#I also give each clone a different mohawk

[simm-mouse]

runs to request u to draw the beaker twins

Ah yes, the spawns of hell. I'm sorry I made these during my break at work yesterday. I was going to post it but I passed out right after I came home from work. Also here's a bonus doodle of the Clokis and the sims 4 Nervous, which I labeled him as a clone of the original Nervous in my past posts

[wild-karrde]

One Step at a Time - Part 1

Master List | Next Chapter

A/N: IT IS TIME! I'm very excited for this fic, and I hope you all are too (even if it is a purely OC fic). I've loved these three since I introduced them (Chuckles and Arni first appeared in 200 Follower Celebration Ficlets, and Nita made her first appearance in “Reunion” and is also featured in one of those ficlets), and I wasn't certain if I'd ever write a fic for just them, but this one has really just been a labor of love from the start. I know this will probably have lower than normal readership since it doesn’t revolve canon characters, but I hope those that do read it love it as much as I do. As always, thank you to the absolutely incredible @teletraan-meets-jarvis for beta-reading this for me and encouraging me to write this (while also being a wonderful sounding board for all my ideas). Couldn’t do this without you, TJ! Without further ado...

Chapter Rating: T (entire work is rated E, but M-rated version can be found on AO3)

Warnings: language, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 6.6k words

It’s almost over. 

Chuckles’s feet felt lighter as he stepped out of his fighter and onto the ladder next to the Z-95 Headhunter, slipping his helmet off and tucking it under his arm. He paused for a moment on the ladder to examine his reflection in the transparisteel of his cockpit viewport. He ran his fingers through his flattened mohawk, trying to stand the colored ends back up from where the helmet had pressed them against his skull. The teal color he’d dyed the tips of his hair a few weeks ago was fading to more of a greenish grey at this point, and his mouth twitched at the hue. 

Needs a touch-up soon.

The color had been chosen by his friend Howzer after a lost game of sabacc to “ensure everyone knew who beat him.” Chuck would never admit it, but he’d liked the teal the best of any colors he’d tried during the war. It had looked nice against the magenta and grey of his armor.  

Three years, and it might all end today. 

When he reached the base of the ladder, he paused, glancing down at the helmet in his hands. His fingers traced the stars he’d painted for each of his fallen brothers on the plastoid, some of them with scratches marring their magenta paint. Turning the helmet, his thumb grazed the single grey star he’d painted on the back of the helmet near its base. He sighed. 

Thank the Maker this might all be done. Was running out of real estate for these guys. 

A few of the maintenance droids were already rolling towards his fighter, and he gave them one of his lop-sided grins, the scar on the right corner of his mouth tugging against the expression. “Make sure you polish her up good, fellas. By all accounts, it sounds like there’ll be a victory parade shortly.” The droids buzzed and beeped in excitement, the R7 unit spinning in an excited circle. Chuckles grinned, patting its metal dome as he moved past. 

What to do with my day off? The possible last day of the war? Maybe I’ll go see that mechanic down in the temple garage. Might be time I finally asked her out to dinner. To celebrate. 

Chuck glanced down at his armor before raising his arm and giving his armpit a sniff. The last mission had been shorter than the others, so the stink hadn’t set in yet. He shrugged, deciding not to run by the barracks and change.

Eh, who can say no to a guy in his armor? I showered yesterday anyway.

Reaching down, he made sure his sidearm was still in its holster at his hip before he stepped out of the garage. He’d misplaced the damn thing enough, and he was not about to be reprimanded by some uptight admiral on a day as momentous as this. 

The streets of Coruscant were buzzing as usual, but today felt different. There was a charge of excitement that made the air feel electric, as if everyone knew what he did. 

News travels fast, I’m sure. Especially good news. 

He slipped his helmet back on so that he could monitor the clone comm channels. This was not the day to be out of the loop. He tuned into the main feed, listening to the crackle that was occasionally interrupted by one of the millions of voices that all sounded like his, reporting statuses or giving order updates. If General Kenobi could just handle things on Utapau with the 212th, then it would be all over. 

