#clone trooper oc's | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tup-ika-5385 · 7 months

Text

Knockout Chapter 8:

Chapter Summary:

Assessments are done and plans are made, but one thing becomes clear- they have to get off Kamino.

Fic Summary:

Six months after the trials of Umbara, Tup and Dogma are growing into themselves as well-established members of the 501st. Tup's been training more with Fives and Jesse, set on an ARC trooper promotion, and even Dogma has found a place in medical, where his intense focus and organization are both needed and appreciated.

While practicing for his medic exams, Dogma find some worrying abnormalities in Tup's numbers, making some worrying discoveries. As Tup's condition worsens, help comes from unlikely sources as Dogma, Kix, Fives, and Hardcase fight to discover the truth and save their brother.

Chapter 8:

After another hour in the Bad Batch’s barracks, Dogma had almost acclimated to the smell. Wrecker was doing a lot better, and Crosshair had settled in an uneasy truce, still not trusting this many regs in their barracks, but much less likely to be a threat. Dogma guessed that neither of them liked feeling useless when their brothers were in pain.

Fives had finally briefed Dogma, Hardcase, and Patch on their current situation after Patch had done a few assessments on Tup, and Dogma’s head was still reeling. Technological components– inside his brother’s head?! Suddenly, the Kaminoan’s response was starting to make a lot more sense, except… when did it get there?

As batchmates, Dogma and Tup had probably never been separated for more than a day, before their deployment, and even then, something like brain surgery would be pretty hard to hide, even if Tup were trying. And it still didn’t explain the other medics’ reactions, so eager to hunt down a brother without explanation– and an injured one, at that.

Dogma shook his head; he’d go crazy trying to figure it out on his own, especially with his current sleep deficit. Fives had already conked out, sprawled out on the ground like he was still in the middle of a campaign. He’d definitely slept in worse, and Tup hadn’t been far behind him, but Dogma knew any efforts to sleep right now would be wasted, so instead he settled in next to patch and Kix, listening to them go through the assessment results.

“So, after having Tup do a modified version of the WCPA, and a couple physical assessments, I’d say that physically, he’s well on the mend, and will probably be fully recovered in about a week. He might have some residual balance issues and need more sleep than usual, but he’ll be alright. Mentally, there’s a couple things we’ll have to keep a close eye on.”

He paused, looking towards Dogma, “You remember what we talked about with executive functioning, right?”

“Yeah, it’s starting tasks, planning, and follow-through, right?” Dogma confirmed, relieved to know that his training was already coming in handy.

Patch nodded, “That’s right, and it’s something that Tup’s having some trouble with, right now. The assessment I used had him practice scheduling appointments, training, the like. I asked him certain questions about two and five minutes in, which he’s supposed to ignore, according to the instructions at the beginning, and he was told to let me know when seven minutes had passed, according to the chrono I set up. During the assessment, he scheduled everything correctly, just a bit longer than average, which could’ve easily been exhaustion, but was easily distracted when I asked him questions, and forgot the seven-minute marker entirely.”

He paused before continuing. “There were also a few times, outside of the regular assessment where I noticed he’d have more emotional responses than normal. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Tup never struck me as someone with a hair-trigger anger response.” At that, he looked at Dogma, who shrugged sheepishly.

Tup had overheard one of Crosshair’s more caustic comments, asking, “What kind of a name is Dogma, anyways?” and hadn’t thought twice about jumping to Dogma’s defense almost aggressively, at least until his eyes started tearing up, and he’d flushed in humiliation. No harm had been done; Dogma could handle a blunt question or two, but seeing the distress on his batchmate’s face had worried him more than a little.

“He’s always been protective of me, but… his restraint is usually a little better, and the tears are unusual.” Dogma commented quietly, eyes trailing down to find his batchmate still fast asleep, taking comfort in watching his chest rise and fall. Sure, Tup used to cry a lot as a cadet, but Dogma hadn’t seen this many tears in a while– not since they were still in their cadet blues, rather than the reds given out to older cadets.

Patch nodded in understanding, rubbing his face tiredly as he talked. “With the brain, there’s a lot of stuff we just don’t know, but it’s likely that he’ll keep having difficulties.”

“For how long?” Dogma asked before he could stop himself.

“Could be a week, could be a month… could be a lot longer than that. It is something we can help with– there’s lots of mindfulness strategies and coping strategies he can learn to use, to give him a little more time to process his emotions. And for the other stuff, he’ll probably need reminders, check-ins, probably not too different from what you’ve already got set up for a couple other vode in the 501st.”

Patch smiled, looking back to where Hardcase and Wrecker had settled after wearing themselves out. Even before Umbara, Rex and the other commanding officers had already made a habit of sending short written mission briefings to a couple vode mid-mission, Hardcase included, for those who needed a little more help remembering the specifics, and it wouldn’t be too hard to add Tup to that list.

“He’s got a good support system, and I’ll always be available over comm to make suggestions about what might help, but it’ll be a while ‘till we know more about what he needs.”

Glancing back at Kix, Patch asked, “Do you still have that, uh, tumor? I didn’t get a good look at it earlier.”

Kix nodded, reaching into his utility belt and handing it over with a grimace. “Still can’t believe this was inside of him– makes you wonder what the Kaminoans had planned for it, after Dogma’s unplanned adventure in medbay.”

At that, the group sat in still silence, at least until they were interrupted by Tech. “Is that an inhibitor chip?”

Kix’s eyes widened, “What?”

“An inhibitor chip– they’re utilized by the Kaminoans for behavioral modification. We all have one.” Tech replied, looking bored. “Or, at least, I assume we all have one, but given our deviant nature–”

“That must be why the other medics were acting strange!” Dogma exclaimed before glancing back at Tup to make sure he didn’t wake him. “Nothing else would make sense– medic’s don’t just–”

“Perhaps not in your experience, but I would hesitate to insist that these troopers were not just… following orders.” Tech responded, all-too-familiar with regs responding less-than-kindly to those deemed different; a descriptor that now included Tup, apparently.

His words stirred another memory of Tup, half-conscious and mumbling, “good soldiers follow orders,” prompting another question. “Exactly what behaviors do these chips modify, then?” ‘And why didn’t it work on me?’ Dogma wondered to himself.

