results. Again, this was due to some writers making terrible decisions with his character--half the time, he was the idiotic comic relief, and half the time, he was the smartest one, who saved everyone else. The only consistent thing was his sass. Audience reception to his character made Ria look like a fan favorite. But it doesn't bother him. No, really. He's fine.

The show ran for a few seasons, got a devoted following, and then got unexpectedly cancelled. In the years that followed, the actors kinda sorta moved on with their lives. Well, some of them did.

Ten years later, the cast's lives look like:

Caleb and Hera, whose characters had very unsubtle hints of a romance (which was unexpectedly reconned in Season 4, to the ire of the fandom), actually got married in real life and are now the proud parents of a ten-year-old boy named Jacen, who thinks Quest of Rebellion is stupid and his parents are lame.

Chopper... is still Chopper.

Zeb's gone back to Shakespeare acting---or, well, he's tried to, but after playing a purple furry alien on a sci-fi show, it's hard to get taken seriously.

Sabine lives in a condo her rich parents own. She's currently unemployed and going through some Mental Health Things.

And Ezra can't keep a job down, which he blames on Dev's issues with authority (he just gets so in character, and then management fires him! It's totally unfair!) He's currently looking for a job and is sleeping on the couch at Zeb's tiny apartment. He's been clinging to an upbeat, positive facade with every shred of strength he's got, but he recently set Sabine off on an angry tirade (she was having a bad day to start with and then he mentioned the Zarvon 4 episode) where she says a lot of things to him that are actually things she's been thinking about herself (pointless, worthless, failure, nothing but a joke, nobody wants you here). Well, that was the breaking point that finally brought it all crashing down, and he's hit rock bottom, feeling utterly useless and lost and purposeless.

Which is when the aliens abduct him.

See, unbeknownst to them all, in a galaxy far far away, a civilization of aliens has been picking up on our Earth channels for the past decade or so. Quest of Rebellion is a planetwide favorite. But the thing is, these aliens have no concept of fiction. They think Quest of Rebellion is a docuseries.

And when an evil Empire begins to rise in their galaxy, threatening their peaceful, unmilitarized, defenseless society, they turn to their heroes for salvation.

Help us, Padawan Morgan. You're our only hope.

(Well, Ezra can't say no to that, can he?)

#behold: my galaxy quest inspired rebels au!!#jessica's random thoughts #star wars rebels #star wars rebels au #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #c1 10p #zeb orrelios #sabine wren #ezra bridger #quest of rebellion au #the rest of the story goes like this: Ezra recruits everyone else and they go on a space adventure and save the day #and jacen learns his family is actually super cool #and Sabine and Ezra make up from their argument and probably hug or something #and zeb finally gets his Awesome Moment the show always denied him #and kanan and hera are just. super in love the whole time. and the aliens are delighted to learn it was canon all along

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jetii · 2 months ago

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Event Horizon

Chapter Thirty-Six: Restless

Chapter WC: 10,464

Chapter Tags/Warnings: fluff, but this is VERY hurt/comfort heavy and i did make myself cry multiple times writing it so beware

A/N: These two will do literally everything but tell each other they love each other smh (i say as if this isn't my fault). Btw I changed the Lieutenant's name bc I decided I'm keeping him.

Have to plug this art of Goldie @ghostymarni made for me today too. LOOK AT HER!!!

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Duro, 20 BBY

Dawn breaks, and Dash and the engineers are no closer to fortifying the shield generator than they were when you arrived. It's been hours since the power to the main generator came back online, and there's still no sign of an attack. And while you're grateful for the time to prepare, it's hard not to be suspicious, and more than a little wary. The shield only allows so many dropships in per hour, but the longer you wait for the droids to attack, the larger the force must be.

It's not as if you've done nothing with your time, however. You and Snap had spent the last few hours crawling the city with Screwball, noting choke points and potential weak spots and doing a little sightseeing.

Screwball had found evidence of tunnels below the city, and while you hadn't found any access points yet, they would provide an excellent secondary route should the droids break through the main gate and flood the city from above. Your only concern is whether they're stable, and how extensive they are. There could be a dozen access points, or none. You simply have no way of knowing.

The streets are filled with clones as your squads move from block to block, each passing minute bringing more troopers and more supplies into the city. The footprint of Urdur is chaotic, a maze of streets and alleyways that weave through the ancient buildings making navigating the city difficult, even with a map. It didn't help that the structures were crumbling, with half-collapsed floors and missing staircases, leaving you to take detours and double back often.

But as difficult as it was to navigate for you, it will be worse for the droids. And that's exactly what you're counting on. The narrow roads and sharp corners make for perfect ambush locations, and with the help of the 882nd, who had arrived a short while ago, the entire city will be a deathtrap.

And though you're sure it'll all go to hell the moment the fighting starts, you also have a plan.

After hours of searching, the three of you returned to the generator and joined the others, sharing the information and brainstorming strategy. There was some debate about how to deploy the men, and you and Rex ended up butting heads a bit over how best to defend the city, with the Captain advocating for a centralized position and you suggesting a more distributed approach.

In the end, you had won the battle. The 882nd as the 419th's heavy infantry regiment would be posted up outside the walls, while the 501st would man the walls, keeping the enemy from entering the city. The 103rd regiment, which were comprised of the 419th's scouting, demolitions, and recon regiments, would be spread out throughout the city, covering the key points of access and providing a flexible response should the droids break through the wall. Malestrom Company, led by Snap, would stay at the shield generator site as a last line of defense.

And you? Well, you were going to do what you did best. Hunt down the enemy and take them apart.

With the plan in place, there wasn't much else to do but wait.

And wait you have.

You've been pacing the perimeter of the generator for hours, a nervous energy driving you forward. It's not the waiting that bothers you. It's the lack of information. You have no idea where the droids are or how big their forces could be, and every minute that passes brings with it the fear that you're unprepared for the coming fight.

You know you should be patient. That this is the right decision. The only option. But the longer the silence stretches, the more on exhausted and on edge you become, and you know you're not the only one.

You'd commanded Dash to take a break and let Fuse and the others take over for a bit, and though he had protested, he hadn't argued for very much longer. He'd collapsed onto the nearest cot and was out like a light within minutes, several of the other members of Maelstrom spread out around him. The rest were scattered throughout the room, most asleep or close to it, a quiet murmur of voices the only sign that they were awake at all.

You, on the other hand, are too keyed up to sleep, the adrenaline in your system refusing to allow it. You watch them from above on a catwalk overlooking the generator, leaning against the railing and scanning the space for anything out of place. But all you see is a group of soldiers who have worked themselves to the bone in order to make this mission a success.

It's been months since your men were able to truly rest, months since they'd stepped foot on a planet not actively trying to kill them, and the reality of the war is wearing on them all, not just you. You've always known the toll the conflict would take, but the constant fighting has made it easier to ignore, to push away the thoughts and emotions and focus on the mission. But seeing your troops like this, so tired and worn, has reminded you of just how bad things are, and how far you've all come in such a short time.

More than anything, you wish they were all back on Coruscant. Back home. Safe.

But they're not. And the war won't end anytime soon.

You sigh and push the guilt away, letting go of the anger and resentment that comes with it. The only thing you can do is resolve to speak to the Council when this is over, and stand your ground until they agree to let the 419th take a vacation, a proper break from the war and the violence and the death. It's the least you can do for your men. For your brothers.

Your hands tap a restless rhythm on the railing, and your gaze drifts around the room, watching the steady rise and fall of the troopers' chests and the subtle twitches and shifts of their bodies. It's almost mesmerizing, and you find yourself zoning out, letting the world drift away and your mind wander.

You know you should sleep. You promised Snap you would, and you don't intend to draw his ire again. But you also know that the echoes of your vision will come if you do.

You can already feel them waiting, the faintest whisper like an itch at the back of your mind, one that will come to the fore if you dare close your eyes. A city burning, Rex holding a blaster to your chest, his eyes filled with grief and pain, and the two of you pulling the trigger together, your fingers entwined. The feeling is visceral and painful, and no matter how hard you try, you can't shake the memory.

It's not a new sensation, nor is it the first time it's plagued you, but the visions are stronger now, and more frequent. It's a premonition, and you know it. A glimpse of the future. One shrouded in a heavy layer of some meaning you've failed to yet grasp.

Or maybe you're just being stubborn, refusing to believe it will come true despite everything telling you otherwise. You don't know. All you know is that the thought of losing your friends—of being the cause of their deaths—is too much.

Your hand drifts up to your neck, slipping inside your robes to grab hold of Yaddle's pendant. The feeling of it between your fingers is soothing, a small comfort that helps keep the shadows at bay. You're not sure how much time passes, the seconds bleeding into minutes and beyond, but the pendant remains firmly clasped in your hand, the familiar weight grounding you in the present.

"Hey."

You look over your shoulder to see Rex approaching, his helmet tucked under his arm and a cup of caf in his free hand. He offers the mug to you with a raised brow, and you feel a flutter in your chest at the sight. It's a small thing, a kind gesture, but the thoughtfulness of the act isn't lost on you.

"You're my hero," you murmur as you accept the mug, your fingers brushing his in the process. He huffs a laugh and shakes his head.

"Don't speak so soon. I couldn't find you any sugar rations."

The corners of his mouth lift as you take your first sip, and your nose wrinkles as the bitter liquid hits your tongue. You force yourself to swallow, a shiver running through your body at the acrid taste, and Rex chuckles at your expression, his eyes twinkling.

"It's not that bad," he teases.

"You're right. It's worse."

Rex snorts and rolls his eyes. "Well, if you don't want it..."

"I didn't say that," you grumble, clutching the mug protectively and holding it to your chest. Rex shakes his head in mock exasperation and leans against the railing next to you. "Thanks. Really. I can use the energy."

"You could use sleep," he corrects, giving you a pointed look. You shrug and take another sip, grimacing again. "You know I'm right. When was the last time you slept? A real night of sleep?"

"I don't know. When was the last time you did?" you retort, and Rex sighs. You both know the answer. Neither of you have had a decent night's rest in weeks. But you can't resist the urge to poke at him anyway. It's a habit at this point.

"That's not fair, and you know it," he scolds, giving you a disapproving frown. You raise an eyebrow and take a drink of caf, ignoring the way the caffeine twists your stomach into knots. "This isn't a joke."

"I didn't say it was."

"You're acting like it," he mutters.

"How's the perimeter?" you ask, changing the subject.

Rex stares at you for a beat, clearly not impressed by your tactic. His jaw works as he debates whether to press the issue or not, before he finally sighs and shakes his head, his shoulders dropping.

"We've got sentries posted every five hundred meters, and we've set up motion sensors and mines around the perimeter," he explains. "I've got the rest of the boys doing the same at the choke points we identified earlier."