A new beginning.

Chuckles had been created to fight in this war, and with the end of it looming, he wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about his future. If he was honest, he hadn’t really thought that far ahead. With as many brothers as he’d lost, he’d just assumed he’d wind up as a star or a hashmark on someone else’s armor at some point, but now, he’d made it. 

Beat the odds, I guess. Despite the galaxy’s best efforts. 

The columns of the Jedi temple loomed taller as he approached, their towers reaching up to pierce the clear Coruscant sky that was beginning to turn orange and pink as dusk approached. Chuckles nodded to a few of the Jedi stewards as he passed into the gardens that ran along the side of the temple. He loved cutting through them to get to the maintenance garages. Normally, they were filled with masters and padawans meditating or younglings running about, but today, they were uncharacteristically still. 

Probably all inside tuned to the feeds like I am. Wonder if General Rancisis is back from Saleucami yet. He’ll want to be here for this. 

He paused under one of the larger trees in the garden, his head tilting up to observe the fluttering petals of the blooms that had broken out across the branches since the last time he’d been here. A few of the pale pink petals were caught in the breeze and fluttered downward towards him. Chuckles reached out his glove to catch one of them, smiling to himself underneath his bucket.

“Attention all Coruscant-based troops. Attention all Coruscant-based troops.” 

Chuckles paused, listening to the buzzing, monotone voice in his helmet. 

“Execute Order 66.” 

There was a ringing in his ears before a flash of pain shot across his vision, blinding him for a second as he cursed loudly. His hand flew to the side of his helmet. The petals he’d caught drifted to the ground, his boots crushing them as he tried to steady himself, his knees shaking.

“Execute Order 66.”

Another searing blast emanated from the right side of his head, and Chuckles pressed his hand against the tree as he tried to stay on his feet. 

Good soldiers…

He slapped the side of his helmet, trying desperately to clear his mind. His thumb grazed the comm switch, silencing the channel that was just repeating the same directive over and over. Another bolt of pain slammed into him, and he roared a curse. And then, as suddenly as it came, it dissipated. Chuck was crouching down by the tree, bracing his palms against the bark of its trunk as he took several deep steadying breaths. The rushing of his blood in his ears had subsided, giving way to a deafening silence. He rested the forehead of his bucket against the tree as he inhaled deeply once more. 

What the kriff was that? 

A scream ripped through the silence. Chuckles froze, almost wondering if he had imagined it until he heard another one, unmistakable and a much lower register than the first. And then came the blaster fire. Chuckles ripped his sidearm from its holster, crouching against the tree. 

Good soldiers follow…

The pain came roaring back and he gasped, banging on the side of his helmet again. 

Come on, get it together, Chuck.

He heard the pounding steps of someone running. Crouching low, he peered around the trunk cautiously. The back door of the temple was open. A blonde human padawan was running from it, making her way across the courtyard, her lightsaber in hand as her dark robes trailed behind her. Suddenly, multiple blaster bolts erupted out of the door. The padawan whirled, and Chuckles could see tears streaming down her face. 

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!” she screamed before another volley of bolts flew through the door. Chuck stood, running towards her as fast as his legs could carry him. He made it through the durasteel decorative gate, sprinting towards the hedges that lined the courtyard the padawan was standing in, but as he went to vault them, one of the branches caught his toe. As he fell forward, his arms flailing, he watched as a blaster bolt caught the padawan in her shoulder. She dropped her lightsaber as another one caught her in the chest, and she collapsed to the ground, her blonde braid trailing behind her. 

No.

Chuckles felt bile rise in his throat as he slammed onto his chest behind a set of bushes. The wind was knocked out of him, and before he could struggle to his feet, he froze as three clone troopers in blue and white armor jogged out the door of the temple. They approached the padawan, their blasters trained on her. One of them crouched down, checking her before nodding at the others. Chuckles watched in horror as they abandoned the padawan’s body, retreating into the temple. 