“Yeah, I’d like to know that too,” Fives chimed in, having woken up from his lothcat-nap, carefully sliding out from under Tup. “Cuz when I looked for information on this so-called ‘inhibitor chip,’ I got nothing– not even a mention or a scanned image, ‘cept the one we pulled from Tup.”

Tech frowned, rocking a bit as he thought. “I am not sure. I did not pursue that line of thought when I first learned of the chip, but I believe I have the data saved somewhere.” He said, before beginning to search through his mountain of datachits and detritus for the second time that night. Hunter looked like he was about to argue for a moment– he was probably the only reason there was a walkable path in their barracks at all– before relenting, just as curious as the rest of them.

“Here it is!” Tech called, pulling out a datachit that looked identical to the others, but with the numbers 02-157 written on the side; it wasn’t an organizational scheme Dogma recognized.

“The file itself was encrypted, which is why I didn’t choose to open it before– doing so would likely alert the Kaminoans, and it’s possible that it would display the datapad’s location as well, so I would wait until you were off-planet to do so.” He cautioned them with a warning look before handing the file over to Fives.

“We’ll keep that in mind, thanks vod.” Fives gave him a grateful nod, glad to be doing something.

“That brings us back to our current predicament, though. We can’t stay here, as grateful as we are for your hospitality,” Fives paused, addressing Hunter, who nodded. “But with Tup’s current condition, stealth’s definitely the better option. Even if we get to a hangar, I’d be shocked if they hadn’t already locked down everything with hyperspace capabilities.” He put a hand on his chin, thinking.

“Actually, we might not need one– a ship with hyperspace, I mean.” Patch offered with a grin. “The 104th should still be in-orbit… it wouldn’t be hard to rendezvous with them and get a different ship– maybe even learn more about this chip while we’re at it.”

“Good plan,” Fives grinned in return. “Speaking of which, I should check back with AZ– last I heard, he was looking into potential insertion dates for the, uh, chips.”

With that, he got out his comm and called the droid. “AZ! What’s the status on those scans you were taking?”

“Oh, hello ARC Trooper Five-s!” A cheery metallic voice called, and Crosshair rolled his eyes from where he’d been listening in. “I have been ordered to report to the maintenance bay for a system wipe, but I shall transmit the data to you at once. One moment please.”

“What?!”

“It appears that the Kaminoans do not recognize the social-emotional benefits of doctor-patient confidentiality, and took offense when I did not share the identity of Patient Tup.”

Fives sighed, “Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me. I don’t get how you can be so chipper about it– if I was being reconned, I’d be furious.” After all, it was nearly the same thing, and the little med-droid had started to grow on Fives, like some kind of invasive fungus.

AZ-3 hummed. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have human emotions– but I do not!” He replied cheerily before something beeped. “The data is now transmitted.”

Kix’s datapad buzzed, and the medic nodded that the data had been received. “It confirms what we knew; that all troopers past tubies have one of these chips. But I still wanna know who has control of them. Nala Se, obviously, but who else?”

“Can’t be anyone good, if they’re trying this hard to keep them a secret. This is starting to smell like a Separatist plot to me.” Fives frowned, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Sure, call him paranoid, but since Umbara, it didn’t take much to make him doubt other’s motives, and he’d never trusted the Kaminoans much in the first place.

Turning to Tech, he asked, “Tech, could you– is there any way to change AZ’s–”

Tech hummed an affirmative, tapping away at his datapad. “Already done. The system will register the droid as already having been wiped– assuming its number is the same one registered to that comm device, and it should be free to return to its duties.” He said, adjusting his goggles. Hunter might not like it when he intervened, worrying he’d get in trouble with the Kaminoans, but Tech found great satisfaction in disrupting the Kaminoan’s plans, even just a little.

“Hear that, AZ? You should be good to go. Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Care is not required, as I am a droid. Goodbye!” AZ-3 replied, cutting off the comm channel abruptly, earning a weary chuckle from Fives. “Yeah, he’ll be fine.”

He turned towards Hunter and the rest of the Bad Batch, who had already done so much to help clones who were practically strangers to them. “I know I have no right to ask this of you– you’ve already done so much to help us, to help Tup, and we couldn’t be more grateful. I know us ‘regs’ haven’t treated you well in the past, but you and your squad have treated us with kindness we haven’t earned. If you ever need anything, you are welcome with the 501st anytime.”

He drew himself up into a firm salute, which was mirrored by the other conscious troopers– Hardcase and Tup were still fast asleep. Hunter nodded his head in acceptance, giving them a rare smile. “I’ve gotta say, it’s been nice spending time with regs who aren’t about to throw down with one of my brothers.”

He glanced at Crosshair for approval, knowing if he didn’t, he’d be hearing about it for the next month. Thankfully Crosshair shrugged, glancing at the regs as if to say, ‘Whatever gets out of my space soonest,’ so Hunter turned back to Fives.

Despite a few bumps in the road, this was probably the most peaceful interaction his squad had ever had with the regs– and these ones actually saw them as vode, which was parsecs above what he could say for most of the shinies still on Kamino. “Now, what did you say you need?” Unfortunately, the Marauder was still undergoing repairs after their latest mission, so they couldn’t just give them a ride.

Fives grinned. “We could use a distraction…”

___________________

Turns out, the Bad Batch had a plan for exactly that, and within ten minutes, their squad was heading towards the nearest hangar completely unobstructed. With the combination of Tech’s computer skills, Crosshair’s pinpoint accuracy when it came to identifying and shutting down cameras, and of course, Wrecker’s ability to draw attention wherever he went, it wasn’t long before they were in possession of a small ship that wouldn’t be missed for 24 hours.

They were home free– assuming they didn’t crash along the way.

“I thought you said you knew how to fly!” Patch yelped, his face a ghastly shade of green as he tried to keep his breaths even as he resolutely refused to look out the viewscreen. His aviophobia had gotten a lot better since his posting with the 501st, but this– he cursed as Hardcase made another loop and a muffled “Oops,” could be heard in the cockpit– was not flying.