"Good," you nod. "Any word from Ahsoka or Anakin?"

"Nothing," Rex replies with a frown. "Long range comms are still down."

"Damn," you mutter, your hand tightening around the mug. Ahsoka should've been able to locate the signal jammer by now, and the fact that she hasn't is a bad sign. It could mean anything, and none of it good. "We're on our own, huh?"

"For the time being," Rex confirms, a note of unease in his voice. You glance at him and see a flash of worry cross his face before he schools his expression back into a neutral mask.

"And the scouts?" you ask. "Have they found anything?"

"Nothing to report yet. They've been moving in a grid pattern and haven't seen anything unusual," he replies as he leans against the railing next to you. He braces his elbows on the metal bar and lets out a heavy breath, his gaze fixed on the ground far below. "And the general in charge of this operation is dead on her feet, despite her best efforts to pretend otherwise."

"You're a pain in the ass," you mutter into your cup, and Rex smirks, his gaze darting to you and back.

"And you're avoiding my question."

"Which was?"

"When was the last time you slept more than a few hours?" he asks again, and you groan, shaking your head and taking another drink. Rex sighs and gives you a look. "C'mon. We're stuck here until the Seps decide to attack. No point in pretending."

"Rex..."

"Please."

The pleading note in his voice is your undoing, and you deflate, the fight going out of you. You sigh and turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing.

"I don't know. Probably..." You trail off and sigh again, running a hand through your hair, your fingers tangling in the messy strands. You don't have the energy to be coy or avoid his question. "Probably after that night at 79s. Maybe. It's hard to remember."

"That was months ago," Rex says softly. You shrug and give him a small smile, but he doesn't return it. Instead, his frown deepens, his brows furrowing as he studies your face. "Are you kidding me?"

"What do you want me to say?" you ask, the words coming out sharper than intended, and the cup hits the railing, a splash of caf sloshing over the edge. "It's not like I have much choice, Rex. I sleep when I can, but the visions, they...I just can't seem to get any rest. So I try to meditate instead."

"And how's that going for you?" he asks dryly.

"It's going great," you growl. Rex snorts, and you scowl at him. "Why are you even asking me these questions if you're just going to mock me?“

"I'm not mocking you," he insists, his expression softening as his voice drops low. He shifts closer to you, and his hand drifts down to the railing, his fingers finding yours and gently prying them from the mug. You relax slightly, your body responding to his touch despite the frustration, and he sighs. "I'm sorry."

You watch him for a second before you release the breath you've been holding, your shoulders sagging as the anger drains away. You can't stay mad at him, no matter how hard you try.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he continues, his voice low. "I'm just worried."

"You're always worried," you point out, and he smiles, nodding.

"I am," he agrees. He lets go of your hand and lifts his fingers to your cheek, brushing the hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear. His touch is warm, his fingers lingering against your skin, and you lean into the contact, his thumb stroking the line of your jaw. "But can you blame me?"

"I guess not," you admit reluctantly. He gives you a knowing look and drops his hand, and you bite back a sigh of disappointment. "But it's not like I can just...sleep. I've tried. It doesn't work."

"I know," he murmurs, his expression softening. "But if you can't sleep, at least try to rest."

"I am resting."

"Yeah, sure you are," he snorts. He reaches out and grabs the cup, setting it on the railing behind him. He takes a step forward, his hand finding yours again, and he gives your fingers a light squeeze. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Where are we going?"

"Just outside," he replies with a shrug. "Away from all of this. For a minute."

"Is that an order?" you tease. Rex rolls his eyes and pulls you towards the stairs. You follow without protest, your fingers laced through his.

The two of you move quickly and quietly, your boots barely whispering against the metal grates as you descend the staircase, careful not to wake the others. Most of the troopers are already asleep, sprawled out across the cots and the floor, their armor piled neatly nearby. The only ones awake are those manning the generator itself, and their attention is too focused on the controls and machinery to notice you and Rex slipping through the room and out the door.

Urdur is less gloomy in the daytime, the shadows cast by the towering buildings not nearly as ominous as they had been in the dark. Rex doesn't let go of your hand as he pulls you down the street, and you let him, too caught up in the feeling of his fingers wrapped around yours and the soft glow of the sunrise to care.

He leads you through the city, empty and silent save for the occasional squad of clones patrolling. Rex takes a winding path, avoiding the major thoroughfares and sticking to the smaller streets and alleys. It's almost peaceful, the two of you wandering through the ruins, and the further the two of you get from the generator, the lighter the burden on your shoulders becomes, the weight of the mission and the war fading away, if only for a while.

"Rex, where are we going?" you ask again, breaking the silence that has settled between you, and he shrugs.

"Does it matter?" he replies as he lets go of your hand and drops back to walk next to you. You give him a wry smile and shake your head.

"No," you chuckle. "But you have to admit, this is a bit strange."

"What is?"

"Us, taking a leisurely stroll through a ghost town." You gesture at the empty streets and cracked pavement. "I mean, I appreciate the sentiment, but it feels like we should be doing something. Like we should be preparing."

"We've done everything we can," Rex points out. "There's nothing left to do but wait.”

You hum reluctantly in agreement, and he shoots you a small smile.

“Besides, it’s not much different than the time you showed me around Coruscant,” he says as he looks away.

Your cheeks heat at the reminder. He'd said the words lightly, casually, but there's a hint of something else in his tone, a note of fondness that catches your attention. And you can’t help but smile at the memory of the two of you walking through the city and talking for hours, the war and your stations forgotten in favor of each other's company.

He'd been so nervous then, so unsure, and the sight of him fidgeting and shuffling his feet had been a welcome distraction from the turmoil raging inside your own mind. That day had changed something between you, a fundamental shift in the relationship that had grown so slowly over the past nine months, and the thought of it is almost overwhelming.

You never would've guessed when you sat across from him and told him about your past, about Yaddle and what you'd gone through, that it would lead to the two of you here, side by side. Perhaps you knew then that you were attracted to him, but the depth of the connection, the bond that's formed between you, has come as a surprise. And while you've both fought it, the two of you have only managed to dig yourselves deeper, until the feelings have become too big, too strong, to deny any longer.

Yet, you're still dancing around the subject, neither of you ready to take that final step and acknowledge the feelings aloud, or risk the consequences of a confession. But it's there, a constant presence between the two of you, a connection that grows stronger each time you're together, even if neither of you are willing to say it out loud.

And in the silence, the truth remains unsaid, though the feelings remain.

"It's a little different," you tease, and Rex rolls his eyes. You bite back a grin and bump your shoulder against his, earning a huff and a sideways glance. "Sadly, no Dex's waiting for us this time."

"Shame," he quips. "I've been looking forward to that nerf burger for months."

A quiet, breathless chuckle slips from your lips before you can stop it, and Rex looks over at you with a soft smile.

"I missed that."

"What?"

He looks away again, his cheeks coloring, and he clears his throat.

"Your laugh,” he says quietly. “I haven't heard it in a while."

Your heart swells in your chest, the words washing over you and leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. You want to say something, anything, but the words catch in your throat, and all you can manage is a soft, "Oh."

He nods, his eyes flicking over to meet yours for a second before dropping away again. He's still blushing, and a foreign giddiness wells up in your chest. It's a strange sensation, the sudden urge to laugh and cry at the same time, and you take a shaky breath, your gaze fixed on the ground.

Rex’s words are sweet, but they also remind you of how long it's been since the two of you had a day off, a moment to just sit and relax and enjoy each other's company, without the threat of death hanging over your heads.

All the promises you’ve made to meet up on Coruscant when you both have downtime seem to be getting further and further away. There's never time. Never an opportunity to actually act on them. The war seems like it's only getting worse, and the distance has been wearing on the both of you, more than either of you would care to admit.

You've always been a solitary person, a loner by nature with only Obi-Wan and occasionally Anakin for company, but since Rex, Ahsoka, and the rest of the men have entered your life, you've found yourself craving the closeness, the comfort, the love that comes from having others around who care for you.

It's a weakness, and the Jedi are taught to resist the pull of attachment, but it's impossible to deny the truth of the matter: you're lonely, and you need them. You need Rex.

And not just because of the visions or the darkness that haunts you. You need him because of him. Because he's kind and brave and smart, and he has a dry humor and wit that never fails to amuse you. Because he's always there for you, no matter what, and because he loves you. All of you, every piece and part, no matter how broken or flawed. And because you love him too. So much it hurts.

The thought is sobering, and the giddiness dies, a melancholy sadness taking its place. You feel Rex's gaze on you, but you can't look at him, the emotion too raw, too close to the surface.

"I hope we'll get the chance to have another day like that again someday," you finally say. It's not what you want to say, not the words that burn in your throat, but it's the closest thing you can manage right now. It's the truth, as painful as it is.

"I do too," Rex murmurs. You glance up at him, and his expression is so achingly gentle that your breath catches. "More than anything."

You smile despite the ache in your heart, and you reach out to take his hand, lacing your fingers through his and giving his hand a squeeze. He returns the gesture, and the two of you continue on in silence, lost in your own thoughts, each wrapped up in the memory of that day and the promise of more to come.

Eventually, Rex stops walking. The main gate of the city stretches above you, the massive metal doors closed tight and covered with thick layers of dust and rust, and the sight is oddly familiar, a nagging sense of deja vu tugging at the edges of your consciousness. Before you can think too much on it, he tugs on your hand and leads you toward the steps lining the wall, nodding at the guards stationed nearby as he passes.

The two of you take the stone stairs two at a time until you reach the top of the battlements. He doesn’t stop, guiding you to the base of one of the guard towers, and he lets go of your hand as he steps up to the door, pulling it open and gesturing for you to follow him inside and up the ladder.

Rex reaches the top first and offers you his hand as you reach the last rung, and you take it, letting him pull you up and into the room above. It’s small, no larger than your quarters on the Oracle, cramped and filled with crates stacked haphazardly against the walls and corners. A series of small windows line the far wall, the glass clouded with age and neglect, but you can see the barren landscape beyond.

You walk over to the window and lean against the frame, resting your elbows on the rough stone. The white and gold figures of the 882nd regiment are spread out below, and you can see their speeders parked in neat rows near the city gates as they move through the abandoned factories and warehouses outside. Beyond the walls, the ground stretches away, flat and empty for miles, dotted with the occasional spires and domes of half-buried structures. It's desolate and bleak, but beautiful, in a tragic sort of way.

"It's quite the view," you murmur, and Rex hums in agreement as he joins you, his hands resting on the sill beside yours.