What? Why would they do that? She needs help. She needs…did they kill her?

From where he lay, hidden from view, he could see inside the temple now. The unmistakable blur of lightsabers shone down the hallways, deflecting blaster bolts back at more troopers in blue and white armor. Chuckles watched another group of Jedi fall, the troopers stepping over the bodies left in their wake. Pushing himself to his knees, Chuckles lifted his helmet just enough to vomit violently into the bushes. 

What the kriff is happening? The temple is under attack. Where did the Seppies get clone armor? How did this many of them get on Coruscant with no one noticing?  

He took a deep shuddering breath.

Focus. You need to focus.

He punched the comm on his arm. “This is CT-4311. Does anyone read me?” He was met with silence. In frustration, he punched the comm again. “HELLO? This is CT-4311! I’m at the Jedi temple, and they are under attack by soldiers wearing clone armor. We need as many battalions as we can get down here ASAP.” No response. He banged his vambrace against the ground again. “HELLO? IS ANYONE THERE?” He slapped the switch on his helmet again, tuning to the main comm channel. 

Surely this is making the waves.

“Execute Order 66.” 

The pain shot through his skull again, and he gasped before switching the comm back off. 

What the kriff is going on?

A rustle in a set of bushes off to his left made him jump. Chuckles sprang to his feet, drawing his sidearm and aiming it at the source of the sound. 

“IDENTIFY YOURSELF.” 

The bushes rustled again, closer to him this time, and Chuckles took a step backwards as he tried to put more authority in his voice. “I SAID IDENTIFY YOURSELF.” He gripped the blaster tighter, trying to hide the shaking of his hands. 

Hushed whispers carried to him from the foliage. Suddenly, he noted two bright, honey-colored eyes peering at him from between two branches. 

It’s a youngling. 

He holstered his blaster, squatting back down. “Hey there, can you come out?” He went to take a step forward, but before his heel could hit dirt, a blur of brown and blue stepped in between him and the bush. A yellow lightsaber hummed in front of his face, held by a quivering young blue Twi’lek. 

“DON’T TOUCH HER.”

The kid’s face was covered in tear stains, their bottom lip trembling as they dug their teeth in as if that would keep them from dissolving into a sobbing mess. They were mostly blue with a tan birthmark on one side of their face that reached from their chin to just below their eye, almost like a splotch of paint had been flung at them. The kid’s lekku hung down their back, trembling along with the rest of them. They were dressed in a traditional brown Jedi tunic and robe that matched their lekku wrappings and the cap that covered their head, but along their belt were multiple pouches with handwritten labels. Bacta. Bolts. Snacks. I’ll have to ask what kind of snacks later. Chuckles glanced at their face. Can’t be older than twelve, maybe not even that. 

“Back up,” the Twi’lek demanded in a quavering voice. 

The bushes behind the youngling rustled again, and a small Pantoran emerged. Her silver hair was wound into two messy buns on either side of her head with a few leaves from the bush sticking out of them. She wore a silver tunic that seemed just a little too large for her, her sleeves hiding most of her hands. Her large golden eyes appraised the clone in front of her, but before she could speak, the Twi’lek shoved her behind them. The Pantoran peered at Chuckles from behind her companion’s robes. There was fear in her eyes, but also curiosity. That one’s probably six or seven. Maker alive, what is happening? 

Chuckles raised his hands in surrender, sinking into a crouch behind the bushes, blocking them from the view of the door. 

“Kid, look-”

“Why?” the Twi’lek demanded. “Why are you doing this to us?”

“Doing what?”

“Why are you attacking us? Why are you killing us?” the youngling demanded. 

Chuckles stared at them blankly. “It’s not us, kid. Someone must have stolen our armor. We would never-”

“IT IS YOU! I SAW ONE OF THEM TAKE OFF THEIR HELMET!” 