“I’ve flown before!” Hardcase shouted back, dodging the last of the sensor arrays as they made their way up into the atmosphere. He twisted the ship around a few more times for good measure, hoping to keep the Kaminoans off their scent, and Patch’s heart stuttered with every jerking movement.

“Umbara categorically does not count!” Dogma griped, inclined to agree with Patch. The sooner they were back on firm ground, the better.

“I mean I’ve practiced some with the General, he’s been helping me to–”

“Watch the controls!!!” Kix cried in despair as Hardcase pulled up on the brakes and they definitely left a mark on the 104th’s hangar floor.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” Hardcase called as the ship came to a full and complete stop, probably smoking a little bit, but otherwise in one piece. “There!”

Kix let out a relieved sigh, clutching his chest. “Remind me to never fly with you again, vod.” He said before walking out the exit ramp, giving a hand to Patch when his legs shook, still looking more than a little green.

“You good, vod?”

Patch let out a slow breath, only just managing to hold down his rations while he nodded. He wasn’t usually one prone to space-sickness, but at least he had an excuse for not noticing their audience until he nearly ran into Commander Wolffe. “Easy there, Patch.”

“Wolffe!” Patch brightened immediately, leaning in to clasp his brother’s wrist, receiving a hearty thump on the back.

“It’s good to see you, vod. Welcome home.” Wolffe rumbled softly, drawing him in.

Patch choked up a little bit, responding just as quietly. “It’s good to be home.”

It’s been more than a year since he was back with the 104th, and even with everything else going on, it meant so much to be here– and to be with his brothers again, so he took a moment to settle in Wolffe's firm grip before pulling away.

He glanced around, noticing their little welcoming party included most of the Wolfpack, as well as General Koon.

“Thanks for letting us crash here, General.” Hardcase joked, watching as the landing crew gave the ship one last spray with a fire-extinguisher. “We’ve heard a lot of good things about you, sir.”

“You are most welcome, young Hardcase. It is an honor to meet Patch's brothers from the 501st.” General Plo offered, smiling under his mask as he greeted the group. “Come, I hear we have much to discuss.” He said, beckoning them forward so they could share what they learned.

____________

AO3 Link:

#hard knocks 'verse #clone trooper dogma #clone trooper tup #tbb tech #tbb crosshair #tbb hunter #tbb wrecker #clone trooper kix #arc trooper fives #clone trooper hardcase #hardcase survived umbara but now has chronic pain #hardcase lives #autistic dogma #autistic tech #clone medic patch #patch has aviophobia #clone trooper oc's #my fics #my stuff

3 notes · View notes

jazaesis · 4 months

Text

“Pride of the Rebublic, soldier of the Jedi Order”

#star wars #golden guard raze #clone trooper #clone oc #jedi temple guard

2K notes · View notes

cyareclones · 17 days

Text

missed drawing my locks :(

#cyarespeaks #arc trooper locks #swtcw #cyaredraws #star wars #the clone wars #tcw #locks and urudyk #clone oc #clone trooper oc

1K notes · View notes

the-baddest-of-batches · 9 months

Text

Playing Pretend. 2023.

I just wanted to do a piece to break the burnout, so have a smol baby clone running in the rain.

#clone cadets #baby clone #tcw clones #clone trooper oc #star wars fanart #umbara arc #my artwork #kamino #reflection art

3K notes · View notes

momojedi · 4 months

Text

i was bored and i needed to draw

they’re not a ship btw, just really good friends

1K notes · View notes

grimpisces · 10 months

Text

I've always seen others clone oc, so here's mine lol

They're a living bacteria that morphed into clone armor left from a deceased solider. No one really wants to out them though...

#star wars #clone trooper #clone trooper oc #clone wars #clone wars oc #star wars art #star wars oc #clone oc #the clone wars #tcw #art #my art #silly little thing lol #eldritch monster type man

4K notes · View notes

mrsfeiix · 7 months

Text

“Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad Fox”

I know your name as my child

Amazing piece of Tal’karir and Fox by @cobaltbeam

This makes me melt into a puddle of pure wholesomeness 🥹

#star wars #the clone wars #clone troopers #commander fox #felixoc #mandalorian oc #foxy #mando oc #commander fox needs a hug #tal’karir adopts commander fox #tal’karir #mandalorian adoption #mandalorian adoption vows #commission

1K notes · View notes

whiskygoldwings · 2 months

Text

The Tattooist

The first clone trooper client she tattoos is an act of remembrance.

The man stands forlorn and desperate in the reception area, his borrowed clothes fitting poorly on his slumped frame. His face is tight, like a man on the edge of screaming, holding it back by the skin of his teeth. She recognises this pain, and quickly ushers him into her workroom, calling for A'maa to take the front desk while she speaks to a client. He breaths slightly easier once they are no longer in public, and she gestures for him to sit on the well-worn sofa she reserves for guests.

“I haven't got many credits,” he admits straight up. “They don't exactly pay us. I just wanted to see what could be done for what I have.”

She nods and grabs a pad and stylus, settling herself into her armchair and crossing her legs. “Tell me what you want and how much you've got and I'll see what I can do.”

He swallows painfully, and reaches into his pocket. “I have exactly 134 credits,” he holds a handful of ingots, and she glances down before looking back at his face. “I looked you up; I know it's not much in terms of tattoos. It's just... It's all I could scrape together...” he stumbles over his words, embarassment curling his lips.

“And what you want?” She interrupts, halting his ashamed attempts at explaining himself.

He takes a deep breath, grimaces, then sighs. “My brother was killed in the last battle. His name was Star. The long-necks... The Kaminoans I mean, never let us mourn each other where they could see. But he's my brother. We were born of the same batch, he helped me when I struggled with the maths tests, we had each others backs... I have a million odd brothers, but he was mine...” He presses his thumb and forefinger into his tightly-shut eyes, choking back a sob. “I want to honour him forever. I want to carry him with me, in a way they can't take away from me.” At this he straightens, bringing his hand down to stare at her determinedly. “They can make us wash our armour off, take our possessions from us. They will have to flay my skin from me if they want to take this.”

