#oc clones

[luigigirl12]

Pizza head doesn't care that Nala is scared of the dark

[whiskygoldwings]

The Tattooist: Chapter Two: Wrench

I won't lie, I've been kind of terrified of putting this out, in case it didn't hold up after the first chapter. Everyone was so amazing and writing such wonderful things about it; the fear of letting people down was very real! But, here it is, a very different feel for this chapter, but I hope you all like it too!

---

The second time she tattoos a clone trooper client, it is an act of defiance.

This time Trix reached out to her first, sending her a message asking for an appointment for one of his brothers. She'd asked if this man had any idea what he wanted in advance, and Trix had tentatively answered her that he wasn't sure, just that his brother was angry, and needed to do something to get the itch out of his skin.

Elaah had blandly pointed out that Trix now knew full well that tattoos actually made you itch, and he had blushed before laughing sheepishly, admitting she was right.

She'd accepted anyway, arranging a date and time. She'd slotted in a whole day session, figuring that if they couldn't work out a design together, she'd maybe be able to pick up some walk ins, or get some of the admin done instead. Trix had given her the name “Wrench”, and made a comment that he was a pretty great guy normally, just he might be on the frustrated side when he came to see her. She'd carefully selected a day when Cafas was in. She didn't think any of the troopers would be likely to get aggressive, but she'd worked in the lower levels long enough to not be willing to take the chance.

She was just enjoying the last few sips of her coffee when Wrench stormed through the door, a cloud of righteous fury blasting in with him, making the force smell like burnt rubber. She managed to catch her expression before she wrinkled her nose, getting the feeling he would have taken one look at her face and walked straight back out again. Calmly, she puts down her mug, and places her hands clearly on top of the counter in front of her, empty palms flat against the surface. “I assume you're Wrench?”

“That's me,” the man says, arms crossed and jaw taut. “Trix told me to come to you.”

Elaah smiles at him, hopping off the stool and waving him over to her workroom. “Trix is a man of his word. Didn't tell me much about you though, just that you were angry.”

Wrench strides after her, passing her where she holds the door open and sits down on the comfy sofa as if it is the most uninviting, hard-backed chair ever. She glances over at Cafas' workroom to see him stood in the doorway, one grey eyebrow raised at her. She quirks a smile back, then goes into the room herself, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. She doesn't get a sense of violence from Wrench, more bottled up rage and frustration that needs to find an outlet. Cafas will keep an ear out, but she doesn't need him in the room.

She grabs her pad and stylus, freshly wiped the evening beforehand, and sits down in her armchair across from him. For a moment, she just watches the stewing man then tilts her head at him. “So what are you here for Wrench?”

He laughs bitterly. “You know you've gotten my name right twice more than my bloody chief so far?” his fists clench. “It's not bloody hard! My name is Wrench. It's a karking tool! People across the galaxy use them every day. I didn't choose it for complexity. I like working on machines, it seemed logical and simple. Apparently kriffing not!” he gets up and paces infront of the sofa, face twisted in anger, and when she looks deeper, hurt.

She realises she knows what he's here for, and quickly sketches out the basic shape of a wrench. “Your chief doesn't call you your name?”

Wrench laughs again, a haunted, broken noise. “My chief can't tell us apart. He's natborn, doesn't lift a karking finger, yet he lords it above us all like he's some kind of gift to the universe. I'm not even sure the man knows what a wrench is, he clearly hasn't used one even once in his perfect life.” She feels bitterness and exhaustion in the force. This man has worked hard to get where he is, and the smallest bit of recognition would go a long way. “I want him to look at me and say my name. Not hey you! Or trooper! Hell, even my serial number would be better than being treated like the shit on his shoe.”

Elaah blinks, not quite sure what to make of the serial number comment, before focusing in. “You want a wrench tattoo somewhere obvious.”

He whirls to stare at her, clearly taken aback for a moment, before nodding sharply. “I want it on my kriffing face.”

They stare at each other for a moment, then she places the pad and stylus on the table and crosses her arms. “If that is what you really want, I'm not going to persuade you otherwise. How long have you been thinking of this.”

He stares for a second longer, than slumps onto the couch. His whole body seems to crumple, like he was geared up for an argument, and the strings of it have suddenly been cut and released him. “I didn't think you'd agree,” he glances up at her.

She nods. “That's part of why you're so angry isn't it? You thought I'd say no, try and convince you you didn't know what you wanted to do with your own body.” He shudders, and she has to fight with herself not to go over there and hug him. “I think you've had enough bodily autonomy taken away from you without me joining in.”

Wrench looks sharply up at her at that, before releasing his breath all at once. He sits back up, steadying his shoulders, and looks at her without anger for the first time that day. “Trix was right about you,” he says, then smiles at her. “You're right, I want a wrench. I want it over my left eye. I've been thinking about it since I saw Trix's tattoo. Hadn't really thought about it before that, I'll be honest with you. Hadn't really known it was an option I guess. But it hasn't left my mind since. Trix gave me his credits, and a few others who feel like I do have given me theirs. Trix made me promise to agree a price with you before you began,” she grins sheepishly as he fixes a stern look on her.

“Will it get you into trouble?”

“Probably,” he shrugs. “But I've made that choice. If they decommission me for this, I'll have still looked that man in the eye and made him recognise me.” His back straightens further, and she can see the pride and defiance in the tilt of his chin.

“Decommision you?” She asks, browridge furrowed.

Wrench shakes his head. “I shouldn't have said that much really. Just... Whatever happens after this is my choice and my fault.”