His shoulder brushes yours as he leans forward, his gaze sweeping over the horizon, and you steal a glance at him. The light plays across his features, his dark skin glowing golden in the dawn's rays, and you find yourself mesmerized by the sight, the shadows and scars and the worry lines all fading away, leaving only the man beneath the armor.

He turns and catches you staring, a crooked grin tugging at his lips, and he raises an eyebrow.

"So," he drawls, "how do you feel about sleeping now?"

It takes you a moment to register the question, and once it does, you groan and drop your forehead onto your folded arms, shaking your head in exasperation. Rex chuckles, and you peek up at him, a small smile pulling at the corners of your mouth.

"You can't be serious," you grumble, lifting your head. "This is your master plan? To drag me to an abandoned guard tower and hope I fall asleep?"

"No," he says innocently, and he crosses his arms and leans his hip against the sill. "It's my plan to keep an eye on you and make sure you actually rest."

"Rex..."

"You know I'm right," he interrupts, his tone firm. "And I'm not letting you leave until you at least try."

"I'd like to see you try and stop me," you challenge, and Rex raises an eyebrow, his mouth twitching as he bites back a grin. "You know you wouldn't stand a chance."

"If this is your way of goading me into sparring with you, it's not going to work this time," he replies dryly. You pout, and Rex shakes his head, a fond smile playing across his lips. "We're not fighting today. That's not what this is about."

"What is it about?"

"You. And the fact that you're barely holding it together," he answers softly. You blink at him in surprise, a cold chill settling over you and seizing your heart, and he continues before you can respond, "You can't keep going like this. I can't. Not if...if you're not okay."

He pauses, and the two of you stare at each other, a tense silence filling the space between you. You want to deny his words, to insist that he's wrong, but the concern in his eyes and Snap’s earlier words about taking care of yourself stops you. Instead, you sigh and dip your head, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath.

"I know," you finally admit. "I'm not trying to be stubborn. I just don't know what else to do."

"That's why I'm here," he says gently. "I'm not asking you to sleep, just try."

You nod, a flush creeping up your neck and staining your cheeks. You feel exposed, vulnerable, the confession pulling at the cracks in your facade. It's been so hard lately to hide the darkness, the fear and the uncertainty that lingers beneath the surface. So hard to ignore the nightmares and the visions and the memories of the pain. It's almost overwhelming, the constant pressure, the weight of it all, and the urge to break is nearly too much to bear.

You know he's right. You know you need to rest. But the thought of sleep, of slipping back into the depths of your mind and finding nothing but torment and anguish and death, is more than you can handle.

But Rex is patient, his eyes never leaving you as he waits for you to gather your thoughts. And you love him even more for it.

"It's not easy," you say as you meet his gaze, the words coming out strained, your voice rough. "Sleeping."

He nods, and you continue, "It's not like the visions are new, but they're different now, more frequent, and it's harder to keep them at bay. When I sleep, I'm...lost. And alone. And I'm afraid that I won't find my way back."

Your eyes sting as the truth slips past your lips, the emotions rushing forward like a dam breaking, and you press your palms into the sill to keep them steady.

Rex doesn't speak, doesn't offer empty words of comfort or false promises of safety, and for that, you're grateful. Instead, he steps forward and places a hand on your shoulder, the weight and warmth of it grounding and soothing. You lean into the touch as he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close, and the two of you stand there for a while, his chin resting on the top of your head and his breath tickling your hair.

"What if I stayed with you?" he suggests quietly. "If you were...not alone."

You freeze, your mind racing at the implications, and you turn to face him.

"What are you saying?" you ask, though the answer is already there, the idea taking root and blossoming.

Rex blushes and shrugs, but he doesn't step back or release his hold on you, his body a solid line against yours. "I could stay. If you wanted. I could sit with you, or...hold you, or...or whatever you need. Whatever would help."

His face is burning red now, his gaze fixed on the ground, and your chest floods with affection. It takes everything you have not to reach up and cup his cheek, to brush your thumb over the curve of his bottom lip. Instead, you slide a hand down his chest, stopping just above his heart.

"You would do that? For me?"

"Of course," he murmurs, finally looking at you, and his expression is so soft, so sincere, that you feel like you might melt. "Anything."

The words are a balm to the ache inside you, soothing the pain and easing the weight of the darkness. You smile and press your forehead against his chest, his arms wrapping around you.

"Okay," you murmur, your voice barely audible. He gives you a soft squeeze, and the two of you stand there for a minute, simply breathing each other in. Eventually, you pull away, and Rex releases his hold on you, his hand lingering on the small of your back. "I guess we should get comfortable."

Rex nods, and the two of you spend the next several minutes moving the crates around and creating a space comfortable enough for the two of you, large tarps spread across the wooden slats to pad the hard floor. You sit down and scoot back until your shoulders hit the wall opposite the windows, and you wait for him to join you.

It's awkward, the two of you sitting side by side, the air filled with a strange sense of anticipation. It's far from the first time you've slept next to someone, platonic or otherwise, but it's the first time you've done so with Rex.

He's not just anyone. He's not a random fling or a drunken night with a stranger. He's your closest friend, and the man you love. He's the one who holds your heart, and the only person who truly knows and understands you. You trust him with your life. And more. So much more.

The thought is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, and you feel a wave of trepidation wash over you. You can't lose him, and you don't know what you'd do if this somehow went wrong. If it somehow drove a wedge between the two of you. But at the same time, you can't deny that you want him. All of him.

As if sensing your nerves, he turns to you, his face serious.

"You sure?" he asks quietly, and you chuckle, the anxiety fading away at the sincerity in his eyes.

"Are you?"

"I'm asking you," he counters, his lips quirking. You roll your eyes and shake your head, and Rex's expression softens, a hint of vulnerability flashing across his features. "It's just...I don't want to pressure you."

"You're not," you assure him, and the truth of the words settles between the two of you. He's never pushed you, never forced anything, always giving you space and time, and the realization fills you with a deep sense of gratitude. "I wouldn't have said yes if I wasn't sure."

Rex nods and looks away, a hint of color returning to his cheeks as he shifts closer and leans back against the wall next to you. There's still some distance between the two of you, a gap neither of you is quite willing to cross, and you sigh as the silence stretches on.

"This is stupid," you mutter. "I'm too old for this."

Rex glances at you in surprise, a question on his lips. Before he can say anything, you sigh and undo the clasp on your belt, tossing it to the side before you work on removing your outer robe. The motion is quick, and you try not to notice the way his eyes widen as you move.

Once the heavy fabric is off, you fold it into a pillow and lay down, scooting until your head is in his lap. Rex tenses under you, and you turn onto your side, facing away from him and tucking your legs close to your body. You can feel his gaze on the back of your head, and his breath comes out in a slow, shaky exhale, but he doesn't move.

"Is this okay?" you ask after a beat, looking up at him. His eyes are wide, the blush from earlier spreading down his neck and across his ears. "Are you alright, Rex?"

"Yeah," he chokes out, nodding his head vigorously, his hands twitching where they're pressed against his thighs. He clears his throat, his voice still hoarse as he continues, "I'm good. I'm great. This is fine."

"Just fine?"

"More than fine," he replies, a nervous edge to his tone, and his gaze drifts down to your face, his expression softening. "How are you? Is this...are you comfortable?"

"Yes," you murmur, and Rex relaxes, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Thank you. For doing this. For staying with me."

"It's nothing," he insists. He brushes a strand of hair out of your face, his fingers gentle against your skin, and the feeling is soothing. You nuzzle his thigh, and his breath catches, his hand stilling before he continues stroking your cheek, the touch light and careful. "It's the least I can do."

"It's not nothing," you say, looking up at him. His gaze meets yours, and you take a deep breath before speaking again. "It means a lot to me. And...it means a lot to me that it's you."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

Rex nods, his expression thoughtful, and the two of you settle back into silence. His hand doesn't stop, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw and the curve of your ear, down your neck to the collar of your tunic, and back up again. It's a gentle caress, an intimate touch that leaves goosebumps in its wake. You close your eyes and hum contentedly, relaxing into the sensation and savoring the feeling of his hands on your skin.

After a while, his touch moves down your arm, his fingertips dancing over your shoulder, and his palm rests on your hip. His thumb rubs circles across the bone, and you squirm at the tickling sensation, a giggle bubbling up in your throat.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, his hand lifting away, but you reach back and grab his wrist, keeping it there. He hesitates, and you open your eyes, turning to look up at him.

"It's fine," you assure him, smiling softly. "I was enjoying it."

His brow furrows, his gaze darting down to his hand on your hip and back up to meet yours. There's a question in his eyes, and you nod, giving his hand a light squeeze before releasing him.

Rex exhales slowly, and his hand returns to your waist, his touch tentative and gentle. He keeps his eyes on your face, watching for any sign of discomfort, but when he finds none, his hand molds to the curve of your hip again, resting there. You smile and close your eyes again.

"Do you remember that day in the city?" Rex asks, his voice low.

"Of course," you murmur, turning your head so your cheek rests against his thigh. The plastoid of his leg plating is hard and unforgiving underneath the pillow of your robes, but you ignore the discomfort, focusing on the heat radiating from his body and the weight of his hand against your side. "How could I forget? That was the day you finally realized I wasn't just a crazy Jedi."

"You're not crazy," he retorts, giving your hip a light pinch. You yelp in surprise, and Rex chuckles, the rich, throaty noise filling the room and warming your heart. "Just a bit unhinged, is all."

"Unhinged?" you protest as you roll onto your back and open your eyes to glare up at him. His expression is teasing, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, and you narrow your eyes. "How is that any better?”

"You're right," he laughs. "Not unhinged. A little eccentric, maybe."

"Eccentric?" you repeat indignantly.

"What? I think it suits you," he says, grinning down at you, and you groan, burying your face in his thigh. He snorts a laugh and nudges you with his leg. "It's not a bad thing. I like it."

You don’t move, trying to hide the grin that threatens to spread across your face. It’s not the first time he’s said something like that to you, and it’s not the first time you’ve gotten the feeling that he genuinely likes the less conventional aspects of your personality, even the ones you've spent most of your life trying to hide from everyone else. But it doesn’t make it any less embarrassing, and it doesn't stop the flush that spreads up your neck and stains your cheeks pink.

After a second, Rex sighs, his hand rubbing your hip soothingly. "I meant what I said. You're not crazy, and anyone who says you are isn't worth your time. And the men will agree with me."

"Yeah?" you ask, peering up at him. He nods, his expression sincere, and you bite back a smile, your gaze falling away from his face. "I'm glad I have their support."

"They'd follow you anywhere," he says softly, his fingers trailing down your side, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. "And so would I."

You close your eyes, a lump rising in your throat as his words wash over you, and you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. His words are like a balm to the ache inside you, and you squeeze his hand, holding onto him like a lifeline.