She stares back, stylus against her lips, and feels a swell of righteous fury in her throat. She's always had a mild force-sensitivity. Not enough to make training her of any worth, but enough that she can get a feel of a person, enough she can get a taste of their emotions.

This is a proud, strong man. And he is not broken by the hardships he faces, as much as he should be.

She will honour his brother with him.

The design practically leaps from her stylus, as she coaxes little stories from him. Little tales of his brother. His name was Star, he tells her first, and she sketches the rough outlines of one. He named himself, the man tells her, not giving his own name. Named himself after the balls of fury in the universe that were always out of their reach of Kamino. He laughs quietly, painfully, as he tells her the first time they had snuck out on a rainless night, when there was a brief respite in the clouds of Kamino, and by chance, there was a meteor shower over head. They'd all been amazed, confused and delighted by the sight, their little squad of five. One of the trainers, a kind man named Kal, had chuckled and told them “That'll be a shooting star” when they ask him about the phenomena, and Star had whispered to him in their bunks that night that he had decided on his name.

“I used to call him a shooting Star when we were in sims,” the man admits, a crooked grin on his face. “He kicked me in the shin for it once. Think he actually kinda liked it though.”

She adds a trail of dust behind it.

“He was so proud of being an ARF,” the man whispers. “So proud when I was nominated for ARF training alone with him. I was never as good as him, but he always took me with him, wherever he went. When the Commander told us we were getting the training, he basically hugged him. The Commander just gave him a pat on the back and told him never to do it again or he'd demote him quick as sithspit” the man snorts. “He didn't mean it, but Star'd never moved so bloody quick back into a salute, I couldn't help laughing at him, the idiot.”

She tabs out and finds a reference for an ARF troopers helmet on the 'net, and draws the trail of star dust bursting out of it and curling round to meet with the star itself.

“Our battallion wears green. Mainly olive-green. The commander started it, reminds him of the General I suspect. We became Green Company.”

The dust trail gathers sprinkles of olive green, the Star limned in the colour. She hesitates for a moment, then asks. “What markings did he wear?”

The man startles; she'd been loath to bring him out of his memories, but she wants to make it accurate. Needs to make it accurate really. She can feel how important this piece is to the man, and she finds herself strongly opposed to disappointing him.

“He had two stars on the left hand side of his helmet, one within the other.” The man indicates a point on his crown, above his ear. “And his visor was lined in green. He had a stripe vertically down the right hand side, ending just under the visor itself. On his chest piece...”

She lets him continue detailing his armour, drawing another star in olive green within the big one, then delicately tipping the helmet to conceal where the star would have been on the left. She's good, but it would have been too small to depict without potentially bleeding into a solid line, and she doesn't want that to happen. Instead, she marks in the line on the right-hand side, and ensures the big star is representative of what she imagines was on the helmet.

He's trailed off, staring sightlessly at his hands in his lap. She doesn't want to shake him, suspects alarming a trained soldier out of his own mind would be a bad idea. Instead, she uncrosses her legs, and clears her throat lightly. He glances up at her, and she smiles and extends the pad to him.

“Is something like this what you had in mind?”

He blinks at her, than reaches over and takes the pad. She sees the moment when he takes in the image. His eyes widen, and a tear he's been holding back since well before he got here slides down his cheek. He presses his fist into his mouth, other hand shaking where it holds the pad and he nods, clenching his eyes shut. “y-yes... Oh yes...” He stammers, voice thick.

“Where would you like it?”

“Over my heart,” he whispers. “I will carry him always in my heart.”

She stands abruptly, making him jump slightly and reaches out for the pad. “Okay, shirt off and lie down on the bed for me please. I assume as a clone trooper you're routinely screened for any blood diseases?” He nods, standing up with a slightly dazed expression on his face. She nods back and turns away, beginning the ritual of preparing her inks. She's playing a game of avoidance now, knows she won't take this man's money, and if she can keep him from asking about it she may be able to get it finished before he finds out. She suspects he'd do the honourable thing and refuse to get the tattoo. It'll be harder for him to do if it's halfway done. And while normally she'd insist on a full disclosure form and signature, she gets the feeling having no hardcopy evidence of what is about to happen will be a very good idea. The pad will need reformatting after she's done, but she's been required to do that for other clients who want their body art to be completely untraceable, so she doesn't store anything of any import on it for long anyway. She hears the rustle of cloth behind her and smiles slightly to herself, pleased at a plan going well. “Would you tell me more about him please?”

The man takes a deep breath behind her, even as she hears the bed creak as he clambers onto it. “He was always good at slipping by unnoticed. It's how he kept us both out of trouble back in training...”

She finishes mixing up the colours she needs as he begins to tell her about their childhood, what little of it there was. Checks her machine and cleans the patch of skin above his heart as he laughs about a prank played on one of their batchmates. It warms her and chills her at the same time, realising how little they had, but what great things they made of what they did. She prints out the stencil and places it over his chest as he whispers about Star easing him through the tail end of a nightmare, checking quietly that he's happy with the position before pressing the needle to his skin. He breaths in through his nose once when she starts, and she glances up at him, but he smiles and continues on into a story about when they first met their Jedi, and how Star gushed about her afterwards. She sinks into the meditative process of stamping lines into being, bringing colour to life, all the while surrounded by the man's soft voice building a memorial to his brother in their room.

When it's finished, the man looks surprised. “I thought it would take longer than that?” He blinks at her, “And be more painful in all honesty.”

She grins, “You did your research well hon, I'm good at what I do.”

He laughs and sits up, wincing slightly as the skin stretches around the wound. She squirts cleaner onto a cloth and holds it towards his chest, pausing before touching the tattoo for him to give a nod of permission, then wipes carefully across it, removing excess ink and stencil gently. Looking it over critically, she's happy with what she's done, knows she's poured herself into this tattoo as well. The lines are clean and crisp, the colours deep and rich. The helmet tilts up to look at the star above it, the trail of stardust sweeping behind it and curling up to emerge from the opening of the helmet at the bottom. Olive green accents in the tail, the line over the right-hand side of the helmet and around the visor, and the outer and inner two stars. She nods to herself, and grins up at him. “Ready to see it?”