Elaah stares thoughtfully at him for a moment. She can guess what the word means, doesn't quite want to let herself believe that they would go that far. But Wrench had felt honest and passionate when he spoke, and she feels a hard lump forming in the base of her throat. She swallows round it, making her own choice. She had already told him she wouldn't take his bodily autonomy away from him. Denying him his choice now would be just as bad. She'll just have to deal with her own complicity if it comes to it.

He's watching her still, clearly aware she's having her own crisis of conscience, but not interrupting or trying to guide her to a choice. It settles her own decision further. This proud man, stripped of so many of his own options, has made sure she has her own, even if it will mean he doesn't get what he wants.

She clears her throat, and picks up the padd and stylus again.”I get the feeling you don't want anything fancy,” she says, glancing at his grateful expression before looking back at her simple sketch. “More something bold. Obvious. Unmistakeable.”

Wrench nods.

“Do you want it solid black, linework or colours” she asks, blocking in the lines of the tool more purposefully. She's going to make this the kriffing best wrench she'd ever drawn.

“Solid black?” Wrench queries, and she nods, quickly finishing the outline and filling it with the colour. She turns the pad around to show him, and he looks over it critically, before the corner of his mouth quirks up in a grin. “You didn't even use a reference for that.”

She hums. “It's like you say, a wrench is a universally known tool after all.” It gets a laugh from Wrench, and she bares her teeth at him in a smile. He laughs harder at that, and she stands up and goes to print out the stencil. “Lie on the bed if you would please, on your back and tilt your face to the right on the cushion.”

“Price first,” he raises an eyebrow at her, not moving, and she growls as he smirks. “Trix was very clear about making you agree to one first.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, placing the printed stencil aside and pulling out her black ink. “75 credits. I won't take anymore than that.”

“I haven't even said what size I want it” he protests, and she turns and raises her own eyebrow at him.

“What size do you want it?”

He indicates from his nose to just before his ear. “Basically as big as you can get it really. Karking obvious, like it's stamped across my force-damned face.”

She nods and turns back to her ink. “75 credits then.” It's the lowest price they quote, but she doesn't particularly want to take any of the hard-won money from these men. She'll figure out some way to feed it back into the GAR, though she suspects it'll be harder than it should be to ensure it will go to the men.

Wrench snorts behind her, clearly aware she's quoting low, but accepts it as a truce, and goes to the tattoo bed.

It doesn't take long to get prepared with only one colour on the plan for today. She carefully places the stencil, fitting the bottom half of the wrench on his left cheek and the upper half continuing on over his eyebrow, a gap for his eye. She slants it so the top fixed jaw skims below his regulation short hairline, and makes him to get up and check it before she'll begin.

He stares at it for a moment in the mirror, a fierce look on his face, before nodding at her and lying back down on the bed. She'd offer him some numbing spray, but she suspects he wants to feel every moment of this, and would resent any offer to ease the pain. With a tap of her fingers to the lower part of the wrench, she presses the tattoo gun to his cheek, and begins.

He can't talk during it, too much risk of knocking the gun out of place. But she can feel the edges of his emotions in the force, and the flow of catharsis through him. Every stroke of the needle across his skin feels like resolve, and she finds herself growing calmer as the tattoo takes shape. She lines it first, giving herself an edge to work against, then begins the careful shading in of the solid black. It won't be easy for Wrench to come in for a touch-up fighting in a war, so she needs to make this as uniform as possible. She slips into the focused meditation she usually finds in the hum of the tattoo gun, and the spread of ink across flesh.

Wrench doesn't flinch or move once during the entire process. He keeps himself rock still, in a manner that hits her all at once has been trained into him. What have they been put through, she wonders, to know how to remain unmoving in the face of constant pain. She has to set the thought aside, to be examined at another time, so her needle doesn't grow harsh and cruel in her grasp. There is, of course, plenty of pain, considering the location and simply the nature of tattooing, but she doesn't let it become any worse than necessary.

He sits so well that she finishes in record time. The solid black statement stares defiantly across his face, and she gently wipes it down as Wrench takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. She's not sure he actually blinked at all during the time she was tattooing, though he must have done. She gets close to his face, staring carefully at every endge of the tattoo, and the stretch of black at it's core, ensuring she hasn't missed a spot, or wavered in her lines. Satisfied, she leans back, stretching her arms above her, before patting Wrench on the shoulder. “It's done.”

He sits up, a little faster than she would have liked, but she gets the sense he needs to see. She's proven right when he swings his legs straight off of the bed, and marches over to the mirror before she can tell him to slow down.

Wrench stops, and stares at his own face. There's something blistered and painful in his presence in the force, yet also something wondering and cautiously pleased. She wonders what it must be like to be constantly surrounded by the faces of people who look just like you, looking for ways to make your own identity among an army of people physically exactly the same. She wonders if he's finally looking at his own face for the first time, and knowing it to be only his. A little part of her weeps for this man, but she doesn't let any of it show. This is not like Trix. Trix needed empathy and support. Wrench needed her to be quiet and to respect his choices.

Wrench takes his own time to examine his new face, and the line of his shoulders straighten as he takes on the aftermath of his decision. He turns to her, all the anger bled out of him, leaving only determination behind. With confident steps, he approaches her and nods. “Thank you,” he says, reaching into his pocket and counting out exactly 75 credits. No more, no less. He hands them to her, and she takes them with a nod of her own.

“It should be bandaged, to protect it,” she says, but is unsurprised by the shake of his head.

“I'll go to the medics on the ship if I need to, but I need to wear this openly.”

She doesn't argue, and as he walks out, she hopes she gets to hear the story of what happened when the chief officer saw it from him. She hopes she hears it from him directly, years down the line, when he's looking perhaps for a touch up.

