#Coruscant guard headcanon

[mearchy]

Fox's reports are the most sardonic, passive aggressive reports anyone in the Senate Security Office has ever read. But they have to accept them because they are all technically by-the-book correct and unnervingly thorough, and nobody can find fault with them as hard as they try. The less caf he has had, the worse it is. He goes from "As per Coruscant Guard records..." and "As all Senate employees are aware..."

to "As one might be able to assume by means of basic observation and an approximately swamp-rat level of intelligence-" and "To elaborate on that, as one is required by Report Administration Regulation Clause 365:1a to do, despite a statistically proven decline in reading comprehension among government employees-*"

My man is hitting the keys one by one so hard his keypad breaks. He's got reflexive tears of manic rage in his eyes. He's imbuing his incident reports with so much hysteria the next Jedi who comes into contact with them gets a headache. Free him

*he has a source for this, by the way. Fox includes citations in his reports like a maniac. Like Cody. This is because if he has to countenance one more follow-up email than is necessary he will brain himself against the desk. He will commit lobotomy by pencil. Just you try and fucking stop him, Thorn.

[1-800-crscnt]

a silly hc i have is that all the ARF Scouts in the Coruscant Guard tend to run everywhere no matter the distance of their destination, and after non-Guard clones see that, it becomes a running joke that you can tell who a Guardsman spends the most time under by the way they get somewhere (i.e., Stone's men will find a vehicle-- including strange things that shouldn't be one-- no matter what, Thorn's men, which includes Commander Thire, will skate there like it's a perfect day, Hound's men will run like their lives depend on it, Fox's men will use everything but a main street and seem to teleport).

[commanderfoxdeservesbetter]

Fox is a private person.

He’s reserved and doesn’t ask for help. His Commanders speculate it’s because he doesn’t know how. Fox knows it’s because he doesn’t need help.

He never lies; that much the Corries know for sure. But they know that he doesn’t tell the whole truth. It’s a problem, they state, one they don’t know how to help him with.

Fox knows it’s because there’s no use to give more than what’s needed. If he took an action, he’s responsible for the consequence of said act.

He used to confide in Cody, the closest brother he had. But distance has drawn them apart. Hell rant to his brother but it’s never anything important. It’s the same stuff he tells the Corries and maybe that should have been a sign.

Fox shoulders so much on his back. He has men willing to help, willing for him to turn to and share the burden, but he can’t do it.

I got this, he says and doesn’t realize how sad the Corries are that they can’t be his support without him thinking it’s charity.

Fox is a prideful man and one day, it’ll kill him.

[darth-kote]

Fox Headcanons Pt. 1

Despises 79s. Not because of the noise and countless bodies, but because there's always so much going on that he finds it difficult to properly relax. He's hard-wired to keep Coruscant safe from threats, and it only heightens in a dark, loud place full of plastoid and spirits. Of course, if Wolffe happens to be on shore leave and invites him for a rare night out, he'll accept. But don't expect him to have more than two drinks the entire night - or for that rigid posture to loosen up while he's there. He saves that for later when he can finally, finally take his armor off and slip into his bunk. If he could have it his way, he'd have Wolffe over for a long nap and a few hushed laughs before one or both of them has to return to duty.

He's a certified overthinker. Like almost to the point it could be labeled obsessive-compulsive if he ever talked to Nala Se about it. He knows it would probably qualify him for "retirement." He understands it's not the norm for most of his brothers, and he's actually very grateful they don't have to experience the nagging intrusive thoughts he seems to battle with often. He checks on his brothers when the sudden creeping feeling that one of them might be hurt arises, he routinely asks about the condition of The Chancellor's wellbeing if he happens to be further from him than usual, and he craves symmetry and order almost to a haunting degree. He once spent an hour staring at his own bucket to make sure the red strokes of paint were just right.

It's safe to say this man cannot stand a lack of control. This piggybacks off the prev point; it drives him up the wall not knowing what is going on at all times. He asks for check-ins from his men every quarter hour, works longer hours than even a Kaminoan would recommend, and has no idea what to do when he's given time off. He doesn't know what it means to unwind. His muscles are constantly wound tight like a snake prepared to strike, and he often grinds his teeth without thinking. The headaches he gets would be unbearable if it weren't for his medics dutifully looking out for the commander.