It's a simple thing, the two of you sitting together, talking quietly, his hand holding yours, and yet, it feels like everything. Like more than either of you can say, but also like everything you need. A safe place. A sanctuary. A refuge from the chaos of the war and the darkness of the visions. A home.

You bite your lip, a sudden swell of emotion rising inside you, and you take a deep breath, forcing the tears back before they can spill over. The gesture doesn't go unnoticed, and Rex's hand tightens around yours, his thumb stroking the back of your hand gently.

"What is it?" he asks quietly, his voice breaking the silence. You hesitate, unsure of how to answer. How to put your feelings into words. "Hey. Talk to me."

"I just..."

You trail off, the words catching in your throat. He waits, his eyes never leaving your face, and you take a deep breath before continuing, the truth tumbling out of you.

"I had a dream, when I was healing that boy on Nadiem," you confess quietly. Rex’s brow furrows, but he nods, encouraging you to continue. "The Force showed me what could be, the future I could have, and..."

Your breath catches, and you swallow hard, trying to regain your composure. The emotions welling up inside you are overwhelming, and you squeeze his hand again, drawing strength from the warmth of his touch. He doesn't push you, just watches you, his gaze fixed on yours, and you find the courage to keep going.

"It wasn't the first time I'd had a vision like that," you explain softly, your voice trembling. “It's become something like a haven for me, I think. I thought it was a manifestation of the Light side of the Force. Something my mind latches onto in the darkness. But now, I'm not so sure. I think...it's real. Or it could be."

"What was it about?" he asks, his voice low, the words barely more than a whisper. You blink away the tears and give him a small smile.

"A field," you murmur, and you look away, trying to remember the details. "A field of golden grass and flowers, and the sun was shining. I could hear kids playing, and birds, and insects, and...I felt safe. And happy."

You pause, the memory flooding back to you, the sensations so vivid that you can almost taste the sweetness in the air, and your smile widens, a single tear rolling down your cheek. You wipe it with the heel of your hand, and Rex's grip tightens, his fingers entwined with yours.

"Sounds nice," he whispers.

"It was," you reply, your voice wavering. "I've had similar visions before, but this was the clearest, the most real. I felt like I was home."

The two of you fall silent as Rex watches you intently, his expression unreadable. He’s waiting for you to continue, but you can't bring yourself to speak, the weight of the confession threatening to break the dam, and so the two of you sit there, neither saying a word.

“What else?” he finally prompts gently.

Your eyes meet his, and you take a shaky breath. You look away and focus on the feeling of his thumb brushing against the back of your hand, and the words slip out, a quiet confession that lingers in the air between you.

“You were there too. With me."

Rex doesn’t respond. Doesn't move.

He simply stares at you, his expression a mixture of surprise and disbelief, and you let out a soft, breathless chuckle that breaks the silence. His lips twitch, and he looks away, the blush creeping across his cheeks and ears again. You nudge his leg with your head, earning a quiet grunt.

"I'm serious," you insist.

Rex huffs a laugh, still not meeting your eyes.

"You're…you’re sure it was me?" he asks after a beat. You nod, and he gives you a half-smile, the corner of his mouth curving up. "What was I doing?"

You roll onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. You can feel him watching you, his gaze burning a hole into your forehead, but you don't look at him, trying to figure out how to describe what you saw. What you felt.

"We were just standing there. Talking," you start slowly, your voice low, almost a whisper. You close your eyes, the image filling your mind. "We hugged. You said you were looking for me. That I'd run off."

"Run off?"

"You seemed worried, but not surprised," you say with a small smile.

"Of course I wasn't," he murmurs. You turn your head and open your eyes, meeting his gaze. His expression is thoughtful, a hint of sadness lurking behind his smile. "I know you."

"Yeah, you do.” You swallow hard and look away, the emotion building up in your chest, raw and aching. "You told me you were always going to find me."

"Sounds like me."

"It did," you laugh as you wipe your cheek again. "And you did."

"Always will," he vows quietly, his voice thick with emotion, and you close your eyes again, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "If that's where you are, that's where I'll be."

The room falls quiet as his words steal the air from your lungs. You can't breathe, can't move, can't speak. All you can do is lie there, the tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, and hope that the silence between the two of you says what you can't. What you don't have the words for.

Because if the vision is true, if the future you see is the same as the future Rex wants, it changes everything. It's more than the two of you can possibly comprehend, more than either of you are prepared for.

It's everything. Everything the two of you have ever wanted, everything the you have ever dreamed of. Everything that's been missing in the lives you've lived for far too many years.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

“I’m grateful for it. That the Force would show me a place like that. A home," you manage after a beat, your voice hoarse. "But...it was also cruel. To give me something like that only to take it away. I can't...I don't think I can..."

Your voice cracks, the sentence trailing off, and you turn away, covering your face with your hand. You can't keep going.

The answering silence hangs over the two of you like a shroud, a heavy weight that settles on your shoulders. Your fingers play with the robe folded underneath your head, picking at a loose thread until the pressure building inside you becomes too much.

You sigh and push yourself up, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. You can feel Rex's gaze on you, the concern and worry emanating from him almost tangible, but you keep your eyes on the ground, too ashamed to look at him.

"It's a lot," you admit quietly, your voice muffled by the fabric of your pants. "The whole thing. It's a lot."

"Yeah," he murmurs. "It is."

"It didn’t used to be like this. I don’t know why the Force is showing me these things, or what it means," you sigh as you glance up at him.

He's staring down at his hands, his brow furrowed and his mouth pressed into a thin line. The sight is familiar, a look he's worn so often in the past several months that it almost feels like a second skin. A mask.

You wish more than anything you could wipe the expression from his face, but you know you can't, and so you continue, "I know I'm supposed to be better at this. Stronger. I don't understand why I'm failing."

"Failing? At what?"

"Being a Jedi," you reply, a bitter edge creeping into your voice. You take a deep breath, and the anger and resentment drain away, replaced by a weary resignation. "I used to think I was terrible at it. That the only reason I wasn't expelled from the Order was because Yaddle took pity on me. But now...I feel like maybe I wasn't a failure, or a lost cause, and that...it's worse."

You pause, a sudden exhaustion settling over you, and the words come out before you can stop them, spilling from your lips in a harsh, ragged whisper.

"It means I could have been more."

The room is silent save for the thud of your heart in your ears, the words hanging heavy in the air. They're true, though you've never said them out loud before, and the truth stings, a deep ache that radiates through your chest.

After a beat, Rex speaks, his voice soft and gentle, but firm, the conviction in his tone leaving no room for argument.

"You are more."

You look up, the tears welling up and threatening to spill over, and he holds your gaze, his eyes burning with a fierce determination.

"You are so much more," he continues. "You're kind and caring and loyal, and you're a good friend and an amazing Jedi. The best. And even if you weren't, it wouldn't matter. Not to me."

"Rex..."

"I'm not a Jedi," he interrupts, his voice low and rough. "And I'm not saying this because I'm trying to be the voice of reason, or because I think that's what you want to hear. I'm saying it because it's the truth."

He pauses, the emotions rising to the surface, and his voice wavers, a note of sadness and longing creeping in. "I know how much it means to you, being a Jedi. And I respect that. But...you can't keep pushing yourself like this. You can't keep tearing yourself apart trying to live up to some impossible standard."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," he says, the words cutting off your protests, and he reaches for your hand, holding it tightly. "You're not a machine. You're not invincible. And the war isn't going to get any easier."

"I know."

"Do you?" he asks, his brow furrowed. "Because it doesn't seem like you're giving yourself a chance to rest. To process."

You hesitate, the truth of his words hitting you, and you let out a laugh, a harsh, bitter noise that echoes off the walls.

"I guess I've just been hoping I'd eventually figure it out," you admit, your voice catching. "That somehow, if I just kept going, it would all make sense. And it would work. It's always worked before."

"Maybe it's time to try something new."

You snort, and he raises an eyebrow, a challenge in his gaze.

"Like what?" you ask.

"You could start by not being so hard on yourself," he replies, his tone matter-of-fact. "Maybe stop trying to fix everything, or take on the burden of the whole galaxy, and give yourself a little bit of room to breathe."

"Rex, I can't—“

"Yes, you can," he says softly, and his hand comes up to cup your cheek, his touch warm and gentle, his thumb brushing the skin just below your eye. "You've given so much already. And you don't have to do it alone. You've got me, and the men, and General Kenobi. And General Skywalker and Commander Tano too, if you let them. We'll help you through it, no matter what. You can lean on us."

The words are kind, and the sentiment is touching, but you shake your head, the doubt and fear lingering just beneath the surface rising up and choking the air from your lungs.

"No," you croak, and you pull away from his touch. "You don't understand. I can't...I can't rely on others, or ask them to carry my burdens. It's not fair."

"Fair?"

"I've caused so much pain and suffering already," you say quietly, the guilt and shame heavy in your gut, and you hug your knees tighter. "I can't drag everyone else down with me."

Rex sighs and shifts closer, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against him. You fight the urge to push him away, to hide, and allow yourself to lean into him, the warmth and solidness of his body a comfort against the storm inside you.

"I know what it's like," he murmurs, his hand resting on the side of your neck, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, "to feel like you have to be perfect, or strong, or unbreakable. Like you have to keep all the pieces together and not make a single mistake. And I know how exhausting and lonely it can be."

You nod, and the tears well up, spilling over your lashes and streaming down your cheeks. Rex doesn't hesitate, pulling you close and wrapping his arms around you, cradling the back of your head in his hand as he holds you tight against his chest. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, and he leans down, pressing his forehead against the crown of your head, his breath tickling your hair.

"I've felt it too," he whispers, his voice hoarse, and you squeeze your eyes shut, the sob building in your throat. "I still do. It's been...hard. Especially lately. It's not easy, and it's not something we can just fix overnight. But it's also not something we have to do alone."

You sniffle and nod again, clutching the front of his chest plate as the tears fall faster. The words hit deep, piercing the shell of your heart and filling you with a warmth that spreads through your chest, radiating out to the tips of your fingers and toes. The feeling is familiar, a sensation that's followed him since the day he rescued you, a connection that's only grown stronger with each passing day, and you can't help but press yourself closer, desperate to feel the comfort of his presence.

Rex sighs, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, and his lips brush against the top of your head. The gesture is tender and affectionate, and it only serves to intensify the ache inside you, the desire to be closer to him, to hold him and be held. To feel safe. And loved.

"You're not alone, and you're not broken," he continues softly, his voice strained, his grip on you tightening as he speaks. "You're just tired. And overwhelmed. And hurting. And that's okay."