She doesn't let herself consider what “decommissioned” may mean.

[clonefandomevents]

Clone Twin Week Prompts!

As it is Twin week, each day's prompt options are a pair of different, but related, words! There are two pairs for each day, so you have a couple to choose from! Cant wait to see the Clone Twins they inspire!

Day One- September 1st:

Dusk and Dawn

Devoted and Defiant

Day Two- September 2nd:

Sugar and Spice

Sun and Storm

Day Three- September 3rd:

Tattoos and Scars

Hope and Despair

Day Four- September 4th:

Whole and Apart

Chaos and Order

Day Five- September 5th:

Fire and Ice

Sun and Moon

Day Six- September 6th:

Fight or Flight

Blaster and Blade

Day Seven-September 7th:

Head vs Heart

Freedom or Choice

[themistymountainscold]

GUYS I NEED HELP I NEED TO NAME CLONES IN MY FIC BUT I'M STRUGGLING

[mylifeisactuallyamess]

Clone Masterlist:

Heed the warnings on all the fics. 18+

Sanctuary Tech x F!Reader (multi chapter)

The Keldabe Kiss Tech x f!Reader

One More Night Hunter x F!Reader

How the Clones would react if you tickled them The Bad Batch plus Echo, Fives, Rex and Wolffe

The Colour Blue Fives x Reader

Got the Feelin’ Fives x F!Reader

Line of Sight Crosshair x Jedi!Reader

Nar Cyar’ika Crosshair x Jedi!Reader

Not Alone Echo x Mechanic!Reader

[coline7373]

His name is actually Disentery, for reasons we won't get into.

@soap-brain

[bibannana]

Tup *patting Dogma on the back*: I wear my heart on my sleeve, unlike some.

Dogma *rolls his eyes*: Just because I have emotional control-

Pickup *thoughtful look on his face*: What about when you're not wearing sleeves?

Tup *blinks*: What?

Pickup *shrugs*: Y'know, because you can't wear your heart on your sleeve if you aren't wearing any sleeves.

Fives *snorts*: Stars Pickup you di'kut-

Echo *smacks him across the head*: Be nice to him you know he doesn't always understand idioms.

Coy *sighing*: Pickup, it means he shows his true emotions freely.

Pickup *face scrunched in thought*: Then why doesn't he just say that?

[elismor]

[More] TCW Fic Recs

Three Fics I Loved and Think You Should Read, Episode 2: Attack of the Cloneships

Also in no particular order...

home is just another word for you by @seascribbling

This is a series of smaller fics centered around an OC Clone named Scald as he navigates his way through his first relationship with another OC clone (Abesh). Some of it is spicy, all of it is sweet and kind and caring. Excellent portrayals of what it's like to be living on top of one another in the barracks. 212th, but no real use of canon characters. Do not let that stop you. 11/10, I am still reading this series and shopping for a bigass fancy hat to wear to their wedding.

Sun-Kissed by CloneWarsAndChill (tumblr deleted, which is a crying shame).

Written and posted in 2017. Jessix. It leans toward spicy at the end, but nothing explicit. (It's actually very adorable making out.) Kix notices a freckle on Jesse's face. It's new and special. There is a real sense of safety in this fic...it's like a warm blanket surrounded by family and friends.

Can't See The Forest For the Trees by @elthadriel

Codex. Super spicy. The Summary reads Fives times Cody and Rex swore it was platonic and the time they realized it wasn't and it's truth in advertising. I love this one for the power dynamics and the deepness of the underlying bond, despite the fact that they are sometimes assholes. And...good spice, too. It's the piece that made me go huh...Codex...i might ship it?

Bonus, because I re-found this while looking for the above:

Keeping Warm in the Cold also by @elthadriel

Codex. Super spicy. And also hilarious.

All links go to A03.

[valkeakuulas]

Lighthearted prompts you say?!? Fox and Cody or Fox and Wolffe with ‘Are you flirting with me?’

Honestly just Fox and somebody the man needs some joy😭

Unfortunately this didn’t come out as shippy as I hoped for. And this is also very long. But Fox needs all the love and joy there is in the galaxy. Let The Man Be Happy. Let Him Sleep Too But Not In This Fic.

-- -- -- --

"Are you flirting with me?"

It had been ages since Fox had allowed himself to be dragged into 79′s without 

1) having to come and calm down rowdy troopers who had gotten the bright idea to re-enact some of the gravitation defying moves their Jedi Generals pulled off.

2) wearing his extremely recognizable red and white armor - oh Fox had thought about keeping it on but the twin grumpy looks he had gotten from both Wolffe and Cody had made him reach for his dress greys instead, thus matching his fellow Commanders. 

Fellow Commanders who had left Fox alone at the small table they had taken over on the upper level of the club, having kriffed off into the crowd somewhere below. 

Sighing, Fox leaned against the sticky surface with an elbow as he took a sip of the dark ale he had ordered. At least Cody and Wolffe had promised to pay for the first few rounds, an offer that Fox was going to abuse to his heart’s content. 

He was just placing the glass back down when he spotted someone approaching him from the corner of his eye. 

Snorting, Fox turned towards the man, assuming it was Cody. “Finally, was wondering if you had gotten stuck on a vac tu...,” Fox started, only to fall into silence when he realised that the trooper who smoothly slid on the chair on the other side of the table wasn’t Cody because Cody hadn’t been wearing his armor tonight.  

Besides that, the man was definitely younger than either one of Fox’s bastards and the shade of yellow that was painted on the trooper’s armor placed him either with the 13th Battalion or 327th Star Corps, Fox wasn’t sure which one with the flashing light’s of the club. He had regulation cut but there were stripe-like tattoos running down his cheeks to his jaw, two on each side and they were some other color besides black. 