He swallows nervously, but nods. She feels her grin quirk into a proper smile, then holds out her hand to him. He looks at it for a second, then places his own in hers, and she helps pull him from the bed. She keeps hold of his hand as she guides him to the full length mirror just beside the couch, and gently pulls him to stand infront of it. The hand in hers trembles as he stares at his reflection, taking a moment on his own face to gather his courage, then looks down at his chest.

The noise that punches out of his lungs is almost animal, and she grips his hand tightly. He cries openly, other hand reaching up to hover just under the tattoo as he looks down at his own chest. It's several moments before he can say anything, and she stands next to him the whole time, holding his hand as he clenches onto hers. He cries and cries, grief finally allowed expression, as she gives him silent comfort in proximity. His first words are “thank you”, and she smiles at him, as he starts to collect himself and turns away from her to try and pull himself back together.

“I'll give you a few minutes to check it over and make sure you're happy before I bandage it up,” she murmers, and steps quietly out of the room, giving him privacy in his sorrow.

A'maa glances up at her as she steps out, raising an eyebrow. Strictly speaking, she wasn't supposed to be working today, and she hadn't considered that A'maa might have had to turn away one of her own clients when she committed to tattooing the man. But A'maa glances over at the door to her workroom and shakes her head. “Don't worry about it Elaah,” she whispers, “Whatever it was, it was clearly important.”

“Yes,” Elaah whispers back, walking over to cradle herself in A'maa's outstretched arm, seeking the comfort of her own found family. “Yes, it really was.”

It's a few more minutes before the man opens the door, glancing around the edge of it. She quickly cuts off her conversation with A'maa and smiles at him. “Ready to get bandaged up?”

He nods and smiles, face a little blotchy from the tears, though neither she nor A'maa say anything. She gives A'maa's shoulder a quick squeeze, then heads into the room, leaving the door ajar this time. The man stands infront of the mirror again, gazing down at his new ink, and she quickly grabs the bits she needs to finish off. He smiles at her as holds the fake skin bandage up to his chest, carefully sizing it up to fit nicely over the tattoo.

“How much do I owe you?” he asks, and she shakes her head.

“Nothing hon, you paid me in stories.”

He protests immediately, as she suspected he would. “Too late hon!” she grins at him. “It's already on your skin and I'll throw your credits out onto the street after you if you try leaving them behind. Good luck winning this one!” She winks and pats him on the shoulder, turning away to grab his top and thrusting it into his abdomen. He grabs it and gapes at her, clearly not quite sure what to say, before straightening and flashing a sheepish grin at her.

“You planned this from the start didn't you?” He asks, pulling the top over his head and rolling his eyes as she throws him a cheeky wink and nods.

“I've got to give you something, this means so much to me... You have no idea...” He gulps and shakes his head, blinking fresh tears out of his eyes. “Tell you what, I'll make sure anyone else who might be thinking of getting some ink heads this way?”

She shrugs. “I'm not going to turn down customers, but you don't owe me anything. I just hope you think of Star whenever you see it.”

“I will,” he murmurs, a hand going to rest over where the tattoo sits over his heart. He glances up at her. “My name is Trix. I just... wanted you to know that.”

She smiles at him, and gently rests a hand over his own. “Thank you Trix.” she says, smiling up at him, “Thank you for everything you and your brothers do for us.”

He grasps her hand with his other one and squeezes it tightly for a moment, before turning around and walking out the shop.

#the clone wars #clone troopers #fanfic #fanfiction #feels #tattoos #tattoos as healing #star wars #oc characters #also posted to ao3 #CentrauGuardian

1K notes · View notes

omaano · 3 months

Text

"Do you think we can keep it?"

Illustration for The Art of Losing (Is Hard to Master) by the amazing @insertmeaningfulusername

Summary: On a mission into Separatist space, Rex loses his entire squad except for one - and gains a friend who leads him through the labyrinth of grief to a brighter day.

I'm so happy to finally introduce this poor doomed squad to you: from left to rigth that's Rain, Amber, Rex (obviously), Bug, Whiplash and Clear. And you'll just have to read the fic to learn the name of the curious fluffball who's trying to befriend them ;)

With @xylionet as our wonderful beta for the story (and who also tirelessly cheered us on) we made up Team 16 for the @clonebang! I loved working with them so much! <3

ID and some closeups under the cut ->

[ID: A picture of 6 clone troopers resting. The landscape is snowy. Rain is standing furthest to the left. Their helmet is held in their hand. They are scowling at Rex. Next to them is Amber, standing with her back turned to Rain. Rex is crouched in the foreground, hand on one knee, as he offers his mug to a fox like creature with 4 eyes, 6 legs and 2 tails. Behind Rex to the right Bug is slightly bent over, mug in hand, grinning, other hand resting on his thigh. Off to the right side of the picture are Whiplash and Clear. Whiplash is standing, head turned to Rex but face obscured by his helmet. Clear is sitting, helmet balanced on one knee and mug in his hand. He is watching Rex, too. /End ID]

Close ups:

604 notes · View notes

ani-and-the-corries-au · 3 months

Text

Obi-wan, on temple shore leave: And what of young Anakin?

Mace, rubbing his temples with a sigh: Don't get me started..

Yoda: Spends much time in the Senate young Anakin does. Requested by the Chancellor the visits were.

Mace: we have tried to make them less common, but Anakin enjoys the visits and you know we can't stop them.

***Meanwhile***

Anakin: and then he was like 'it was nice seeing you Anakin, and remember, if you need anything just ask' he's so weird!

Lucky: I know, and everyone thinks he's so nice! He's got the nat borns completely fooled.

Anakin: he's got me fooled too, like, other me. Padme says that they're good friends, it's really weird.

'Sighter: if you don't like him why do you still visit him? You're pretty much a cadet can't you get the Jedi say you can't visit anymore?

Anakin: maybe... But I don't want anyone to get in trouble, masters get weird when you cross them. And I wanna know what he wants with me, maybe then I can convince other me that he's bad news.... And also if I stop visiting the Chancellor then I'll barely ever get to come over here, and I can't visit you guys, and I like it over here.