Chuckles’s heart thundered in his chest. That can’t be. Why would we attack the Jedi? That doesn’t make any sense. What the kriff is happening? He shook his head. No, focus. I’ve got to get these kids out of here. He made a move towards the Twi’lek, but the youngling brandished their lightsaber as firmly as they could. 

“Stay. Back.” 

Chuckles noticed the youngling’s eyes were flicking back and forth as they looked at him, and then he remembered he was wearing his helmet. Slowly, he reached for the base of his bucket, sliding it up and over his head and setting it on the ground next to him before he raised his hands once more. The Twi’lek’s face seemed to soften a bit at the sight of a human face staring back at them. 

It’s harder to kill something with a face, Chuckles thought. 

“Listen, I don’t know what’s happening either. I’m just as scared and confused as you are. But, I’m not going to hurt you. I want to get you out of here, alright?” The Twi’lek appeared to be considering it carefully, their eyes darting to the direction of the screams that were still coming from the temple and then back to Chuckles. Chuck took a deep breath. “I’m not one of them, kid.” 

“Arni.” The Pantoran gently tugged on the Twi’lek’s robes. “I think he’s telling the truth. Reach out to him.” 

The Twi’lek looked at her for a moment before moistening their lips. “I…I can’t read him without touching him. I haven’t gotten good enough at it yet.” 

Chuckles thought for a second before taking his blaster and tossing it near the Twi’lek’s feet. We need to get out of here, but I need them to trust me first. Pulling the binders he had on his belt, he held them up.  “I’m gonna put these on, ok? You’ll have to let me out once you’re sure. And if you don’t get the right…read, you can just leave me here, alright?” And then I’ll be on my own. But at least maybe they’ll be safe. Or at least, safer I guess. Before he could overthink it further, Chuckles turned so his back was to the two younglings, slipping the binders over his wrists and locking them in place. He gave them a tug to demonstrate he was locked in. The two younglings whispered again behind him before coming around to stand in front of him. The Twi’lek Arni stepped closer, and with trembling hands, cupped his face. Their palms were sweaty and cold, and Chuck could feel them trembling against his cheeks. Arni closed their eyes, their brows furrowing in concentration. Chuckles closed his eyes as well, feeling a warmth wash over him that seemed to emanate from the kid’s fingertips despite their clamminess. He’d never really experienced the Force before, but he imagined that was what he was feeling now. It was…pleasant. 

Suddenly, a rush of memories overtook him. His batchmate with him in a supply closet, drunk and giggling uncontrollably as they tried to stifle their laughter to hide from one of the trainers on Kamino. The first time he flew. The first time he saw a sunset on Bespin, soaring and diving through the pink and gold clouds. The losses. Painting the stars on his helmet. The sobs. The anger. And then, the moment the Twi’lek had stepped out of the bushes. He felt as though he was watching a replay of his life. And then, it was over, and he was staring at the back of his eyelids. His eyes fluttered open, refocusing in the bright light. Arni stood before him, panting. 

“You…you’re telling the truth. You’re not one of them.”

“I’m not. Will you let me help get the two of you out of here?” 

An explosion rumbled from within the temple, and all three of them turned to see smoke billowing out of the upper windows. Arni moved quickly behind Chuckles, and he felt the binders click and loosen. He sighed in relief as he slapped them back to his belt. Turning, he gripped the Twi’lek’s shoulders, looking in their eyes to try and steady them. I can’t do this without them. I need them with me.

“Arni, right?” 

The kid nodded. 

“Ok, Arni. I’m Chuckles, but you can call me Chuck.” He turned, extending a hand behind him, which the Pantoran glanced at before looking at Arni. The Twi’lek nodded at her, and the Pantoran slipped her small, pudgy hand into Chuckles’s gloved one. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. “What’s your name?”

“Nita,” she said quietly.