Purple, maybe? Fox caught himself wondering right before the other trooper leaned closer while letting his eyes roam rather freely over Fox’s sitting form. 

“I know we are of same template but you definitely came out from the better end of the gene pool,” the man commented, eyes lingering on Fox’s chest and biceps, which, granted, filled the dress greys far more than they did with some of the other Commanders. “Do you mind having some company? A trooper like you should not drink alone,” he asked, the suggestive tone clear even over the loud music. 

Fox fell his mouth open and he blinked, flabbergasted. “Are you flirting with me?” he half-asked, half-demanded because the thought of some random trooper approaching the Commander Fox of Coruscant Guard kind of short-circuited his brain because everyone knew who he was, kriff his armor was -- 

Except that I am not wearing my armor right now, Fox realised a tad hysterically when the man opposite him gave him another slow, meaningful look over. 

“With a vod like you? Definitely. Wouldn’t mind sharing my night with you.” The trooper flashed Fox a rather handsome grin even as he moved his hand closer to Fox’s on the table. “So how about I get the next round and - “ 

“ - and thanks for keeping my seat warm, trooper,” Wolffe’s voice drawled and both Fox and the trooper startled a little at finding the Commander of the Wolfpack standing next to the table. 

Unlike with Fox, the stranger took one look at Wolffe and immediately recognized him judging from the way he straightened on the chair. “S-sir,” he stuttered and quickly saluted despite the fact that Wolffe wasn’t in his armor and was holding not one but three colorful and huge cocktail drinks in his hands. 

There were even little umbrellas and cuts of meiloorun fruit. 

“At ease, we’re all off duty,” Cody’s order floated from behind the Wolfpack Commander and wow, Fox didn’t know a trooper’s eyes could become that big.

For a moment Fox thought the poor man might just faint at getting face to face with not just Commander of the Wolfpack but also the Marshal Commander of the Third Systems Army. 

Then Wolffe placed one of the cocktail drinks in front of Fox with a wry “and here’s your drink, Commander Fox. Sorry it took so long, couldn’t get a drink red enough to match your armor.”

Both Fox and the trooper looked at the drink at the same time and sure enough, the drink in the glass was pretty much the same kriffing shade of red as Fox’s armor. Even the tiny umbrella was Guard red. 

Oh, now Fox really felt bad for the trooper. The man slowly lifted his gaze from the drink, meeting Fox’s eyes over it and from his eyes Fox could read a rather interesting mix of emotions from shock to embarrassment to... Huh. Fox blinked again as he witnessed the man quickly glance one last time at his pecs and arms. 

“My apologies, didn’t realise you already had company, sir,” he replied smoothly, voice wavering only the tiniest bit, which was rather impressive, and the man stood up from the chair. 

He stood there for a second, staring at Fox before quickly bowing at him instead of saluting and alright, that was new. Ballsy even. 

“Commanders,” he said to Wolffe and Cody while saluting them sharply, the two Commanders nodding back at him.  

Giving one last lingering look at Fox, the ballsy trooper disappeared into the dancing masses. 

The silence lasted between the three Commanders for maybe a second before Cody snorted loudly, breaking into chuckles. “I need to find out whoever that was and get them promoted.”

“For what reason? Not crumbling when getting cockblocked by two bastards like you?” Fox snarked, suddenly feeling a bit disappointed. He picked the red cocktail and took as sip of it, nose scrunching as the strong liquor hit his mouth.

“He didn’t know who you were, did he?” Wolffe asked, sliding into the now empty seat, grinning sharply. 

Fox shook his head, glancing over the railing and down at the crowd as Wolffe and Cody tried to make him tell what had been going on while they’d been gone. There, by some twist of Force or something just as vaguely philosophical, standing by the bar, he spotted the ballsy trooper, ordering a drink. 

When he turned around, their gazes met even with the distance between them and Fox couldn’t help but raise his drink. 

And if he felt rather pleased when the ballsy trooper saluted back with his own drink, well, that was only for Fox to know.  

[clone-cognoscenti]

Guys I’m screeching.

[luigigirl12]

Nala meeting the Cat Noise clone

I wonder if these two would get along or would they be like one of those cats and dogs you see in cartoons where the dog chases the cat

This cat noise clone is made by @cutechan555

Also I'm hoping that I'm right that this is a cat.

[letsquestjess]

Blood Daughter - Chapter 11: Ricochet

Story Summary: After Kallar Viren flees the Empire, his daughter sets out to find him, only to discover he has been taken by Imperials. With help from Clone Force 99, Zeraphine pushes through her losses in a race against the clock to rescue her father or face the galaxy as the last of her family.

Warnings: Character death. Blood.

Chapter 10 | Chapter 12

Read from the beginning.

-- -- -- -- --

The corridors stretched out endlessly, their twists and turns disorienting and their uniformity making it impossible to tell if they had already ventured down one. If the intention was to make a dizzying labyrinth, the effect had been thoroughly achieved. 

“It’s this way,” Ricochet said, bolting ahead of Echo and Zeraphine and picking up on the minute landmarks pulsing on his datapad. 

A powerful blast outside shook the structure. Sprinklings of dust cascaded from the ceiling and droid units skittered in a panic on tiny wheels. Another distant explosion sent tremors rippling against the building and Echo reached out to steady Zeraphine as she clicked a detonator inside a wall grate. 

“Wrecker is working his magic,” the Phominian smiled. 

“As long as it keeps those scaly beasts preoccupied, I don’t care what they do,” Ricochet grumbled. “Come on, hurry with the rest of the charges. The control room is up ahead.” 