#ani and the corries au #padawan anakin #anakin skywalker #the courscant guard #child anakin skywalker #clone trooper oc's #obi wan kenobi #mace windu #master yoda #The council doesn't entirely approve of the Chancellor getting free access to a child #but they don't know how to stop it #and Anakin won't ask them too because he's to busy using the visits to figure out what the guards Depur wants with him #is Anakin way to young to be playing spy #yes #but that is not going to stop him #even if it its giving the guard a collective stress headache #(it would give the jedi one too but they have no idea he's doing it)

18 notes · View notes

yukipri · 6 months

Text

Clone File: Morbs (YukiPri OC)

Basic info:

Name: Morbs Number Designation: CC-4413 Generation: 1 (0.9) Rank/Title: Chief Mortician of the GAR, Kamino Chief Mortuary Trainer (former) GAR Affiliation: Entire GAR, primarily stationed with the 212th Attack Battalion Character status: YukiPri Original Character

Disclaimer: Morbs' story will likely make more sense if you've read The Prime Override, as he's introduced with context in this fic. He will also make more sense if you've read about the other 2 clone medics mentioned in this file, Ashe and Stabber.

Backstory beneath cut!

Overview:

Clone morticians are specialists even among medics. Every clone medic knows the basics of how to care for the deceased, but in war, priority must always go to the living. As such, it is common to find only one clone mortician per star destroyer or permanent GAR base, with greater numbers stationed in Tipoca City or various Republic medical centers.

Morbs, or CC-4413, is considered the Chief of this group of medical specialists. He is the originator of the division, and was assigned to develop both the position and the training curriculum of clone morticians in tandem with Ashe’s primary medical training.

Prior to the start of the Clone Wars and through the early war period, Morbs oversaw the Tipoca City Primary Clone Morgue, which processed all clone bodies. There, he managed biopsies, distribution of cadavers, and the care and processing of all of the bodies of his deceased brothers. He also trained other clone morticians who had completed general medical training prerequisites and were approved by Ashe, as well as future Chief Medical Officers who were required to have completed hands-on training time in the morgue to earn their certifications.

Morbs would have been content to remain in this morgue for life, but as the main body of the GAR prepared for deployment, it became clear that the number of bodies being processed on Kamino would plummet. Morbs was reassigned to the front lines, where his expertise would see more active use, leaving his morgue behind in the hands of his assistants. He primarily travels with the 212th Attack Battalion, but frequently visits medical centers and goes where he is needed.

Background:

Morbs was one of five Generation 0.9 CCs selected by Nala Se to begin the development of the clone medical track. While all subsequent medics are CTs, the Generation 0.9 CCs underwent manual age acceleration, putting them physically ahead of their Generation 1 peers in chronological age. Morbs and his fellow CCs were test subjects used to establish the start of the medical specialization path before their younger brothers were of age to begin that training.

As CCs, they are overqualified for the general medical training that Nala Se is building, and Nala Se quickly turns to using them for other experiments as well. Their unique position as the first experimental medical clones gives Nala Se more oversight over them than any other clones, with far less supervision as well. They are “her” clones to test as she pleases.

In the depths of her labs, Nala Se conducts experiments that she had been banned from conducting on standard troopers by the contract with the Prime Clone, Jango Fett. Morbs later learns that these tests would be considered “torture,” and are illegal in the Republic. He and his brothers are tested for the physical limits that clones can reach, including tolerance for exposure to various stimulants such as heat or chemicals, as well as sensory limits such as their maximum threshold for pain. She also experiments with the potential for building up tolerance and even immunity to various drugs and poisons. She takes all of the data she gains and incorporates them into the medical training for the clones—thus, ensuring that her tests still fall under the scope of “developing medical training.”

Two of the five CCs perish as a result of these experiments. Ashe is ordered to decommission the third when he fails to meet Nala Se’s standards. This leaves Morbs and Ashe as the only survivors of their initial group. They cannot speak of their experiences to anyone else, as Nala Se is the only other witness. Not even Kote knows what they experienced. Between the two of them though, they can never forget that their senior medical positions were earned with blood.

Morbs has always been a quiet but keen observer, and knew from early on that Ashe has reasons for wanting to be in the medical track, and that this is a path that he’s chosen and is motivated to push through. Morbs is brought into the Ghosts’ plans relatively early, and having had the most first-hand experience seeing just what Ashe’s position entails, he wishes he could do more to help his brother. However, Morbs is also realistic, and knows that he doesn’t have the same passion and dedication driving him. He does what he can, but he can’t see himself being the medics’ leader that Ashe is. He feels guilty for not being able to offer to take Ashe’s place, when he’s the only one in a position who could. He tries to make up for it by loyally following him, and doing what he can as a supporter.

In addition to not having the drive, Morbs also feels he is cursed with misfortune. While he excels as a medic and not even Nala Se can find anything lacking in his record, most of the patients that Morbs touches seem to end up dead for reasons unrelated to his skills as a medic.

He’s assigned to oversee a group of cadets, who end up having a fatal genetic mutation that gives them all heart attacks while he’s on observation. The wing with patients that he oversees collapses due to an architectural problem, and they all die. He’s conducting a surgery, when the power goes out, and he’s unable to save his patient with the tools he has available. He tends to some brothers, who leave his exam room fine, but are killed in a training accident a few hours later. He’s assigned to take over a simple check up, and finds his patient already dead before he enters the room.

Every additional incident makes him increasingly uncomfortable with working with living patients. He knows he has the skills, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because most of his patients end up dead anyway. Statistically, it’s not impossible, but after a certain point it’s certainly improbable, and yet it continues to happen. Clones are rarely superstitious, as they have no cultural basis for it, but Morbs feels that there’s something absurdly wrong with the amount of death that seems to follow him everywhere.

He only feels that he’s safe for his brothers when working with those already dead. He can’t kill them if they’re dead before they’re even assigned to him. When Nala Se announces that a new mortuary sub-track will be added to the primary medical track, Morbs dives for it because he can’t think of a better position for himself. If death follows him, he might as well embrace it.