The last word catches in his throat, and you pull away, looking up at him through watery eyes. His expression is pained, a raw emotion written across his face, and his gaze darts away from yours. He tries to mask it, but you can see the tears clinging to his eyelashes, the redness in the corners of his eyes. And the sight breaks your heart.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, wiping his cheeks roughly with the back of his hand. "I'm not trying to make this about me. It's just...seeing you like this, it...hurts."

"I know," you whisper. "I know, and I'm sorry. For worrying you. For not being able to handle it. I just...I'm not..."

"It's okay," he cuts in, his voice soft, the pain in his eyes melting into a tenderness that nearly steals your breath. "We're in this together, remember?"

You give him a smile, a small, trembling thing, and Rex returns the expression. The two of you lean back against the wall again, and he tucks his arm around you, drawing you back into the safety of his embrace.

"You're not a failure. Not by a mile. I don't know anyone else who could do what you do, or deal with everything you've dealt with, and still be standing," he murmurs, and his free hand reaches over to touch yours, his fingers ghosting along the scars that stretch across your palm. "You're amazing."

"That's sweet," you mutter, your face burning at his praise. "But you're biased."

Rex snorts a soft laugh and squeezes your hip. "Maybe. But I’m not the only one who thinks so. Ask the men. Ask anyone who's served with you. They'll all tell you the same thing. Hell, you can ask Lieutenant Price. The boys told me he has an impressive poster collection.”

“Oh, enough with the kriffing posters,” you grumble, burying your face in his chest.

He chuckles and rests his chin on top of your head, his arms encircling your waist. The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a while, simply enjoying the feeling of being close to each other, and the weight that's been sitting heavy on your chest lifts, allowing you to breathe again.

"Thank you," you mumble, and Rex hums, the noise rumbling in his chest. You look up at him and add, "For...all of this. For listening. And for being here. For not giving up on me."

"I'll never give up on you," he promises, and the sincerity in his voice brings tears to your eyes. You quickly look away and press your cheek against his chest again, blinking furiously as you fight back the emotions. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," you say hoarsely, your voice muffled by the plastoid of his armor.

"I never do," he counters, and his hand moves to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair. He presses his lips to the crown of your head, and his breath is warm against your skin. "Not to you. I'm here, cyar'ika. Always."

Tears sting your eyes again, but they're tempered by the warmth of his words, the feeling of his breath on your head. The sound of the Mando'a rolling off his tongue sends a shiver down your spine, chasing away the cold dread that's been gnawing at the pit of your stomach and replacing it with curiosity. You've heard him say the word before, wrote it in a message once or twice, but he's never offered a translation.

You pull back and look up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"What does that mean?"

Rex blinks at you, a look of confusion passing over his features before his eyes widen, a flush creeping up his neck and spreading across his cheeks. He clears his throat and looks away, his gaze darting around the room before settling somewhere over your shoulder.

"What does what mean?"

"What you just said," you prompt, and his blush deepens, the color reaching the tips of his ears. You bite back a grin and poke him in the chest, trying not to laugh at his embarrassment. "You've said it before. What does it mean?"

"Uh, it's a...it's a nickname," Rex stammers, his fingers playing with the ends of your hair. "A term of endearment."

"Oh," you reply softly. You duck your head, a smile spreading across your face, and you look up at him through your lashes. "Well, that's...that's nice."

Rex laughs nervously and nods, still not looking at you, and your grin widens.

"Do I get to know what it means?"

"I'll tell you later," he mumbles as he looks at the ceiling.

"Later?" you prompt, nudging his shoulder. "When is later?"

“After you rest," he replies firmly, finally meeting your gaze. Your lower lip juts out, and Rex shakes his head, his lips twitching as he tries not to smile. "No. I'm not falling for that this time. Now come here."

You huff and turn away, crossing your arms and glaring at the wall, but he doesn't give up. He pulls you into his lap, tucking your legs across his and resting his chin on the top of your head. You resist at first, but he's persistent, and eventually, you relent, allowing him to maneuver the two of you into a more comfortable position.

Rex shifts until his back is pressed against the wall and his legs are stretched out in front of him, and you curl into him, tucking your head beneath his chin and resting your hands on his chest plate. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close, and you nuzzle his neck, inhaling deeply as his scent fills your lungs.

"Are you going to keep sulking, or are you going to close your eyes?" he asks after a beat, a teasing lilt to his voice. You sigh dramatically, and he snorts, the warm puff of air tickling the shell of your ear. "Fine, but I'm not moving until you do."

"I guess I have no choice, huh?" you grumble, though the smile is still on your face, a fluttery, giddy feeling swelling in your chest. "I suppose you win this round, Rex."

“I’ll mark the occasion in my calendar," he drawls, and you elbow him in the ribs. “On this day, General Anathorn gave in to Captain Rex. A glorious victory for the Republic."

"Asshole," you mutter under your breath. He snickers and tightens his arms around you, pulling you even closer. "You're lucky I'm too tired to keep arguing with you."

"I'll count my blessings while they last," he deadpans, earning another elbow. "Hey, watch it."

"Oh, sorry," you reply, not sounding the least bit apologetic. Rex gives a long-suffering sigh, but the arm around your waist remains where it is, his thumb stroking the fabric of your tunic. "Are you comfortable?"

"Very," he murmurs. "Are you?"

"Yes," you whisper, a small smile tugging at your lips. "This is nice. Being like this, with you. It feels...safe."

"Yeah," he breathes. "It does."

You hum contentedly and close your eyes, a yawn stretching across your face, and Rex chuckles, his nose nuzzling the crown of your head.

"I'll wake you if anything happens," he whispers as he grabs your outer robe and drapes it over the two of you.

You nod and press a light kiss to his neck, snuggling closer. Rex stiffens at the contact, his breath hitching before he relaxes, a pleased rumble emanating from his chest. The two of you fall into silence, his fingers tracing patterns along your back as your breathing begins to slow, the warmth of his embrace chasing away the chill that lingers beneath your skin.

It's easy to forget, wrapped up in his arms, the soft light of the rising sun painting the sky in hues of pink and gold. Easier than it should be. But you don't fight it, the comfort and security of his presence a balm to the fears and worries that plague your mind.

For a brief, fleeting second, everything is okay, and you're simply a man and a woman, lost in the warmth and affection between you. Nothing else matters. Not the war. Not the visions. Not the darkness that haunts you. Just this. Just the two of you. Together.

"Sleep," Rex murmurs, his voice a quiet whisper. "I'll be here."

And so you do.

taglist: @cyaretra @kindalonleystars @totallyunidentified @lovelytech9902 @frozenreptile @etod @puppetscenario @umekohiganbana @resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano @burningnerdchild @ihatesaaand @lolwey @chocolatewastelandtriumph @hobbititties @mere-bear @thegreatpipster @lordofthenerds97 @tentakelspektakel @notslaybabes @ayyyy-le-simp @mali-777 @schrodingersraven @megmegalodondon @dangraccoon @heavenseed76 @dreamie411 @sukithebean @bunny7567 @lostqueenofegypt @anything-forourmoony @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus @heidnspeak @gottalovehistory @mrcaptainrex @maniacalbooper @burningnerdchild @yoitsjay @julli-bee @moonychicky @sonicrainbooms @dustmusings @webslinger-holland @marchingviolist @deerspringdreams @cw80831

#the clone wars #captain rex #clone captain rex #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #roy writes #event horizon #congratulations lieutenant price you have been promoted #you are now one of my elite employees #if anyone has any ideas for his specialization lmk #also I did not spend days writing this chapter and neglect the next two #and I definitely did not spend the rest of my time color coding my timeline spreadsheet #that would be very silly of me to do that

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moriaarts · 11 months ago

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ARC Trooper Corporal Jaig

Blorbo the second, Jaig the ARC of the 343rd. In house mother and bleeding heart in disguise. With the text under the cut.

CT - 8407 “Jaig” has proven herself to be a survivor. Calm, collected and aloof, Jaig comes across as a cold and unapproachable soldier. But its a mask of a hunter observing the world for signs of danger.

The name “Jaig” was given to her early in the war when a B1 droid got in close and disarmed her. It’s not in Jaig nature to go down without a fight. It’s not in her nature to go down at all. All clones are trained in hand to hand combat, made stronger and more agile than base humans. But these are necessary against unyielding mechanical fists. Knocked off her feet by a metal backhand, she remember the raw of the wind across the sands, of the LAAT’s, of blaster fire.

She registers the B1s flooding in and going for her batchmates, her squadron, helmet forgotten she goes for the nearest one and shreds out the wires in its neck. It’s a valiant effort. It’s luck. The droid reaches back, grabbing her by the face to pull her off. It’s joints seize and all thats left as it turns on her is the command prompt to shoot and keep shooting. The fucker took her eye. Tore the skin off around it.

The scar that it left was triangular shaded, the skin too smooth for the rest of her face. A jaig eye, Jai’galaar’la sur’haii’se, a shreik-hawk eye, they said. Said her quick thinking took out a platoon of clankers when the droid she hardwired mindlessly shot a downed LAAT, blowing it, sending it crashing on top of the ones storming their trench. She just remembers being pissed because they knocked her bucket off and didn't finish the job. So she gets to trained as an ARC. It’s an honour. And she agrees but it doesn't feel real. Even assigned to the 21st Nova Corps, under the command of Commander Jet, Clone Marshal Commander Bacara, and General Ki Adi Mundi.

She never really like red. Liked the long kama though. She also had not like General Mundi. The rumour was that he had ten wives. The number changed depending on the battalion they were bunking with. It was more like four. But knowing the jedi’s no string policy she's even less of a fan. Even less in the coming months before. Jaig would be with the nova corps for few campaigns. Used to smile when Block chased her around with hair shears. How Duke would always grumbled getting dirt off his armour, and asked how she kept hers so clean and not smelling of wet bantha. But besides that she hadn't known much about herself until they had met them. Two of General Mundi’s wives met them at a medical station one a doctor the other visiting from a relief mission. Pamania. She was lovely. Covered in simple jedi cream robes all except for her eyes. Eyes of deep pools of dark purple, nebulas set in russet skin. They creased when she smiled. Lashes fluttered when she cried. They visited the medical base often. Pamania was gentle with them. Patient and kind, and fierce as a forests fire when they came back in a state. Jaig thinks she liked her. The first one to call her sister. The first to run fingers through her hair rather than playfully pull it when she gave her some self sacrificing crap. The first person to kiss her on the cheek and tell her she had a right to live in this world. War or no war.

Jaig had been younger then, Naive and unsure what to do with such gentle treatment. Who knew an innocent kiss to a clothed cheek would do such damage? Jet had scolded her and within a week she was decommissioned for improper behaviour, officially. Unofficially reassigned in shiny armour to the 343rd.