His companions exchanged a glance and obediently concealed the remaining domed devices in discreet spaces along the walkways. With the final one fastened to the back of a pipe, they snuck their way through the facility, meeting with little opposition from the hunters. 

“Where are the other Trandoshans?” Zeraphine wondered aloud. 

“Probably hiding,” Ricochet answered with a glimpse at his datapad. “Most of them will be out there defending the dam, but they won’t have sent all of them.” He scouted beyond the next corner and signalled up ahead. “Echo, if you could do the honours.” 

Echo jogged to the far left entryway and implanted his scomp link into the connector. With a whirl of locks, the door released. Blaster fire hurtled through the opening and the three dove for cover, smoke hissing from the smouldering wall opposite as it withstood the brunt of the attack. 

When the projectile storm finally dissipated, Ricochet rounded into the control centre, flanked by Zeraphine and Echo. Maintaining a tight formation, they swiftly moved through the semi-circular hub and dispatched of the Trandoshans within. 

“Over here,” Echo announced, directing them to a storage unit. “I suspect this is where our weapons are.” 

Zeraphine aided him in hoisting the weighty lid and unceremoniously dumped it onto the ground with a resounding clang. On her tiptoes, she balanced over the lip and withdrew their gear. “Keep that safe,” she instructed as she handed Echo Tech’s datapad. “If we lose that now, he’ll never forgive us.”

Delving into the pile of weapons, she located her glass swords, all but cradling them before she secured them to her belt. 

“When you two have finished playing dress up, I’d appreciate some help,” Ricochet called, keying at the control panel attached to the sprawling window. 

Zeraphine suppressed a grumble and neared the flashing controls. “I’ll shut down the communications,” she said, working at speed to disconnect each channel. Some remained stubborn, but within minutes, the power lines on the screen depleted and the speakers emitted a fizzled whine. “Rico, if you can get the chariots.” 

“Got it.” 

“Ready to terminate the dam whenever you are,” Echo said, kneeling down beside main console and linking in with his prosthetic arm. 

“Execute on my mark,” Ricochet instructed. “Three, two, one… mark!”

Like a well-tuned machine, the trio deactivated the various segments of the system and the elongated bulbs on the ceiling puttered out. 

“Communications are down,” Zeraphine confirmed. “Chariots are offline and I think we can safely say the dam is no longer operational. Ships are unlocked at the port, and power has been redirected to the charges. Nice work, team.” 

“Don’t celebrate just yet, Commander Viren,” Ricochet said. “We still need to get out of here.” 

“I’m sure we’ll-” Struck by an overwhelming rush to her senses, her eyes darted to the open doorway. She signalled her insight to Echo, and he stole a brief peek outside.

“Company on the way,” he verified.

Needing no further explanation, they departed the control centre and sprinted in the opposite direction of the clamours and blaster bolts that pursued them. 

A growl ripped out of Zeraphine’s throat and she unclipped her weapons to unleash a flurry of strikes. Glowing projectiles battered the darkened blades and pinged straight back in a riotous melody of glass chimes and rifle pops. 

“You two keep going,” she said, blocking another aggressive wave. “I’ll take care of this and meet you outside.” 

Ricochet opened his mouth to argue, but Echo dragged him into a run and assured him she knew what she was doing. 

Transferring her swords to one hand, she stretched the fingers of the other and discharged a powerful fluctuation down the corridor. The enemy tottered. Unbalanced and frustrated, she used their instability to slam a series of hits into them before they could recover. 

At full momentum, Zeraphine launched herself into the fray and avoided a trembling bullet, impaling the offending creature and leaving her sword embedded in his torso as she swung her second blade to cut through fabric and flesh. Every movement she made in the fight was precise and calculated, a testament to the years of training that devoured her youth. 

She veered both blades down onto the last Trandoshan with a gritted grunt. A laboured gasp wheezed from him as he slumped to his knees and flopped forward. 

Around the corner, she was met with the unmistakable sounds of a struggle and she pelted to the two clones engaged in an unfortunate altercation. Neon bolts flew in an onslaught attack as Echo bravely shielded Ricochet on the floor.

Zeraphine’s heart lurched. A fortifying rush of adrenaline coursed through her veins as she charged at the attackers. With Echo’s support, their enemies rapidly fell, and the world grew hushed in the aftermath. 

“Rico, keep your eyes open,” she begged, straining to get her pleas out as she cradled the wounded clone in her arms. “I need you stay awake, okay?” 

“Go,” he breathed. Shaking, he opened his bloodied fingers and offered the detonator button to Echo. “Take this and run. Once you’re…. once you’re in the clear, push it.” 

“No,” Zeraphine told him resolutely. “We are not leaving you here. Between us, we can lift you.” 

“I was named for my ability to bounce back after injuries, but I’m not bouncing back from this one. I don’t think it’s in anybody’s power to save me now, not even yours, commander. Now go. I’ll hold off the others.” 

Echo noticed his clawing attempt to reach for his gun and assisted him in grasping it, positioning his finger on the trigger. “It has been an honour to fight alongside you,” he said, lifting his scomp link in a reverential salute. 

“And you, brother,” Ricochet replied. 

Careful not to aggravate his injuries further, Zeraphine held him close and placed an apologetic kiss to his damp forehead. “Rest easy, Captain Ricochet,” she choked out through the gooey knot in her throat, saying her farewell with a Phominian gesture of respect and pushing herself to her feet.  

Following Echo, she broke into a crestfallen sprint. A riot of gunfire and a final, anguished scream crawled from the pathway behind them, but they kept running. Never looking back out the fear that if they did, none of them would make it out alive. 