He secretly feels anxious when he hears whispers from Senators, Jedi, or his brothers about the work some politicians are doing to set up a plan for the Clones after the war. He doesn't know what else he is other than a soldier. He's too high-strung to go off and be a gardener or a tattoo artist like he's heard some brothers talk about. One day Stone makes a quip that he'd be a good zoologist, and he admittedly finds himself daydreaming about working with nonjudgmental animals instead of people who did nothing other than cast judgment. Coruscant certainly wouldn't work for that, which drives another unpleasant nail of fear into his heart. He'll have to work through plenty of knots surrounding his attachments if he is to ever let himself leave. For now, he's satisfied to dream about it when he gets a quiet moment in his bunk.

For all the Clones, their bunk is practically the only private space they have. Fox's quarters, though some might expect them to be ship-shape and spotless, is decorated in a way that can only be described as his. Weapon leaflets are kept on a board near the door, just above a small desk cluttered with a mixture of endless paperwork and small seedlings given to him by Senator Chuchi after he'd escorted her on a particularly daring mission. She claimed they'd grow into vitamin-rich leafy greens he could ingest. His armor is always kept neatly if it isn't on him, prepared to be worn at a moment's notice. His bed, of course, is the safest, most private spot in his quarters. Some would describe it as a mess, and if he ever heard whispers of a routine check for contraband, he'd straighten out the sheets and ensure no wrinkles could be seen; he had no desire to be perceived as a slob. Most of the time, he prefers to have the blankets fluffed up around him; there's something so gratifying about being surrounded by softness and the comforting smells of himself and the people he treasures most. He has a favorite cloth he nuzzles close to when particularly stressed, which had been given to him by Alpha before he'd left for Coruscant. The scent is faded and weak, but what's left of it combined with the texture is enough to help him drift into unconsciousness.

[bittercafanddatapads]

Marshall Commander Fox is scarcely seen without his iconic helmet, even within the confines of the Coruscant guards headquarters. The freshest of shinies usually don’t see his face until a few rotations into their deployment, even then usually in private moments and passing chances. The very rare occasion Fox eats with his corries in the mess hall (the times he actually has time to), glances of Fox in the medical bay being treated after a sideways operation (only after everyone else has been cared for by his firm insistence,) the training assessments he’s able to schedule and be apart of and participate in (swift healing to the pride of cocky shinies he calls to the sparring mat.)

Rather, it’s not impossible that he’s most often unhelmed in the situations of senate view.

Talking down antsy senators is one thing, and there’s numerous reasons why Fox’s number one rule for his Corries to follow is to never remove your helmet in senate view. The ability to decorate yourself and make yourself unique is a freedom the Coruscant guard gets to indulge very little in. They can’t decorate their armor for their own safety, and still enabling them the freedom to decorate their bodies and hair Fox is thankful he’s able to allow. But Fox’s mismatched armor isn’t unique to be hypocritical towards his own rules and troopers. It’s to protect them.

When a senator finds yet another fickle complaint about the troopers in red, they can’t discern amongst a selective Trooper to pin the blame. But in the line of white and red, Fox’s red and white armor catches their eye. There’s someone they can funnel their frustrations towards. Fox’s scars, hardened eyes, and graying hairs is the only face they’ve seen helmetless, the face they think about when building their ire.

[wantonlywindswept]

Definitely True Facts About Commander Vertex #3

He has negative Force bacteria.

[forgotten Fox AU tag]

"Midichlorians," Patches said, for the third time, his head in his hands. "They're called midichlorians."

"Tiny little buggers that live in your body," Jek scoffed. "I might have barely scraped by my biology modules, but that sounds like bacteria to me."

Patches whimpered.

Jek grinned and reached over to pat his babiest of brothers on the head. Their youngest medic really was too easy to rile up. 

Still, at least Patches was capable of taking a break on occasion, even if it was just to sit at Jek's bedside in the medbay while he recovered from a round of Force cleansing. He always felt a little like the mess hall slop after every session, squishy and mostly-liquid, though the effects had been lessening as the treatments went on. 

Turned out that working in close proximity to an evil Sith overlord for an extended period of time could be 'damaging' and 'harmful to the spirit', and as soon as the Jedi got the okay from Marshal Commander Thorn they'd instituted regular healing sessions for the Guard. Some of them weren't overly affected--the ARF division hadn't been allowed in the Senate Dome that often anyway, and the medics rarely left the infirmary, much less Guard HQ--but the majority of them were on rotating schedules to get their minds checked for Sith residue or whatever.

It was even worse for the Force-sensitives.

No one was more surprised to find Force-sensitive clones than the clones themselves, and a frankly unsettling percentage of the Guard tested for above-average midichlorian counts. That was just those who agreed to submit to the assessment, too--a lot of the Guard refused to do even that. It wasn't like they could be Jedi, and with the war over, what did it even matter?