Bonus:

Jaig loves the twins like her own. Especially Lash, whose quiet sarcasm is a family brand of deflection. She wants more with Ro, but Ro has a whole host of issues to make up with before Jaig is next in line. Doesn’t stop her having the ARF troopers back though. They both got on best, both being recon troops and with her 3rd in command and Ro in 2nd, they often share looks of exasperation and concern at the expense of Kiss.

Here is Captain Kiss x and the rest of the company.

WIP Playlist

#m art #clone wars #star wars clone wars #clone trooper oc #trans #trans clone trooper #Clone Trooper Jaig #captain kiss & company #for anyone curious it was all misinformation #mundi walked in on them pam was fine abt it but he was worried abt other clones getting ideas #they were married for convience but he still cares abt her honour #but by then jet had aslready done damage control #i have a comic im working on as like prectice and half a fic #but i want to flesh ouit their whole story before posting anything #anyway leki is next !

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erideights · 1 year ago

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With my 6th sense. (2)

Pairing: Hunter x fem! jedi reader

Rating: SFW, nothing you should worry about, just tension between the sarge and the general

Wordcount: 2K

Chapters: (1) (3) (4)* (5)* (*not posted yet)

Warnings and tags: none, extremely slight mentions of war, tension and characters shenanigans

Summary: Another day, another suicide mission for the squad. This time commanded by a jedi general Hunter doesn't seem to really get along with.

A rough pair of gloved hands awkwardly but subtly tug at the collar of his new, extremely layered outfit that clings to his skin instead of his usual gear and armor. Hunter is still not on board with the fit change and the blatant lack of protection for such a risky mission. Though the chest plate and another, smaller plate cover his torso and right leg, it just doesn't feel right.

He gets the need to not be recognized as Republic soldiers since the political and military fallout would be a nightmare with no end in sight, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. And he doesn’t.

Narrowing his eyes, he crosses his arms over his chest and settles into one of the seats in the cockpit of the ship. His gaze is fixed on the holomap in the general’s hands, as is all his attention.

"I'd love to say our last recon squad managed to send back a better scan of the planet, but..." (Y/N) sighs and shakes her head slightly, an apologetic smile on her lips as she shrugs. The blue light from the holomap reflects on her youthful face, and Hunter can’t help but wonder how much field experience someone like her must have to be sent on a mission like this. She’s clearly not a kid, but she doesn’t seem like a 500-year-old Jedi master like the legendary Yoda he’s heard about.

Does he actually have doubts about her leadership and actual ability to act and adapt during this mission? Absolutely. But Hunter distrusts anyone outside his squad or other clones, well aware of the training they’ve all been through and their capabilities and limits. He doesn’t know hers. And that blindness it’s dangerous.

“I can’t give you more. The fact that we even know where Serenno is and have a rough map of the planet is a miracle in itself. So we’ll work with what we have and improvise as we go.”

“I like that,” Wrecker chimes in enthusiastically, pounding his fists together in a display of eagerness to blow things up.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that’s your style,” The jedi admits with a hint of amusement. “I’ve also heard that you like to cause chaos wherever you go and leave nothing standing behind, so I imagine that reminding you this is a stealth mission where we can’t blow anything up doesn’t exactly thrill you.”

“Buzzkill,” grumbles the big clone, exasperation evident on his face. Crosshair clicks his tongue, and Tech silently takes notes on everything being discussed.

“You wouldn’t be the first to call me that,” she replies with a playful smirk.

It’s strange how she effortlessly blends with the squad’s energy, her charismatic and fun aura making the clones not only listen to her but also interact with her as if they’ve known her forever.

Hunter, though not as maniacally as Tech, makes mental notes of the mission, paying close attention to every detail the Jedi outlines. Finding the scientific base where they store the droid schematics will be the easy part. Tracking the forested area and locating the entrance will be child’s play for him. Getting in and reaching the communications room for Tech to hack and steal the schematics without making noise… maybe not so much.

“They’ll shoot down our shuttle before we even get to fantasize about getting near the planet’s orbit,” Hunter interjects, tilting his head to one side. The way he looks at her, with such an overwhelming intensity reflected in his brown eyes, seems like a way of challenging her in front of his squad.

“They won’t if they don’t see us coming,” (Y/N) answers without batting an eye, her gaze fixed on him, her lips curving ever so, so slightly. If he’s trying to discredit her and make things difficult before the mission has even started, he’s in for a big surprise. Pressing a button on the holomap’s projector, a Separatist cargo ship appears in full view. “Commander Cody obtained some Separatist shuttle codes during his last mission. All we need to do is use them to pass as one of their ships, dock, and detach as soon as we’re in the atmosphere. We will land as close to the forest as we can to camouflage the ship, and for the rest of the way all of us will use our legs.”

“With the schematics of one of those ships I could mask our signal to mimic theirs once the proximity scanner detects us,” Tech adds without even looking up, his eyes glued to his datapad.

“I’ll get you those before we exit hyperspace,” she promises, nodding, pleased with their cooperation and the lack of complaints beyond, well, not being able to blow anything up. She’s sure Wrecker’s heart is broken since she mentioned that.

“Any other questions, Sergeant?” In her voice there's distant touch of… annoyance? Challenge? The jedi raises an eyebrow at the clone, silently pushing him the same way he did a few minutes ago with her. She doesn’t know what his problem is—whether it’s with her specifically or all Jedi in general—but she’s not about to let him intimidate her. She’d already be dead if she wouldn’t be capable enough to deal with way worse situations than a territorial man with trust issues and a heavy feeling of rejection towards others' command.

Besides, her mission isn’t to get along with him. Would his cooperation certainly make everything easier? Yeah, sure, but she will do just fine if at least the others listen to her.

Hunter grunts quietly, the skepticism refusing to leave his face even if he had to admit to himself, her plan seems to be well tied. "Just hoping we don’t get shot to pieces in these outfits."

(Y/N) just scoffs, rolling her eyes. Of course he had to complain about the whole ‘bounty hunter/scavenger/mercenary’ outfit. "You’ll be fine, sergeant. The entire point of this mission is to not trigger any blaster."

Wrecker, seated nearby and silent until now, pipes up again with a grin. "Yeah, Hunter, lighten up. We’re practically invisible in these things!" He gives a playful nudge to Crosshair, who rolls his eyes but smirks nonetheless.

Tech, ever the practical one, adjusts his glasses and adds, "Statistically, our chances of success are improved with stealth and subtlety. The armor is merely a psychological comfort."

Hunter shakes his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, yeah. Let’s just hope those stats hold up when the blaster bolts start flying."

‘’Again…’’ she sighs softly, licking her lips in an absentmindedly gesture while she tilts her head to the side, eyes looking for Hunter’s from across the holomap. Thanks to the Maker Jedi training comes served with an extra bundle of patience. ‘’let’s try to not reach that point.’’

...

As the ship hums through hyperspace, the journey long as she promised, everyone settles into their own routines after wrapping up their meeting, either to prep or kill time. Wrecker's lifting a couple of crates like they're weights, Crosshair's checking and cleaning his rifle, and Tech's deep in his datapad, muttering calculations and plans under his breath. The low, constant buzz of the engines creates a background noise that almost drowns out the tension in the air.

But this isn’t her ship, it’s not a place where she can really take a breath and relax, especially with how territorial the sergeant —not so subtly— has shown himself to be. She'd rather avoid getting comfy only to have him show up with that death glare of his and say something among the lines of ‘That’s my spot.’ So she decides to do a final check on each step of the plan and her clothing, making sure the belt where she keeps her lightsaber is properly secured.

Nonetheless, a question has been bugging her since they all met back in the base, and despite trying to keep it to herself for what feels like forever (but is really just a second), she can’t really stay quiet. That’s not her style.

“I got a question,” she starts, casually leaning her arm on the seat where Tech’s sitting. She doesn’t even look at him, avoiding any awkwardness. She speaks to the whole group, knowing they can hear her from the cockpit. “Who’s the genius who landed back on Coruscant?”

Without missing a beat or even bother to look at her, almost the entire squad responds in unison, “Hunter.”

As if her body had just been struck by lightning, the jedi freezes and bites back a laugh, her lower lip trembling for a fraction of a second before she presses her lips together in a frown, trying to keep a straight face and to avoid, at all cost, to let her gaze slip to the sergeant. Clearing her throat, she nods to herself, breathing very, very slowly and swallowing hard. She knew it. She would have bet her life on it, and now Obi-Wan owes her 20 credits.

From the corner of her eye, though, she catches a subtle reaction from Hunter—a slight tightening of his jaw and a quick, almost imperceptible smirk. And until now, the sergeant was sitting a few feet away, absentmindedly twirling a vibroblade between his fingers. The gesture by itself was innocent, the jedi sure that was nothing more than a way to distract himself and pass the time, or a way to better focus on his thoughts like any other method there could be, but even if it was almost meditative, there was an underlying intensity to it.

His presence is just so loud, she cannot help but to end up sneaking a glance at him, catching his eye for a split second. He looks up, their gazes locking. There’s a moment, just a heartbeat, where the air seems to thicken too much for comfort.

“Got something to say, General?” Hunter asks, his voice low, husky. There’s a hint of challenge in his tone, again, like he’s daring her to say something and to just give him an excuse to… bark ar her. She wouldn't be surprised at all.

“Nothing. Just wondering if your knife skills are as sharp as your flying ones,” she shoots back, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. She couldn’t just keep quiet, right?

Hunter's lips twitch, maybe the start of a smile, but most probably not. “You planning on finding out?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs, arching an eyebrow, arms crossed over her chest, leaning back against the wall as soon as she reaches the cockpit. “Depends on how the mission goes I suppose.”

Without saying another word and clearly annoyed, Hunter puts the knife inside the holster strapped to his left wrist in one fluid motion, his gaze still locked on hers. His voice's raspy, low, and there's this feeling she cannot shake off, telling her there's something else behind his words. “You think this is a game, General? Lives are on the line here.”

“I’m well aware, sarge. Just because I smile doesn’t mean I’m not taking this seriously.” Her voice softens a bit ‘cause she understands his point and what war means, but that fire behind her eyes doesn't falter, that resolution intrinsic in her being doesn't weaken, her gaze fixed on his own.

And as expected since he caught her looking at him, the tension hanging heavy between them gets even thicker for a moment, the rets of the Batch already used to Hunter's not so subtle issues with other'safter many seconds carefully measuring his next move, or so she thinks, Hunter gives a small nod, acknowledging her words. “Good. Just make sure you're ready to do what's needed to even if it's not The Jedi Style.”

“Don’t worry, that's my signature move.”