Humid air and the clamour of battle enveloped them as their boots clashed with sodden mud. At the designated spot, they eased to a steady halt. Zeraphine fired a flare into the sky, its trajectory accompanied by a distinct pop and a shower of red. A second signal erupted a few tense moments later from within a sparse clearing some klicks away. 

“They’re at the withdrawal point,” she said. The detonator trembled in Echo’s tight grasp, a gloved thumb primed to blow the charges and faltering. She settled her hand over his and managed a reassuring nod, and together they activated the explosives. Plumes of shimmering gold and smoky grey erupted from the dam wall, creating a destructive display before the structure withered, engulfing the enemy and another fallen brother. 

Blaster ammunition sung in wavering bursts. Feet trampled and thumped in a thunderous sprint. Breaths escaped from parched lips and overworked muscles pleaded for a break. 

“Trandoshans are fleeing. Should we pursue?” 

“Negative. Get going.”

“Southern quadrant all clear. Heading to the meetup point.”

The comms buzzed with orders, survivors confirming their status and their situations, and if the worse had happened, that of their friends. 

“Located The Progenitor,” Hunter reported within the fluctuating static. “Sending up a signal.”

Seconds crawled by in a slow haul, standing by for the telltale screech of a military flare. It materialised in a whir of smoke and soared for the clouds, popping in a shower of red and white. 

Echo and Zeraphine sprinted for the smoking spill, never stopping, never slowing. Far away, water gushed into the northern sector of the forest, unrestrained and sweeping the base into the drift. From the wreckage, thousands of ghosts found their peace. 

Zeraphine’s chest heaved, every exhale wheezing up her throat in an adrenaline fuelled rasp. It took her back to her days in the war, and a distant whine of security alarms rung in her ears. Even though Mantle Squad had a track record of success, there were odd instances where they had been forced to make a hasty retreat after accidentally triggering a surveillance system or a keen-eyed officer had spotted them. Those moments filled with pure dread and heightened senses flooded her veins, urging her onward until she dashed across the outskirts and slowed once at a rocky overhang. 

Her ship stood on the end landing pad, exterior blemished with scrapes. To her relief, there didn’t seem to be any permanent damage, and it seemed operational.

“There they are!” Omega shouted, splitting from the group of remaining survivors huddled by the lowered ramp. In a burst of energy, she bounded to her brother and threw her arms around his middle. “You weren’t at the withdrawal point and nobody could find out where you were.”

“It’s all right,” Echo soothed. “We ran into some trouble in the base and had get out another way. But we’re here now.”

“Where’s Rico?” Mylo asked as he approached, craning his neck to locate the third survivor that was supposed to be with them. Their lowered chins and sagging shoulders told him his answer. As his own gaze followed theirs, he caught sight the crimson blotches on the Phominian’s hands, the rusted red crusting her nails. 

“He didn’t make it,” Zeraphine replied, swallowing down her remorse, but it bubbled defiantly and refused to be contained. “His sacrifice ensured we got out of there.”

Mylo’s teeth clenched to stem the tide of grief. He and Rico had both been captured together, fighting side by side through it all, and the pain of not being there beside him in his last moments pierced his soul. In amongst his regret, Zeraphine’s hand rested warm and comforting on his arm, and he gave her fingers a grateful squeeze. 

“I’m so sorry, Mylo,” she whispered in a mournful breath. 

“He is with our fallen brothers,” the devastated clone said, voice cracking despite his stalwart attempt to withhold his mourning. “Wherever they may be.” 

Zeraphine made sure Mylo, Echo, and Omega were close by as she traipsed to her ship. Waving them onboard, she ushered the survivors onto the craft and scanned the area for any stragglers before boarding. “It’s going to be a bit of a squeeze,” she said, manoeuvring through the small crowd, “but we’ll be away from here soon.” 

Once free from the shuffling bodies, she hurried into the cockpit. The metal grating gave way to transparisteel flooring, light reverberations shuddering beneath her worn boots. Echo came in behind her and sealed the door. 

“I’ll get a message to Rex and see if he can help us,” he said, as she started the engines and got them airborne. She didn’t utter a sound, liquid silver gaze locked onto the rolling sky above them. “You all right?” 

Zeraphine opened her mouth, intending to convince him she was fine, but her words dissolved in her throat. They would be a lie, an injustice to Ricochet and his sacrifice. Instead, she slumped back in the tall seat. “Could we have saved him?” she asked, her voice unnaturally meagre and uncertain. 

“Only if we’d had more time,” Echo replied. “And that was something we didn’t have.” He perched himself on the side of the control panel while the atmosphere engulfed the craft in a flickering kaleidoscope. “He will be remembered, like all of those before him. It’s how our legacy survives all of this. Through the good we do and the lives we help.” 

[clonefandomevents]

Haunted Clone Week Sneak Peaks!

We have decided to do, completely optional, sneak peaks for Haunted Clone Week! Starting October 1st and until October 16th, give us a bit of look into what we will see during the week. Short blurbs, a bit of an image, anything to drum up some excitement!

[uponrightful]

Phantom Squad - What Gets Their "Special" Attention?

A/N: If you liked this, please leave likes, comments, and reblogs to show the love 🤍

Also, if you'd like to suggest something for any of Phantom Squad (or all of them) send me a message of what you'd like to see ✨ HERE✨

Summary: Sure... Phantom Squad is nothing if not well-trained to avoid distraction. But that doesn't mean they're invincible. They've all got a weak spot, it's just a matter of what you're doing that they just can't help but notice.