(Except it did matter, a lot, because apparently evil Sith overlords could also drain the life force from sentients around them, and particularly enjoyed ones with the Force. Palpatine got a little tasty burst of power like they were some kind of energy snack, and it wasn't like the Guard weren't already exhausted anyway.

That kind of siphoning left even worse traces of Sith influence; Jek's cleansing sessions made his bones feel like wobbly gelatin, but Glitch's sessions hurt.)

"I bet Defib's m-count is the highest in the Guard," Jek mused absently as he watched their CMO stalk around the medbay between the beds--and the Jedi--with a scowl on his face. 

Patches lifted his head to give Jek a horrified look.

"Don't say that where he can hear you."

Jek, who lacked both bones and a sense of self-preservation, merely shrugged. Defib had refused testing, scoffing that he didn't need the Force to heal, but he wasn't named after a defibrillator for nothing: he'd brought more than one brother back from the brink of death against impossible odds.

Jek had his suspicions about Patches, too. 

Even with Defib hovering suspiciously over their shoulders, the Jedi healers--there were four of them, led by Master Rig Nema--moved around the medbay with an almost unearthly poise. Jek was more familiar with ordered chaos in the infirmary: medics shouting across the room to each other, rushing back and forth to see how far their meager supplies could stretch. The Jedi were quiet, coordinating with each other soundlessly while still seeming to be aware of everything else happening in the room.

The mesmerizing little dance wasn't even interrupted by the main doors opening, which drew Jek's attention to Commander Vertex stepping into the medbay. The commander had his bucket tucked under one arm, and sharp eyes surveyed the room in a quick glance.

Patches waved at Vertex, because he was adorable. 

Vertex waved back, because he was a sap.

Defib immediately veered off his self-appointed task of looming to intercept Vertex before he got too far into the room. They ducked their heads together in a brief conversation with far too much angry gesticulating on Defib's part, and the calm competency Jek had come to expect on Vertex's. Jek watched, fascinated, as Vertex managed to settle the fuming medic with just a few words and a gentle touch to his shoulder. 

Defib made a bitchy face, but he did seem to lose some of his protective bristling; at Vertex's nudge he sidled over to his desk in the corner of the medbay, dropping into his chair to finally take a break and...to angrily chew on a ration bar?

Incredible.

The Jedi, meanwhile, had continued on with their Force nonsense, which lasted up until Vertex tapped one of the healers on the shoulder and their serenity shattered with a resounding squawk.

The poor Rodian who made the noise spun around, flailing wildly, and would have fallen back onto one of the beds if Vertex hadn't grabbed her to keep her upright. The other three Jedi's heads snapped up in eerie synchronicity, startled expressions on their faces, and Master Nema took a jolting step forward before seeming to register what had happened.

In the frozen stillness that followed, Defib's sullen crunching took on a distinctive note of glee.

"Apologies," Vertex said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"When did you even..." 

"How can we be of assistance, Commander Vertex?" Master Nema asked, stepping away from her patient to take the place of the still-baffled apprentice healer. Both she and Vertex smoothly ignored the disbelief radiating off the other Jedi, who were looking at Vertex like they didn't know how he had appeared. 

Jek wondered that sometimes, too, but it didn't bother him.

"Hey," he said, nudging Patches with his elbow as the two bigwigs conversed, "What do you bet that Commander Vertex has negative Force bacteria?"

Patches stared at Jek like he'd kicked a baby massiff, and then slowly sunk lower in his chair with a low, despairing whine.

So easy.

[bolithesenate]

the Guard (temple) and the Guard (coruscant) sometimes switch uniforms as an enrichment activity

[but-make-it-poly]

Slick Headcanons (and subsequent characters)

Instead of being executed, he was/found a way to get locked up in Coruscant prison.

When Boba Fett is arrested, Slick is the one to save him from getting executed/sent back to the Kaminoans. Somehow.

Slick is also the one to save Dogma from getting decommissioned or reconditioned, instead gaining a prison mate.

Boba has some sort of familial relationship with them, if only because of proximity.

Slick and the Coruscant Guard have some sort of understanding. (This is a different post about my au that will eventually exist).

Dogma doesn’t really warm up to Slick until he gets news of what happens to Tup and subsequently, Fives.

All three of them survive, and later have varying levels of closeness with Rex and “others”.

There’s more, but that’s a different post. This stuff can pass in canon. The rest are more… au-esque.

[ominouspuff]

Last Line Challenge

Rules: In a new post, show your latest line (artwork or written), and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like)!

Tagged by @rooksunday (well you know what this one is going to be)

This time you caught me writing a fic snippet for the RepGA AU to feel out characterization. I’m sharing the whole snippet though for fun, not just one line.

———————————

“Everything is normal.