#hunter tbb #tbb hunter #tbb hunter x reader #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #bad batch #the bad batch x you #hunter x reader #sergeant hunter #tbb fanfiction #tbb tech #tbb crosshair #tbb wrecker #star wars

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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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bittybug-sunflower-blog · 10 days ago

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During the clone war, Rebekath (Beka) was Jedi general who was assigned by Master Yoda himself to the bad batch, she was one of the fiercest Jedi masters to sit at the council. She wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty and deeply carried for the people around her.

Short Story:

Warning ⚠️: Violence: Includes scenes of battle and combat (blaster fire, lightsaber use, hand-to-hand fighting, droids being destroyed, explosions). Mild Descriptions of Gore (Mechanical): Descriptions of droids being “torn,” “slammed,” or “shattered ,” and oil pooling around boots—though it’s mechanical rather than biological. Warfare Themes: Set during an active battle, involving tactical combat, explosions, and destruction

Word count: 643

Rating 21+

Extra: alternate universe story

Title: “Back-to-Back on Nal Hutta”

Nal Hutta stank of oil, mold, and greed. The streets oozed with slime, and smoke from back-alley forges clung to the stagnant air. It wasn’t a place for Jedi.

But Jedi Master Rebekath (Beka) Hardt wasn’t just any Jedi.

Her lightsabers snapped to life with a sharp crack-hiss, one blue, one green. She stood firm in the center of a refuse-choked alley, robes damp from the muck. Her face was set with focus, framed by dark hair and marked with red and violet birthmarks down her cheeks—symbols of her lineage, and warnings to her enemies.

Behind her, Hunter crouched low, scanning the rooftops. His helmet turned slightly as he spoke into her comlink. “Heavy droid movement coming from the west. At least thirty. B2s and snipers, maybe a tank.”

Beka exhaled. “Still think this mission was a good idea?”

“You’re the one who said we could sneak in quietly.”

She smirked. “And you’re the one who believed me.”

The droids clanked into view—B1s lining the upper ledges, B2s stomping down the center, red scopes blinking in the gloom. There was no warning. Just a cold, mechanical voice:

“Jedi detected. Eliminate.”

Blaster fire screamed through the air.

Beka surged forward with practiced grace, her sabers flashing in arcs of light. She spun, ducked, and leapt, cutting through a B2’s chestplate before it could even raise its arm.

Hunter followed like a shadow—his blaster barking out precision shots, dropping droids on the rooftops with deadly calm. When a squad of B1s tried to flank them, he switched to his vibroblade and tore through them in silence.

They moved like a single organism—fluid, lethal, focused.

A tank rolled down the alley with a rumble, turret swiveling toward Beka. Before she could Force-leap, Hunter was already there, planting charges beneath the treads. It exploded in a wave of flame and smoke, the blast lighting up her silhouette in glowing blue and green.

“Still with me?” she called, panting but smiling.

“Always,” he answered, reloading without pause.

Another wave came—spidery commando droids, dropping from above.

Beka turned, slicing two midair, and Hunter stepped in to grab the third by the neck and slam it into the wall. One more tried to lunge at her back—Hunter shot it in the face before it even touched the ground.

When the smoke cleared, the alley was littered with sparking limbs and shattered plating. Steam rose from the broken tank, and oil pooled around their boots.

Beka stood tall, sabers humming low. Hunter moved to her side, silent, protective.

“This was supposed to be recon general,” he muttered.

“It was. Until they showed up.” She tilted her head toward the wreckage. “You’re good at improvising.”

He didn’t argue. He never did.

They exchanged a look, a familiar, tired, steady look.

On Nal Hutta, in the worst the galaxy could throw at them, Beka and Hunter always stood back-to-back ready for the next wave.

⸻

Tag: @raethewargeneral

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kitchenisking · 1 year ago

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Merry Christmas!

Knot What I Was Expecting by KnottheWolf - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 2,778, sterek)

Day 6- Creampie: Maybe Stiles shouldn’t have visited Derek while on the night of a full moon. That’s a lie. He totally would have done it again.

Wanting Stiles by BoBaJa- (Rating: Explicit, Words: 2,985, sterek)

Waiting for his roommate to finish showering for a frat party, Derek can't resist relieving tension with his face buried in Stiles's sheets. He's done it before - and he knows how dangerous his crush has become, but he just can't help it. What's the worst thing that could happen?

But then Stiles catches him - and suddenly, Derek's wildest dreams are coming true.

Heaven is a Place on Earth by whentheywrite - (Rating: Mature, Words: 4,820, sterek)

Derek glanced up, eyes red, and Stiles promptly choked on his own breath. He was pretty sure he didn’t have a ‘yes sir’ kink but yeah, that could probably do it for him.

“You’re so loud,” Derek murmured, letting go of Stiles’s wrists to trace his fingers down Stiles’s chest. Stiles arched up against it and the man smirked.

“Too loud.”

“I don’t appreciate being shamed for my beautiful voice.”

Fourth time's the charm by An-a-droid (AnnaHawk) - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 11,782, sterek)

Derek and Stiles have been together for a few months, and Derek won't let Stiles stay on top during sex, his instincts telling him to take and claim. Stiles enjoys it to a certain point, but decides to find a way to make Derek behave for once, no matter how many times he has to try.

It's Always Something, Even at Christmas by NephilimEQ - (Rating: Mature, Words: 20,386, sterek)

Stiles Stilinski is an accomplished FBI agent, an accomplished emissary, and a good friend and son...and also an emergency fake date? Even as something weird is starting to go on just a few days before Christmas in Beacon Hills, Derek comes to Stiles for help--to be his fake boyfriend for his work Christmas party. Excited, but also nervous, can he handle it all at the same time while still concealing his feelings for the werewolf that he's had a crush on since he first met him? Despite Erica's reassurance, Stiles worries...

Proximity by NadiaHart - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 5,963, sterek)

This was supposed to be a routine scouting mission. Go check out the creepy warehouse that suddenly appeared behind the abandoned movie theater off route 15; take some notes, maybe a photo or two. Do some basic recon and report back to the rest of the pack. That is decidedly not what happened. And now, standing chest-to-chest, squished into a shipping crate with Derek, Stiles absently wonders where he went wrong.

"Darling, you look perfect tonight." by EvanesDust - (Rating: G, Words: 500, sterek)

...the one where Stiles reminisces about the first time Derek proposed.

Fuck a Witch by Noname109 - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 2,930, sterek)

“What do you need, Stiles?” Derek’s voice is raw and deeper than normal. Stiles holds his head back against the pillows and just breathes for a couple seconds.

“I just... I need... fuck...”

“Use your words, you’re good at that.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Mm, maybe later.”

“Fucker.“

Who's Your Daddy? by victurius - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 3,597, sterek)

It starts out as a joke, Stiles calls Derek 'dad' when the alpha gives him a snappy order. What Stiles doesn't expect is how the joke seems to affect Derek... Or six times Stiles calls Derek 'daddy' and one time he does something about it.

I'm Your Alpha Now by HyperSonic - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 2,670, sterek)

Stiles goes to a club with his best buddy and alpha Scott, but leaves with a new alpha.

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #fanfiction #stiles x derek #kitcheniskingficrecs #ficrec #fanfic

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sw5w · 2 years ago

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Mos Espa Way Continued

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 00:31:27

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areyoufuckingcrazy · 6 days ago

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“Dark Water”

Chapter Fifteen: The Shell I Became

The bad batch x reader

The lights were dimmed in the squad barracks, the hum of the Kaminoan facility like distant rain against durasteel. The air smelled like scorched plastoid, ozone, and protein rations — the scent of home, for better or worse.

Wrecker lay sprawled on his bunk, one leg dangling over the side. He held Lula in one oversized hand, gently bouncing the tooka plush on his chest. He hadn’t let her go since returning. Not after the mission. Not after the climb.

“She was with me the whole time,” he said softly. “Didn’t even flinch.”

Tech was polishing the scorched lens of his goggles at his desk, muttering calculations. “Stuffed animals do not possess the biological components required for flinching.”

Wrecker ignored him. “Still. She’s brave.”

Crosshair grunted from the corner where he cleaned his rifle, long fingers moving with exacting grace. “Braver than you, for sure.”

Wrecker sat up straight. “Hey! I climbed that creepy tower, didn’t I?”

“Eventually.”

Hunter smirked from his seat on a crate near the door. “You did good, Wreck. Real good.”

Wrecker beamed. “Heh. Thanks, boss.”

Tech turned in his chair. “Statistically, we completed the mission 37% faster than projected by the ARC planning unit. Efficiency was nearly optimal — aside from Crosshair’s missed shot on the east skiff.”

“I meant to miss that one,” Crosshair drawled. “It was more sporting.”

Tech frowned. “That’s not—”

“I don’t care.”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “You two done measuring datapads?”

“Depends,” Crosshair said. “You got another mission for us?”

Silence.

Then Tech perked up. “Actually… we might.”

The others looked over.

“I heard something in the halls,” Tech went on. “Kaminoans discussing an ‘escalation scenario.’ Seems the Jedi want special recon units on the outer rim. Word is, we’re on the list.”

“Special recon?” Wrecker repeated. “That mean more climbing?”

Hunter leaned forward. “That means more war.”

They fell quiet for a beat.

Even Crosshair didn’t have a snide comment ready.

Hunter ran a hand through his long hair, then stood, pacing.

“We’re not regs. We don’t march in straight lines. But this war doesn’t care how you fight — just if you win.”

“And if we don’t?” Wrecker asked.

Hunter looked at him. “Then we don’t come back.”

Tech adjusted his goggles. “I calculate the odds of survival at 63.4%, assuming we continue to improve our coordination.”

Crosshair smirked faintly. “So we’re doomed.”

Hunter turned to them. “We’re only doomed if we forget who we are.”

Silence again.

Then Wrecker raised a hand. “Can we still blow stuff up, though?”

“Only the right stuff,” Hunter said.

Crosshair muttered, “Define right.”

Tech looked thoughtful. “I suspect they’ll be deploying us to Skako Minor soon. Separatist signals have been fluctuating near the Wat Tambor stronghold.”

“Not fond of droids with vocabularies,” Crosshair muttered.

Hunter looked at all of them, that instinctual protective flicker in his expression. He still wasn’t used to being in charge. But he was starting to look like he could grow into it.

“I’ll find out more. But rest up. If this war’s really started…”

He glanced at the door, the Kaminoan corridors beyond.

“…then we better be ready.”

Wrecker laid back down, tucking Lula against his chest.

“Let ‘em come.”

Tech dimmed the lights further.

Crosshair clicked the safety on his rifle.

Hunter stayed awake the longest — watching his brothers, listening to their breathing, memorizing the way the room sounded when they were all alive and unbroken.

He didn’t know what was coming next.

But whatever it was, they’d face it together.