“Excellent, we all know each other now. You two have done so well getting this far, and I can get us out of here, but I’m going to need your help, alright?” His words were more certain than he felt.

The two younglings nodded.

“I’m a pilot, so if I can get us to a ship, we’ll be in good shape. Do either of you know if there are any in the garage?” 

Arni thought for a moment before nodding. “No fighters, but a few transports and maybe a freighter when I was down there yesterday.”

“Good. Good. Ok, to the garage then. You two stay close to me.” Chuckles reached for his helmet and blaster, sliding the bucket back over his head. It muted the smell of smoke that had started to permeate the air. Quickly, he ushered the two younglings forward, keeping low behind the bushes as they raced towards the garage entrance. After a few minutes, it became apparent Nita was struggling, so Chuckles scooped her up. “I’ve got you, kid. You’re alright.” He felt her tiny hands dig into the fabric of his undersuit at his neck, and he gently pressed his helmet against her head. “You’re gonna be alright.” He looked over to Arni, who was jogging next to him. “If we see anyone, you help me out, ok? That lightsaber will prove pretty handy in a fight.” Arni nodded, but he could still see the tremble in the young Twi’lek’s hands at the thought. 

They managed to make it to the garage door. “Can you get us in?” Chuckles asked Arni. The Twi’lek nodded, digging out a slip of flimsi from one of their pouches before setting to work finding the door code punching it into the panel. Chuckles turned his back to the door, scanning the courtyard for any approaching clone troopers. He clicked the stun setting on his blaster. Just in case. 

Smoke was billowing from the Jedi temple now, a dark column reaching towards the sky, which felt more blood red than anything at this point, far more menacing than it had been mere minutes before. Chuckles felt himself sigh with relief when he heard the door beep and hiss open. Turning, he nodded at Arni. “Alright kid, lead the way. We need-” 

“YOU THERE! STOP.” 

Kriff.

Chuckles froze, his breathing growing shallow as he recognized the voice. A brother. 

He turned back slowly, his grip tightening on the blaster at his side. Two troopers in blue and white armor were approaching him and the younglings, blasters aimed at them. 

“What’s up fellas?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even. 

“Where are you taking those traitors?” 

“To…um…to the prison block. Figured a transport would help me get there faster.”

“They’re marked for execution.” 

Chuckles’s breath stuttered in his throat.

“They’re kids,” he rasped. “Just kids.”

“They’re traitors to the Republic and are to be executed.” 

What the kriff is going on?

“We’re not killers. We don’t do this,” he said quietly, a plea sneaking into his tone. “Please don’t do this.” 

“Put the youngling down.” 

Chuckles’s mind raced before coming to the clear decision. Something’s wrong. I have no kriffing idea what, but this is wrong. I have to protect these kids. 

“Nita, close your eyes honey, ok?” he whispered.

“Are you not going to comply?” the trooper demanded.

“Arni, stay behind me.” He heard the Twi’lek shuffle in the doorway.

The trooper on his right took a step forward first. Chuck raised his blaster and fired, but rather than the blue stun rings he expected, a lethal bolt erupted from the muzzle. The bolt struck the trooper between the eyes, and his body collapsed limply to the ground, a small trail of smoke snaking from the smoldering hole in his helmet.

I clicked on stun. Why is it not on stun?

The other trooper raised his blaster, but before he could squeeze the trigger, Chuckles shot him in the chest twice. His body hit the ground with a thud, his blaster skittering out of his hand. 

I just killed two of my brothers. I set it to stun. Why…how?

It felt as though Chuckles was trapped in the worst nightmare of his life, everything around him sounding muted and muffled. It was far worse than any of the battles he’d relived in his sleep, snapping awake in a cold sweat, but even as he stood rooted to the ground, he knew there would be no waking escape this time.

This can’t be happening. It can’t.