It is grating against his skin and lighting up his veins in red-hot acid. He is choked by it, throat clotted and breath thin. Betrayal stings in his chest — directionless and worthless and misguided, because he cannot truly fault his shaking legs when he doesn’t know what’s wrong with them.

It is weakness, and it is getting worse.

“Yes, Senator,” He manages, and is grimly relieved that the man does not look askance at Fox — does not seem to notice the tremor in his voice at all. The words come mechanically, his inflection seven levels from perfection, which is six too many to forgive.

“Make sure they are your best,” The Senator is saying, not unkindly but blindly, focus tighter than a pinprick, for which Fox is grateful. “We cannot tolerate abuse on the delegation, not even a whisper of it. I have tried to reason with them, but the students are young and their professors passionate — they are so set on fighting to be heard, with an unfortunate emphasis on the physicality of that action…”

Fox nods. “Well,” He says, as if perturbed and accepting all at once — but can afford no more. He might be sick if he opens his mouth too far.

“Well, indeed.” The man nods, wrinkles scrunching, eyes fogged by inward thought. He sucks his sharp teeth. “Well. I must regroup with Senator Organa I fear, I expect your units will be timely?”

“Yes.” Fox confirms and denies all at once — because his ‘units’ are always timely, even when they’re bleeding, and having those expectations is no business of the Senator’s. It is a Guard matter.

There are many Guard matters. One of them is Thorn, lost in the seventh level as of fifteen minutes before Fox inclined his helmet to a Senator, answering the summon. Thorn, with his two faithful CTs and orders from a sectorial mayor. Thorn, who looked at Fox before he left and did not point out his shaking fingers, only nodded with sharp eyes and a tight mouth and trust bleeding out of him in streams.

“It’s normal, Fox. Don’t stress it.”

The Senator leaves, satisfied and indulging his perturbation over the youth, as is typical of the man lately. Fox stiffly reverses his direction, marching to the nearest service stairwell. He wrenches it open, but does not let the door bang. It takes excruciating effort to close it still more gently behind him, to step without staggering or tightening his aching fists.

He runs, already flipping on his comm. Voices answer, their pitch perfect, their diction flawless, their sound near identical, and Fox’s pride is a balm against the cold that perpetually tightens his chest and throws his stride off beat.

He uses numbers, not their names — never their names, on the comm. Directives come quick, but not smooth. There is a breath of hesitation that betrays how far he has fallen, that they notice even here, before all chorus affirmatives and sign off. A ping comes from Thire, inquisitive and absurd. Fox pings back once, raising the urgency, and Thire duly does not repeat himself.

They cannot afford to discuss that Fox can barely breathe — and Thire would do worse, asking why.

By the time he reaches his office, he is in agony. Thire is waiting there, according to his orders. He knows better than to speak — not here, not now — but his eyes are glittering wetly with concern and uncertainty, and Fox is a shriveled, rotting thing that cannot open his ironbound teeth in the face of it. They strip to blacks, swapping armor with the seamless efficiency of frequent practice. Once Fox has put on every piece of Thire’s armor, he puts on the rest — Thire’s loose hands, Thire’s tilting head, Thire’s light steps. It takes too long. It comes like bits of flesh slotted into gaping holes, alien and painful.

Thire is already standing like a rigid statue by the time Fox has finished, head tilted down slightly, every inch of him looking like Fox’s mirror does.

“8 hours. Meet me back here.” Fox repeats from their talk over comms., shoulders sliding back, and Thire nods solemnly.

Fox leaves the office, stride ever so slightly trembling with the new bounce in his step. He heads for the elevators, the exits, the city outside, the underground that leads down and down and down. His pistol sits heavy on his belt, and Fox’s loose fingers twitch with something feverish that’s settled in his very bones.

Everything is normal, and Fox refuses to let it kill him.”

—————————

Tagging: Reverse-uno, @rooksunday , and anyone else who wants to! (@frostbitebakery and @chiliger , I simply must.)

[jo-the-cosmic-being]

Yall

[1-800-crscnt]

i like to think of a lot of the guards on Coruscant having this running gag where they make up cartoonishly evil things Fox does and bring it up to him out of nowhere as if it's casual fact, typically around newer guardsmen or GAR troopers that barely interact with him if at all. Fox doesn't really care about any of this and ignores the jokes, but does occasionally worry that certain high ranking people are just constantly hearing about him doing things like drinking the blood of widowed women in order to slow his aging, or that he survives off of nightmares he gives his men by hiding under their bunks and making scary noises.

[commander-fox-enthusiasts]

Tell me about your Fox headcannons NOW 👁👁

No.