⸻

*Flashback*

Kamino - three years before the events of attack of the clones

Kamino’s training hall was a cavern of sterile white durasteel and humming repulsorlights — a vast, echoing chamber lined with holopads and rotating droid units. But today… something was different.

Clone Force 99 stood in a semi-circle around you, sweaty from morning drills, gear clinging to their leaner adolescent frames. They were taller now, sharper around the eyes, but still unmistakably them.

And they were all staring.

At the poles.

“I’m not doing that,” Crosshair said flatly.

“They spin,” Tech observed. “They’re mounted with magnetic gyroscopic bases.”

Hunter’s brow furrowed as he slowly walked around one. “These can be taken out of the platform?”

“Yes,” you said. “Quick release. Dual-use.”

Wrecker poked one experimentally. “Are we… are we gonna do a dance routine?”

You raised your hands. “This is combat training. Not a pageant. This is about agility, core strength, terrain advantage, and unconventional strategy. You want to take on an opponent three times your size? Use leverage. Use momentum. Use environment.”

Hunter crossed his arms. “Still looks like dancing.”

You sighed and grabbed one of the poles. With a quick grip and twist, you spun up into the air, wrapped your legs around it, and twisted upside down with fluid grace — a moment of poise and total balance — before dropping back to the floor without a sound.

They stared.

Wrecker’s mouth fell open.

Tech blinked. “Fascinating.”

“Think about it,” you said. “Core control. Timing. Using centripetal force. Escaping holds. Evading in tight vertical spaces. These poles can be used as both launch points and weapons. Lock them into position and they become leverage tools. Or pull them loose and use them as staves.”

Crosshair muttered, “Still looks like dancing.”

“Fine,” you said, turning to him. “You go first.”

His scowl deepened. “No.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Scared?”

Wrecker hooted. “Oooohhh. She called you scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Crosshair growled, already walking toward the pole. “This is just stupid.”

It took less than thirty seconds for him to lose his grip and fall flat on his back.

Wrecker roared with laughter. “You fell like a ragdoll!”

Hunter actually smirked. “Maybe we should do the dance routine.”

“Shut up,” Crosshair groaned.

You knelt beside him and offered your hand. “Again. And engage your core this time.”

One by one, they took turns — grumbling, slipping, bruising their pride — until finally they started to get it. The awkwardness faded into determination. The movements became sharper. Cleaner. Their bodies adjusted. Their instincts kicked in.

Hunter was the first to climb all the way up and spin fully horizontal. He landed on his feet, panting.

“I hate how much that actually worked,” he muttered.

“You’re welcome,” you said.

Wrecker managed to swing himself off a pole and use the momentum to kick a training dummy’s head clean off. “YES!”

Tech was analyzing angles, muttering about muscle groups and rotational torque. “This will drastically improve our vertical takedown velocity in tight drop zones.”

Crosshair finally nailed a dismount — then caught the removable pole mid-fall and flipped it behind his back like a staff. “Okay. That part was cool.”

You nodded. “This is what I’m teaching you — to weaponize what others overlook. What seems ridiculous, strange, or beneath you? That’s your greatest advantage. Let them underestimate you. Then break their jaw with it.”

They were quiet for a moment. A little older. A little wiser. The mood shifted from banter to silent appreciation — of the method behind your madness, and of the way you saw something in them no one else did.

“Same time tomorrow?” Hunter asked.

You smiled. “Only if you promise not to call it dancing.”

Wrecker raised Lula, who was tucked into his belt. “Lula’s got better form than all of us.”

Tech nodded. “Debatable.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes. “Don’t make this a thing.”

But it already was.

And they never forgot the lesson.

*End Flashback*

⸻

Foundry. Separatist Droid Factory World.

The air was thick with smoke and ash. Giant conveyor belts snaked through the sky, ferrying chunks of durasteel toward yawning furnace chambers. Foundry never slept—its factories churned endlessly, birthing war machines for the Confederacy of Independent Systems.

Clone Force 99 crouched behind a reinforced crate atop an elevated gantry, overlooking one of the main processing yards.

“Three squads of B1s,” Hunter muttered, eyeing his tracker. “Two supers. One spider droid guarding the uplink tower.”

“Of course there’s a kriffing spider droid,” Wrecker groaned.

Tech adjusted the scanner mounted to his vambrace. “If we disable the communications relay, I can hijack their security feed and transmit false position data. But the relay tower has no internal access points.”

“No stairs. No ladders,” Crosshair noted, scoping the massive column rising from the center of the facility. “Just piping.”

Hunter smirked, glancing toward Wrecker. “You remember the exercise.”

Wrecker squinted. “You mean the… pole thing?”

Crosshair snorted. “Get ready to pirouette, big guy.”

Hunter slapped Wrecker’s shoulder. “You’ve got the reach. The core strength. You trained for this.”

“You made me train for this!”

Tech added, “To be fair, she said this might prove useful one day.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it’d be in front of actual droids!” Wrecker muttered, tucking Lula into the pouch on his belt like she was made of beskar. “Fine. But I swear, if any of you laugh—”

⸻

Ten minutes later

A shape swung through the haze, barely visible above the sparking forge lines.

Wrecker gripped one of the structural poles that lined the central relay tower. His boots found traction, his arms locked in rhythm, and with a grunt he launched upward—twisting, flipping, vaulting from pole to pole like a one-man wrecking ball.

Hunter watched through his binoculars, impressed. “That’s our guy.”

“He’s actually… excellent,” Tech muttered.

Crosshair exhaled. “Stars help us if he finds out.”

Wrecker reached the platform, rolled behind the console, planted the charges, and keyed his comm.

“You guys ready down there?” he asked.

“Light it,” Hunter said.

The spider droid’s upper half erupted in flame and shrapnel.

“Pole-dancer from hell, baby!” Wrecker shouted as he dropped from the comms tower, sliding down the piping with one hand like he was born to it.

He landed with a thunderous CRASH among the B1s. One got smashed with the still-glowing pole. Another was speared and hurled into a vat of molten slag. A third had its head knocked clean off.

The rest of the Batch moved in—Hunter from the left, Crosshair from the gantries above, Tech slicing into a command console to reroute power and disable turrets.

When it was over, the platform was strewn with droid parts and smoke. Wrecker still held the pipe.

“Still think training with poles was stupid?” he puffed, triumphant.

“I think I’m putting in a requisition for more,” Hunter said.

“I’m naming this one Lula Two,” Wrecker declared.

Crosshair grunted. “I will shove Lula Two into orbit if I have to carry it back to the ship.”

⸻

Ord Mantell – Lower Docks, Midnight

Rain smacked the rusted siding of Dock 9, oil-slicked puddles reflecting the flicker of overhead lamps. Somewhere in the cavernous shipyard, a Nikto fugitive was on the run — credits on his head, body count in the double digits.

You stood perched on a rusted beam high above the floor, cloak pinned to your shoulder, armor darkened with carbon scoring from your last job. A long, metallic pipe ran between the industrial catwalk and a control station platform across the yard. It was old scaffolding—loose, spinning slightly when touched.

Below, the Nikto ran.

You didn’t think. You moved.

Your boots left the beam in silence. Fingers caught the pipe mid-air. Your body coiled, legs tucking, muscles tightening around your center of gravity like you’d done this all your life. You swung in a tight, clean arc — no wasted motion — and let go at the apex.

You flipped once.

Landed soundlessly behind him.

He turned just as you slammed the reinforced heel of your boot into the back of his knee, dropping him. He tried to crawl. You spun the cable you’d snatched on the way down around his neck — not to kill, just to restrain — pulled hard, twisted.

“Easy,” you muttered. “I need you breathing.”

He cursed in Huttese. You yanked him tighter.

You moved like someone who was trained in violence but danced with it now—each step measured, efficient, a blur of instinct and control.

When the local security patrol arrived—late, as always—you were already walking away, helmet back on, body limned in the glow of neon through the misting rain. The target was zip-tied, unconscious, and left with a data puck duct-taped to his forehead.

The dock chief looked down from the gantry.

“Didn’t think anyone could get him,” he said.

You didn’t stop walking.

“You thought wrong.”

⸻

The room smelled like cheap liquor and blaster oil. A breeze from the busted wall vent stirred the curl of incense you’d lit on the windowsill. You didn’t remember what planet the incense was from anymore, only that the smell helped.

It was quiet here—quiet enough to remember if you weren’t careful.

You sat on the floor, armor stacked beside you, half-cleaned weapons laid out like a ritual. You weren’t drinking. Not tonight. Just silence and the hum of the city below.

The knock came sharp, precise—two taps, a pause, then one.

You didn’t answer.

The door creaked anyway.

“A locked door’s only a suggestion,” came a voice that slithered like smoke. “You know that.”

Aurra Sing stepped inside like she owned the place.

She was all sharp edges and contempt, tall and snake-like in the way she moved. Her red eyes were unreadable, as always. The scar down your neck itched just seeing her again—muscle memory.

You didn’t stand. You didn’t look up right away either.

“I was in the sector,” she said, wandering toward your kitchenette, nosing around without asking. “Figured I’d say hello. Maybe stab you. Depends how this conversation goes.”

You finally glanced over. “Charming.”

She grinned, wide and toothy, but there was something brittle in it.

“I’ve got the kid,” she said.

Your blood went cold.

She kept talking.

“Boba. Good aim, arrogant like his father. Wants to kill the Jedi, and probably me one day. But he’s alive.”

You exhaled, slow. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I thought,” she said, circling you now like a bored nexu, “you might want to take him. Teach him. Someone should.”

You leaned your head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded.

“No.”

Aurra paused. “That’s it?”

“That life,” you said, voice low, “is buried at the bottom of an ocean.”

She watched you. Waiting.

You didn’t elaborate.

You didn’t have to.

Kamino was a ghost that lingered in waterlogged dreams and damp air. You’d drowned there once already—came back wrong. What lived on that platform wasn’t yours anymore. Jango was dead. The Batch were soldiers of a Republic you didn’t believe in. And Boba… he deserved better than a broken mirror image of someone who’d failed.

“I’m not his mother,” you added. “And I’m sure as hell not Jango.”

Aurra’s smirk faded. “You know,” she said after a long beat, “for someone with so much blood on their hands, you’re still trying real hard to be clean.”

You looked away. “Get out.”

She left without protest.

The door shut. The incense still burned.

You sat there, quiet again, surrounded by weapons you didn’t need to clean, staring at a helmet you didn’t want to wear.

⸻

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#clone trooper x reader #clone wars #star wars #star wars fanfic #star wars the clone wars #clone x reader #clone trooper preferences #the clone wars headcanons #clone force 99 #wrecker the bad batch #the bad batch crosshair #tech the bad batch #bad batch x reader #the bad batch x reader

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