Nita whimpering in his ear pulled him back to the present. He looked at the blaster in his hand, still smoking, and then back at the bodies. He felt a tug on his arm and looked down to see Arni staring up at him.

“We’ve got to go,” the youngling whispered. 

“Yeah. Yeah we’ve got to go.” He slipped the blaster back into its holster at his hip and wrapped his other arm around Nita, cradling her against his chest. He felt a dampness in the fabric of his undersuit as he stepped into the garage. 

“Arni, lock the door behind us. That’ll buy us some time.” 

He set the little Pantoran girl down and looked her over. She was trembling, tears streaming down her blue cheeks quietly, but she didn’t seem to be injured. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t cry, but I’m just so scared,” she whimpered. 

She shouldn’t have to endure this. She’s just a kid.

“Hey, none of that. You are doing so good, ok? This is scary,” Chuckles soothed, brushing some of her stray hairs out of her face. He paused before taking his helmet off again. “You know what helps me feel brave? Wearing this.” He slid the helmet on her head, and it immediately slipped to her shoulders, far too big for her. “There, do you feel braver?”

The helmet nodded wordlessly, swinging back and forth on her tiny shoulders. 

“Alright. You look braver. And cooler.” 

“Chuckles, over here!” He looked up to see Arni waving at him from a freighter. 

Taking Nita’s hand, he strode towards the ship quickly, appraising it as much as he could from its exterior. Corellian. Small freighter. Should have at least a hyperdrive and looks to have forward cannons for defense. It’s a bucket of bolts, but it’ll do. 

“Good stuff kid. I’m gonna take Nita inside and get the pre-flight started. Do you know how to open the main roll-up door?” Gently, he pushed the little Pantoran inside the ship’s hatch. 

Arni nodded. 

“Can you do that quickly and get back here as fast as you can?”

Arni looked around, their eyes settling on another keypad against the far wall. Chuckles could see the wheels turning in the kid’s head, calculating the risk. 

“Hey, I know it’s scary, but I need to get this ship warmed up, or else it’s gonna be another few minutes before we get out of here. Now, can you do it?”

Arni looked back up at him with wide, fearful eyes. The kid had been so brave, but the facade was starting to crack. Chuckles placed his hands on the Twi’lek’s shoulders again. 

“I won’t leave without you.” He held out a pinky. “Pinky promise.”

Arni blinked, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Hey, for me and my batchmates, this is as good as a blood oath. Now gimme some pinky and let’s get this done.” 

Arni gave him a small smile before locking their pinky with his and then turning and sprinting towards the keypad on the wall. Chuckles bolted into the ship, leaving the main hatch open for Arni. Sliding into the pilot seat, he examined the control panel. 

Simple enough. Even simpler than a Headhunter. 

Glancing over, he saw Nita was sitting in the co-pilot seat, her feet dangling off the front of the chair. The helmet was still perched on her head, watching him as it swung. 

“Buckle up, honey. This might get bumpy.” 

Chuckles began slamming switches to boot up the flight computer and warm up the hyperdrive. The ship whined to life, the various buttons on the flight console flickering on. Another explosion rocked the building, sending dust falling from the garage’s ceiling. 

“HOW WE DOIN’, ARNI?”

He heard a loud mechanical squeal and saw the first traces of Coruscant's waning sunlight filtering in as the garage’s main door began to lift. A few seconds later, he heard a thud as Arni leapt into the ship, slamming the hatch shut behind them. 

“They’re coming,” the Twi’lek said quietly. 

Chuckles leaned forward to look past Nita, and sure enough, he could see the door they had entered through shuddering under what he could only assume was troopers trying to get in. He turned to Arni, keeping his voice level despite the panic rising within him.

“Buckle Nita into one of the rear seats and then strap in yourself,” he said, standing to reach the exterior light controls before turning to his tiny co-pilot. “Nita, I need Arni up here with me, ok? You’ll have to sit in the back for now in one of the jump seats.” 

Nita appeared to consider the proposition. “Can I keep the helmet on?”