/j

Here’s one, given I have other posts lined up-

TW- brief mention of offing oneself, decom threats, implied abuse

Fox is a defective clone and the chancellor knows and abuses this fact. Fox could be decommissioned for anything under the sun, no matter how stupid, and it would be labelled as decommission due to defectivity. However Fox cares as much about his life as used expect from an overwhelmed workaholic- essentially he’s not looking to kill himself, but he’s never gonna beg for his life. So whenever the Chancellor threatens his life, he always reminds Fox that once he’s gone, someone will fill his spot. Fox fights for his life not to live, but to prevent a vod from suffering the way he does.

[noperopesaredope]

One of the funniest headcanons I include in my upcoming Coruscant Guard-centric Clone Wars fic is that while the clones will not crack under torture, when it comes to drama and whatnot, they will gossip with each other like crazy.

The CGs hear most everything happen in the Senate (partially because they were trained to be hypervigilant and aware of threats, partially because senators do not think they have free will and will therefore do the crazy shit in front of them) and they will spread that shit to other clones immediately. Eventually it will get to other units, and after perhaps a month or so, every clone in the GAR knows about so-and-so's absolutely wild sex life. They live for the gossip.

[bittercafanddatapads]

At the start of the war, after the battle of Geonosis, when the GAR was sectioned out across the galaxy alongside their jedi generals (if they were assigned to one) the Coruscant guard was welcomed with open arms.

Marshal Commander Fox alongside his fellow commanders were very renowned, idolized even. People were so welcoming, friendly, and inspired by their local clone trooper brigade. A shock trooper couldn’t go anywhere on patrol without a friendly smile being sent there way, or a box of thankful treats being pushed into their arms. (Really, it was almost a problem at first when it came to actually doing there jobs. Luckily, at the idea of the recent local army moving in, crime wasn’t at its most prominent.)

They were given gifts in the form of cards and presents and drawings, some from little kids inspired by these “tough and valiant soldiers” and others from older artistic students.

Their job wasn’t simple and it was hard knowing they had it so “easy” compared to their brothers on the frontline, but it was worth it… at first.

The opinion of Clones nowadays hasn’t been thoughtful. Kicked out of certain businesses, preyed on, insulted… Commander Fox’s house rules have been drilled into every single shiny who had the unfortunate fate of coming to Coruscant and it’s when they learn why, that they’re no longer a shiny.

Been despite all that, knowing that it’s not every household and Senator and business owner that has a fight to pick. They still have a board, set up in the hallway between the barracks and the medical bay, that’s strewn with the sketches and drawing and cards they received during their welcomed service to remind them of that.

[tesalicious2]

For some odd reason I got the idea in my head that Monnk and Fox HATE each other.

Like they cannot be in the room together, they will beat each other to death.

No one knows why but since they were cadets they can’t.

No Jedi knows because it’s never been an issue until there’s this big meeting and any Jedi available shows up in person with their commander.

Kit joins and Monnk is meant to be there too but is late. No one sees an issue until Commander Thire shows up, he’s meant to accompany Fox for the meeting.

Thire looks at Kit Fisto and shakily asks, ‘where’s Monnk?’

‘He’s running late. He’s probably showing Commander Fox the way, since he’s never been to the temple before.’

The Jedi laugh and the commanders freeze, ‘uh oh’

then all the commanders run out of the room, shouting for Fox and Monnk.

The Jedi look towards the holo of Ponds and Mace, all direction to Ponds.

“No one knows why but everytime they meet they fight. Not like spar fight but I’m gonna kill you fight. We don’t leave them alone together, ever.”

Well, the commanders return a few minutes later. Fox and Monnk split apart and once settled, motion for the meeting to start.

After all is done, everyone moves to leave and Thire loops an arm around Fox. The man isn’t really putting any weight on his leg and is breathing uneven. Commander Cody goes and helps him out.

The Jedi seem taken aback by this and leave somewhat confused. Commander Doom helps stabilize Monnk and walks with him out. All they hear is a mumured ‘why every time. You have to beat the snot out of each other.’

Kit Fisto looking confused, looks toward the Commanders.

‘They got to each other first, might wanna get Monnk to a medbay.’

Kit nods and quickly goes after Monnk.

[blackholesun321]

I just want everyone to know unless explicitly stated otherwise Fox will always in my heart be a red head, in any and every fic I read of Him!!!

And in every fic I write if not stated or he isn’t mentioned, know somewhere out in the big wide Star Wars universe, probably drinking out of a permanently stained ‘worlds best dad’ mug written over in pink glitter sharpie to say commander. Fox will be living his worst life with his twizzler ass hair!