Omen:

The Commander isn't one to be easily distracted by most... trivial things. He's practical in that sense, but a difficult nut to crack in another. With his walls built high and impossibly thick, it's nearly impossible to get a great impression from Omen right off the bat. But there is one thing that really gets his attention right away.

A hot-girl strut.

The kind that lets everyone know you're aware of just how good you know you look without ever saying a single word. Slow and deliberate steps with your hips swaying. High heels or combat boots, it doesn't matter to Omen. He'll see and hear it from a mile away. It's the perfect blow to a Commander who sees people shy away at his mere proximity to them. People are constantly afraid of him and it's been forever since someone acted like his presence wasn't utterly threatening.

For a while, Omen attributed it to the way he was conditioned to snap to attention when a superior walked into the room. Their heels clicking in warning and a hanging feeling of suspense in the room. seconds before their arrival. But years later, long separated from orders and reporting to a superior who actually had the guts to reprimand him, he still had the same base reaction. Only the lingering effects adjusted to one of intrigue instead of duty.

He loves a woman with a lingering power. Someone who knows exactly what they're doing making such a grand entrance like that. Effortlessly garnering respect and undeniable sex appeal. And don't think for a moment that size has any effect on Omen's opinion. Hip dips or a thigh gap, tall or short... The Commander couldn't complain either way. Hells, he's going to stare either way and feel the slightest bit of a buzz in the back of his head the entire time.

Wraith:

The Lieutenant has had his fair share of opportunities to enhance his taste in... carnal sights. He plays a lot of Sabacc to win extra credits for the squad, and without a table of opponents, it's hard to make a significant profit. Normally, he's got his head down in his hand of cards and focusing on the sweat beading on the other player's foreheads and their twitching fingers. Wraith is a fantastic bluff, but he's even better at faking his own tells consistently enough that even if he plays you one hundred times, you'll never catch him. It's one of his most valuable assets when on a mission where capture and interrogation are always a threat.

Even if you're not playing Sabacc against him, being able to determine if he's lying about something catches Wraith's attention -and his gaze- right away. He's going to be shocked at first that you picked up on it quickly. But you won't visually see that no matter how taken aback he is. Most people never can tell and leave a table broke; Wondering how he's able to play bad hands so well. If you're not only good enough to call him out but not let any of the other players at the table know about it. You've simultaneously earned Wraith's respect and now you're playing a game of two. No matter how many people have been dealt in. If you're handling your own against him, soon people will start folding out. Aware that something between the two of you is going on, and they're smart enough to bow out before they get caught in the mental crossfire.

Add in the idea of winning against him? Now you've really got Wraith's undivided attention. He won't ever let you out of his sight.

Now. If you're just having a conversation with him, and he decides to start playing some of his little games. The rules are far different. He'll definitely start by making some subtle attempts to see if you just made a really good guess, or actually knew. Wraith's not shy about it either. He's not above shamelessly flirting, and he'll make your ears burn with the things he says to catch you off guard and make you spill.

Wraith isn't afraid to play dirty. But... the possibility of either of you losing in that particular situation is rare.

Revenant:

Revenant is a jumpy guy. There's an element of shell shock that clouds his demeanor and overall disposition in everyday life. So suddenly popping up behind him or anything surprising is not only a no-go, but it could be slightly dangerous. Revenant isn't trigger-happy, but it's still best to air on the safe side around him. That being said, hearing someone with a soft voice instantly grabs his attention. Out of the Phantoms, Rev is the most observant. He sees and feels things much quicker than the others, and most of the time those senses aren't leading him to believe something good is about to happen. So if he hears a voice that's soft, quiet, maybe even a little timid... He's going to have quite the reaction to it.

Despite his aptitude for being the most friendly of the Phantoms -which isn't saying a whole lot- he's certainly not going to say anything to you. Or give you any idea that he's even noticed your presence. But he certainly has. He's relishing in the sound. Damn-near drowning in it really. Gentleness isn't something Revenant has much experience with. So he's without a doubt going to stay within earshot of you for as long as he can manage it without feeling like he's going to be confronted about being lurky... or just downright creepy.

If you were to confront Revenant about it, he would be a bit short with you. Never even thinking about mentioning that he just really took a liking to your voice. Add in the possible intimidation that comes along with seeing a man like Rev, and he's going to do everything he can to keep you from feeling uncomfortable. Or risking your silence. He couldn't get his head around you not speaking all because of him. After some serious acclimation however, Revenant isn't afraid to ask you to talk to him. Stating very openly that the sound relaxes him. Eases his nerves. Steadies that constant feeling of tension in the depth of his mind.

Ghost:

Being the deep-minded man he is, Ghost spends a lot of his time reading, mapping star systems, daydreaming about all the places he'd like to go to, and keeping a detailed list of all the places he's been and what he liked best and least about all of them. As a pilot, the different sectors are all something of an opportunity. He's constantly thinking about it. Even at the gentle dissuasion his brothers give. (They don't want him to get hurt when he never gets the opportunity to go everywhere and see everything he wants to.)

You're going to catch Ghost's eye if you like to write.

He's a really deep thinker, and he's a great talker as well. But getting words written down in a meaningful way that someone else can understand is a struggle for him. So seeing someone like you confidently writing, seemingly lost in your own world of imagination is infinitely interesting to Ghost. He knows staring will create a lot of attention whether it's meaningful or not. But you're not watching him. You're far too blissfully preoccupied. So that's all that matters to him. He can handle anything or anyone else that wants to make something of it.

Ghost likes to imagine what you're writing about. How you're able to create worlds just as detailed as the ones he's visited all over the galaxy, without ever having to see them with your own eyes. Make light of situations that are otherwise gruesome... Terrible. The things he's seen -and done- would make fiction look totally unbelievable. So having the opportunity to see you weaving a story right before his very eyes is entrancing.