“Absolutely. Arni?”

Arni lifted Nita out of the seat clumsily, helping her towards the rear of the ship as Chuck eased the freighter forward, frantically trying to get a feel for the controls. He hadn’t expected the freighter to be as nimble as his fighter of course, but the response felt slower than a stoned bantha, lumbering and clumsy. Chuckles ground his teeth together, trying to gauge just how minute small movements actually were as he piloted the ship around a few stacks of supply crates. Arni slid into the seat next to him just as a blast rocked the rear of the ship. Nita squealed in fear. 

“It’s alright honey, just a bit of a bump,” Chuckles called over his shoulder before leaning over to Arni and pointing at a few of the displays on the console. “This thing does have basic shields. I need you to work on getting all power diverted to our aft end. Can you do that?”

The young Twi’lek nodded before they leaned forward, pressing buttons. Chuckles punched a button to bring up a rear camera and swore under his breath. An entire battalion was pouring in behind them, blasters firing at the ship with a few heavies moving into position. “You got it, kid?”

“Yup, almost there.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Chuckles could see the displayed mapping of the shields shift, and he gave the Twi’lek a tight smile. “Good. Nice job. Now get strapped in. I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet.” 

As if the galaxy was playing a cruel joke on him, the proximity sensors began screaming. Leaning over, he brought up the radar and swore more loudly this time. “Fighters inbound. You ever work a ship’s gun before?” 

Arni’s eyes were wider than saucers. “No.”

“Alright, well the best training is on the job.” Chuckles joked dryly, reaching over past the kid and swinging the controls in front of them. “This is your computer. Helps you aim. You’re too close for torpedoes, so stick to lasers. That’s these buttons here.” He tapped the grey triggers lightly. “When you’re ready to fire, flip this switch so that it’s green. That means the gun’s hot. Then you want to line up your target in this box. If you can get the little ‘x’ over the main body of a ship or a wing, you’ll be in business. Then you give ‘em hell. Clear as mud?” 

Arni placed shaking hands on the controls and nodded. 

“You’ve got this, Arni. I know you can do it.” 

At least I hope so, or we’re all dead. 

The Twi’lek nodded wordlessly again. Chuckles didn’t miss the way their throat bobbed with a hard swallow. 

“Nita, honey do you have a favorite song?” he called into the back. 

“Yes.” Her voice sounded tiny, even through the helmet’s modulator.

“Great. I don’t know many songs. Can you sing it for me to help me learn it?” 

“Right now?”

“Yup. Right now. I love multitasking, so let’s put on a concert. I hear all Pantorans have great singing voices.” 

The ship shuddered again, and Chuckles glanced over at Arni. “Shields are holding in the rear,” the young Twi’lek said quietly, seeming to understand what Chuckles was trying to do.

“Alright, when I tell you, swap the power back so that we’re 75 percent in front, 25 at the rear, got it? We’ll need more power to block fire from the fighters ahead of us, but we can’t leave our back end totally unprotected.” 

Arni nodded. 

From the rear of the ship, Nita’s tiny voice began to sing. 

“I’ve been to many moons and all the stars in the sky

I’ve been to rocky shores where all the fish fly

But all of them pale, yes all of them pale

When compared to my darlin’s sweet, sweet ale.” 

Chuckles stifled a nervous giggle. “Nita, where did you hear that?”

She pushed up the helmet to look at him. “One of the troopers was singing it once. I said I liked it, and he taught it to me. His name was Hardcase.”

Chuckles huffed a laugh, noticing Arni watching him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t know many troopers from the 501st, but everyone had known Hardcase. 

Still a menace, even beyond the grave, he thought, a smirk creeping across his face.

“Is it a good song?” Nita asked hesitantly.

One of the best drinking songs I know. At least he didn’t teach her the verses. 

“It’s great honey, keep singing.” Chuck’s eyes flicked down to the radar blips that were quickly approaching. “Ready to swap the shield power, kid?” he asked Arni quietly. 