As he and Ashe are given more access to resources including those from outside of Kamino to help them develop their respective training curriculums, Morbs finds himself increasingly interested in not just the practical aspects of death, but also the more cultural and spiritual elements as well. It’s sparked by his own unluckiness and wondering if others have experienced the same, but is fed by his curiosity when he realizes that most nat-born cultures have different ways of processing death and grief that are deeply engrained in how they handle their dead. Nat-born lives are for the most part extremely foreign and utterly irrelevant to anything clones will likely ever experience, but death is almost universal. Morbs finds this fascinating.

The clones are brusquely told that they “march on,” when they die, as Mandalorians do. But why? Where do they march to, with whom? What is waiting there? If that is the inevitable eventual fate of all of them, regardless of Ashe’s or Kote’s efforts, shouldn’t it perhaps be Morbs’ job as the Chief Mortician to at least consider what happens after?

While Morbs has no answers for the afterlife, he certainly has many thoughts, which he shares with the silent cadavers who he works with. It seems like they can hear him, he thinks, for all that none of his words are spoken out loud.

While sitting in on a Ghosts meeting as they develop code words for their growing underground organization, Morbs mentions off-hand that their brothers who are dead, but aren’t, are, “Marching on to join Kote.”

It’s not his fault that their overseers failed to really explain what “marching on” means, nor really instill any true understanding of “glory” either. So if they choose to define it for themselves, with “marching on” meaning to join their other brothers (who may or may not be dead), and “glory” as fighting for their brothers, something tangible that they actually understand and care for…well. They are, after all, supposed to die for the glory of the Republic anyway. No one will question the language.

While most of Morbs’ brothers are exceedingly practical, and must be, Morbs finds his niche in thinking about the not practical. If having ways of respecting and mourning the dead helps all other sentients, why shouldn’t it help them too? Morbs experiments with how he thinks their dead should be treated, and the bodies in his morgue are, as always, his silent audience.

He grows to consider the dead bodies in the morgue “his men” in “his army.” After all, those who are also marked dead, but are actually just with the Ghosts, are also allowed to “consider serving” despite being equally dead on record. And are not the bodies that he repurposes to hide the missing bodies, the dead whose organs and limbs save the lives of their living brothers, not also serving their brothers? Just because they were unlucky, like Morbs, doesn’t mean that they aren’t still being helpful, aren’t still actively saving their brothers. Because that’s all what any of them want to do: help each other.

Morbs assigns himself their Commander, as he is in charge of them, cares for them, and directs their “campaigns.” The rows of cold lockers that house their bodies are “barracks.” He talks to them, praises their missions, and grieves for them when they finally march on to their second deaths via cremation, only after which they are truly gone.

While none of Morbs’ students go to quite the same level as Morbs himself in humanizing their deceased brothers, he makes sure that all of them leave his morgue with a firm understanding that even when dead, their brothers are still their brothers. Pieces of his ideology and treatment of bodies linger in all of the medics who handle their dead.

Morbs treats the dead as his men because he wants them to be able to live on just a bit longer, but admittedly that’s not all. It’s something that also helps with his guilt over not being able to assist Ashe in his decommissionings. He can’t stop those deaths any more than Ashe can, and he can’t even share in the pain of murdering them. But he can promise them, and can promise Ashe, that once their bodies leave Ashe’s blood-stained hands, that Morbs will welcome them gently to his morgue. That they’ll be treated tenderly, with humanity, and that their existences won’t mean nothing. That if they’re capable of it, Morbs will do whatever he can to ensure that they too can serve Kote before their bodies are gone.

Morbs likes to think it offers Ashe some comfort.

General Info:

Most clones have only ever heard of Morbs, who is extremely elusive. Even after deployment, he rarely leaves the morgue wing attached to medical. Whereas Ashe feels a complicated mixture of self-loathing and knowing that he’s unwelcome in other spaces because all other clones loathe him too, Morbs is simple. He likes being with his men, they’re his favorite group of clones. The living get plenty of attention amongst each other. He just is happier with his own men, and prioritizes giving them his own attention.

He’s eccentric and more than a little creepy, but his reputation means that many of his brothers are very curious about him. He has a strict “no one alive past this line” rule at the entrance of the morgue, with very few exceptions, so not even those who try to catch a glimpse of him while visiting medical have much luck. Spotting him outside the morgue is both like an exciting cryptid sighting, but also potentially a bad luck omen. Morbs is oblivious to the excitement his presence causes, as he’s usually just in a rush to get back to the morgue.

Morbs is so mysterious that only a very limited handful of his brothers knows how truly odd his habits are. He has an assigned bunk, but ignores it and sleeps in a specially padded cold locker so that he can “sleep in the barracks with his men.” He calls it his favorite bunk, and tells the other medics he wants to rest there when he one day inevitably dies. He will sometimes forget to take care of himself, ignoring his own living needs to eat, drink, exercise, hygiene, etc. until a medic, usually Stabber, drags him out of the morgue to handle it. Stabber thinks Morbs is an example of how truly unfair their genetic enhancements are, because Morbs somehow maintains his solid CC-class physique with essentially zero effort on his part.

Unlike Ashe, who wants to be out in the field, Morbs never wants to leave his morgue for anything. Once he has been relocated into the morgue on the Negotiator, he only steps out when absolutely necessary. He doesn’t want to see the sights of the outside galaxy, doesn’t want to see the people or try the foods. He thinks all air outside of the morgue that is not optimized for the preservation of clone bodies is distasteful. He especially hates heat, sunlight, and humidity, insisting that it will “cause us to decay faster.”

The one exception to this is if there is a morgue, funeral, cemetery, or something else death-related going on. He learned about other cultures’ death practices, and he’s admittedly still curious about them too, mostly in the context of whether there’s anything else he can do to improve the experience for his men. If the ship is planetside and there’s supposed to be a famous cemetery, he might be seen quickly slinking outside, face completely veiled to avoid exposure to the elements.

Relationships:

Morbs maintains a close relationship with Ashe, though it’s one he’ll rarely show in front of others, always maintaining a professional distance if they have company. But Ashe is the only living person that Morbs will seek out for company, always while Ashe is alone. Morbs is the only one who knows the extent of what Ashe suffered during his early training, and had experienced much of it with him. He is concerned about Ashe, but doesn’t offer medical help, as he feels Stabber does that enough, and he doesn’t trust himself to think of Ashe as a patient; that never ends well. He will instead offer Ashe silent company.