If you're to the point that Ghost opens up enough to tell you a few of his fantastic daydreams and visions of planets to visit, it would be utterly shocking for Ghost to see you write them for him. Bring his thoughts to life. Flesh out the pieces he's been unable to express. Bring tangibility to the sensations and feelings that he can't quite unblur in his tangled web of thoughts. Ghost wouldn't know how to respond at first. But rest assured, he wouldn't ever lose sight of those written words. He'd keep them close or somewhere safe at all times. Treasuring them and always keeping his eyes peeled on you, wherever you are, hoping to always catch a glimpse of creativity and imagination working itself out right before him.

Specter:

Specter isn't the type of man to get struck by any romantic interest easily. You're not going to impress him with makeup, hair, clothes, or even a flirty attitude. He's the least likely to get flustered over anything, and it's more likely that one glance from him will have you sweating from nervousness. Unapproachable is the key word to understanding what it's like to be in the same room as Specter. He's stiff. Cold. And for a lack of a better word, threatening. Moreso than Omen by a long shot. His smoke grey armor and thin visor give him a particularly menacing look. One that someone like you would only approach if all your other options were even more unfriendly.

You're only going to get Specter's attention if you're running to him as a defense.

Maybe it's someone who won't leave you alone at a bar. They're not taking no for an answer, and they're not buying the lie that you told about having a boyfriend who was "going to show up at any minute". And you've seen other girls pull the stunt before, even a couple of your friends have randomly picked a stranger to pose as their significant other just long enough to ward off any unwanted attention. But you're not quite that certain a regular guy would do something like that for you. And even then, if something bad were to happen, none of them have any physical protection like the grey-painted trooper leaning his back against the wall across the room. Or a few blasters hanging from his hips for that matter....

Specter sees you coming from a mile away. Fearful and nervous eyes focused practically everywhere but on him. And a quick gait that adds to the frantic body language you're displaying. He's also well aware of the man trailing behind you. Specter's wondering just what your plan is, and if he's correct in the assumption brewing in his mind. He's stunned when you walk right up to him and put on a serene smile and give a casual greeting. The sight of his helmet tilting in question doesn't bode well for you, and you try to make the point a little more clear. Slipping an arm around his waist and giving a vague comment about "wondering why it took so long for him to show up".

At first, he won't play into it. Standing stiff and resolute against your advances. But if the man trailing after you decides that the sight of you curling yourself underneath him isn't threatening enough, he's not above scaring someone just for the fun of it. Especially when they're threatening an innocent woman. Even Specter won't cross that line. He'll immediately spin both of you around, putting himself between you and the man. Creating a shield for one, and a lack of personal space as well. You can't see his face, or really any part of him for that matter, but you're certain he's staring right at you. You're about to say something. Maybe thank you, or explain what's going on. But Specter beats you to it with a dangerous voice and a mocking tone.

"You think I'm safer than him?"

***

Some Tags I Thought Would Appreciate This Post: @queenquazar @justanothersadperson93 @loth-wolffe @lackofhonor@ladykatakuri @rebelmedic99 @altered-delta @saltywintersoldat @imalovernotahater@imabeautifulbutterfly@ulchabhangorm @itsagrimm @lokicat5 @rembra-legacy @taz-107

[yukipri]

i see your clonetober, and this was absolutely amazing! said that, i was planning a clone oc, and i was thinking about give to Howler a bit of vitiligo. And blue eyes. Because we all know that Arla – at least in fanfics – was blonde with blue eyes, and at least one of her and Jango's parents were blonde with blue eyes, and Rex and Omega are proof that genetic backsliding is a thing.

What you think?

Thanks for liking my Clonetober art!

Huh, I'm not so sure about "we all know that Arla has blue eyes." I don't know that. I have the Jango Fett - Open Seasons comic (First edition, 2002) in print right in front of me, and she definitely does not have blue eyes, or any colored eyes really. This comic doesn't really have that kind of detail for the most part.

Just to check, I've confirmed in my 2nd copy of the comic (within the Star Wars - Emissaries & Assassins Omnibus, 2009), to see if they edited it in later editions, but no that's not the case there either.

To my knowledge, the Arla in this comic are the only official images of her (and there's only 2). Therefore, I conclude that blue-eyed Arla is entirely fandom headcanon, and one that I've personally never encountered.

(please note, I'm not familiar with her novel appearances, and it's possible that she's depicted differently in them. In which case, the above notes are for her Open Seasons comic appearances only.)

If you headcanon that, you do you, no judgement! But I say all of the above to be careful about assuming that second hand info is "official," especially when it attributes stereotypically white characteristics to POC.

Some people headcanon that Arla in a live-action setting may have looked a little like Taini Morrison, Temuera Morrison's late sister. This is also a headcanon, which you do not need to incorporate as your own, but photos of her might be a helpful reference if you'd like to imagine what Jango Fett's blonde sister may have looked like.

As for anything else, it's your OC! You can do what you want, create them in ways that make you happy. You don't need an excuse to give a clone XYZ characteristics; in-universe, they've canonically been messed with on the genetic level, which makes it entirely possible that a lot of them have mutations that should not be humanly possible. Any reasons you add to that can be part of your personal world-building around the OC. So if your OC has blue eyes, why not? Go wild and have fun.

❀ ❀ Send YukiPri an Ask! ❀ ❀

[coline7373]

Recc-ing my own fic here

Well, it's a story about a squad of cadets....

End Racism in the OTW! - Saltwater - Coline7373 - Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]