Morbs claims to despise Stabber, especially since he’s the one responsible for taking him away from his morgue on Tipoca City and forcing him onto a star destroyer. Because Stabber is the CMO of the 212th, prior to Ashe joining them, Morbs is forced to interact with him the most. Morbs doesn’t like Stabber because he considers the other medic, “far too alive.” Stabber’s high energy, movement, and noise levels all grate on Morbs’ preference for stillness and darkness. Still, he reluctantly respects Ashe’s former assistant’s skills as a medic, and will follow his orders.

He also won’t admit it, but Stabber was the one who gave him his name. Stabber had a habit of announcing that Ashe’s work buddy “has the morbs,” a phrase he’d picked up from one of Ashe’s training resources that he claims means “has emo vibes.” Stabber liked the sound of the word so much that he began shouting it every time he encountered Morbs, and it ended up sticking. Morbs pretends he doesn’t care, but secretly thinks it’s fitting.

On the other hand, Morbs has a surprisingly amicable relationship with the Jedi he interacts with most frequently, Obi-Wan. He was very leery of letting Obi-Wan come anywhere near the morgue, not trusting an outsider with his delicate men who are unable to defend themselves. However, Obi-Wan found Morbs’ ruminations and philosophies fascinating, and was easily able to bait him into a conversation by expressing interest. Despite being surrounded by war, Morbs often seems strangely detached from it, preferring to speak less about the realities of war and the gears that move it, and more about why various cultures frame death and the afterlife in certain ways. While the conversations are often melancholy in nature, Obi-Wan appreciates the strange normalcy of it, knowing that Morbs would likely have these same questions regardless of whether there was a war. Morbs likewise is invested in hearing about death traditions from an outside perspective.

While the other clones aboard the Negotiator were at first both morbidly fascinated by Morbs, they were discouraged from actually interacting with him because he says things like, “You should not be in here, unless you are dead. Unless you would like to be dead, in which case I can help you,” or, “Oh, well you don’t look like you’re dying. How unfortunate.” However, they gradually realize that Morbs is not as aloof as he first appears.

He isn’t opposed to speaking, as long as it’s about his men. They realize that while Morbs refuses to let any curious bystanders or unqualified personel enter the morgue for no reason, he’s always eager to learn more about those in his care. Clones who have lost brothers can always count on him wanting to hear about the deceased, and if they’re present in his morgue, Morbs may even allow them to visit. When the first clone brings Morbs some flowers, because he saw that some nat-borns planet-side were laying flowers by the graves of their lost loved ones, Morbs is tickled by the action. Clones are not granted proper graves, and those in Morbs’ morgue are still “on duty.” But Morbs creates a little sterilized shrine in a corner of medical close to the morgue, where he collects these offerings and allows his brothers to visit. If the tablet Morbs laid there is turned a certain way, Morbs knows that one of his brothers wishes to speak to him about someone deceased, and he slinks out of the morgue to listen to them.

Because Morbs is the Chief Mortician, he not only processes the bodies that pass in front of his own hands, but he obsessively goes over the reports sent to him by all other clone morticians and standard clone medics, who are in charge of marking all final fatalities. As such, he has the most comprehensive knowledge of all deceased clones. On the rare occasions that they are able to conduct larger, collective remembrances, if Morbs is available, he will often be called to lead them.

Obi-Wan observes that Morbs is acting almost like a priest or other religious leader, but Morbs scoffs at the idea. He has no intention of leading a religion; he just cares about his men.

And all of the clones will join his army, one day.

Appearance:

Morbs wears a modified version of the clone mortician uniform, a black version of the standard softshell white medic uniform. As the Chief Mortician, Morbs wears a longer knee-length version of the uniform, along with a black kama over it to signify his CC status. He also has a rank bar, and red shoulder pieces to show his personal training from Nala Se, like Ashe and Omega. He technically has armor, but he’s never worn most of it since his fitting, and he doesn’t plan on wearing it either. His men serve without wearing armor, so why should he? If the ship is ever boarded, he intends on going down with his men in the morgue, a plan that no one will allow him to follow through on.

The one piece of armor he does occasionally wear is his helmet, which is a black version of Ashe’s. He must occasionally process bodies that have been exposed to hazardous conditions, and in these cases, he’ll don his helmet for its filtration and advanced sensors. He is so utterly uninterested in his own armor that it was left unpainted, and Ashe decided to paint it black for him, so it can match Morbs’ aesthetic preferences. While Morbs never acknowledged the gesture, he shows his appreciation by not protesting when he’s told to wear it.

After leaving Kamino, he grows his hair long and wears it loosely tied back, because as a non-combatant, he isn’t limited to practical hair styles. The exact length changes constantly as he uses his own hair to create wigs and patches for any of his men who may have had their own hair damaged. He refuses to share his hair with anyone who isn’t dead.

He also gets tattooed, two dark lines dripping down his cheeks from his eyes. He saw nat-borns with the look in some funerary documentaries he watched as a cadet. He doesn’t know that what he saw was nat-borns with running makeup, but he likes the look because it looks like a trail of permanent black tears on his face. He takes it to be a metaphor that he is always thinking of his men.

Morbs also has deep permanent bags under his eyes. This is due to a mix of him constantly forgetting that he needs sleep, along with him not wanting to sleep because he has so many thoughts to ponder.

While he usually just wears his uniform, he has a veil that he throws over his head whenever he has to step outside of the ship or Republic medical facility for any length of time. He also has an ornamental headdress he’s fashioned for special occasions, such as when he has to welcome an exceptionally large number of men to his army, is conducting a field cremation, or is leading a remembrance. The headdress is created from shards of plastoid armor he’s had to pull from his men.

Note:

Morbs’ designation, CC-4413, was chosen because the number 4 means “death” in many Asian cultures, due to how it sounds similar to “death” in many Asian languages, including but not limited to my own Japanese/Chinese cultures. Tetraphobia, or the fear of the number 4, is a thing! The number Thirteen is an unlucky number in other cultures. The number “4413” felt fitting for this character who is so immersed in death and bad luck!