“Yes.”

“Good. On my count. Three…two…one.” 

Arni frantically punched the buttons in front of them just as two fighters swung into view at the mouth of the garage. 

“GOT IT!” the Twi’lek said excitedly.

“Great job, kid. You’re doing so well. Alright, remember, flip to green and then shoot. Get it armed. Don’t shoot unless they fire at us first though. There’s still a chance they don’t know we’re trying to get out of here.” 

The first fighter immediately began peppering them with laserfire. Chuckles swore under his breath. “Alright, never mind. Shoot ‘em back.” 

Arni swallowed hard, but he saw the youngling flip the switch to arm the guns before opening fire. Reaching over, Chuckles slammed the throttle forward. He realized it had grown quiet in the rear of the ship. 

“Come on, Nita! Keep singing!” 

There was still silence as the ship rocked from a well-placed bolt from one of the fighters. 

“Arni?”

“Forward shields still at 68 percent.”

“Good. Keep firing. NITA! Come on! I’ve been to many moons…”

Nita hesitantly joined him, and Arni started singing as well after a few minutes. Chuckles sang louder as alarms began sounding around him, warning him that he was pushing the ship to its limits. Just hold together a bit longer, you kriffin’ rust bucket. You weren’t my first choice either. 

Arni gasped next to him, and he redirected his attention to one of the fighters, which now had smoke pouring from one of its wings as it drifted out of view, slowly beginning to spiral downwards. Chuckles let loose a whoop. “YES! That’s the way to shoot, kid.” 

“I hope they make it out ok,” Arni said softly, and Chuckles sobered. 

“I’m sure they will. They have ejection seats.” His heart broke as he watched the Twi’lek nod, clearly not certain. Reaching up, he pulled down the hyperspace display from above Arni’s head. “Alright, you’ve done good work, but I need another favor. Do you know how to set up a hyperspace jump?”

The Twi’lek stared at the display, their eyes flicking between the various readouts before nodding. “Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll need coordinates though.” 

Chuck’s mind raced as he dodged the fire from the last fighter. I’m gonna have to pull it into a steep climb and then just jettison into hyperspace from the upper atmosphere. I’ll never outrun them otherwise. But where do we go? I don’t know how widespread this is. Can’t take them to a Republic world. Definitely not a Separatist system. No neutral ones close by. There’s… yeah, that’ll work. 

Reaching over, he punched in a set of coordinates over Arni’s head. “Use those. Get the calculations started.”

Arni squinted at the coordinates. “Where is that?”

“A safe spot,” Chuckles replied. “Just trust me.” 

Arni looked at him for another few seconds before nodding, beginning to program the computer for the jump calculation. Nita had looped back through the chorus of her drinking song again, and as Chuckles cast a quick glance over his shoulder, he grinned at the tiny Pantoran, swaying back and forth with his helmet on, the base of it swinging back and forth as she moved. The ship rocked from another blast, and her voice faltered, but Arni took up the chorus louder, and she joined in again. Chuckles gave the Twi’lek a grateful smile before rolling the ship hard to the right. 

“HANG ON, KIDS! Arni, let me know the second we’re good for the jump.” 

“Another few seconds. We’re close.”

The ship shuddered. 

“Rear shields are failing,” Arni stated, fear starting to trickle back into their tone.

“Don’t worry about them. Keep working the calcs. Won’t need the shields when we jump out of here.” 

Chuck yanked the ship’s yoke hard, pulling the freighter into a tight turn that kept the front of the ship facing towards the other fighter and swinging around so that the fighter was forced to circle back towards the garage, keeping all sources of fire in front of the freighter. Leaning over, he threw a switch to reverse the thrust of the engines, pushing the ship backwards. 

“You’re in a speeder lane!” Arni said urgently. “You might hit someone!”

“I’m bigger and they’re faster. They’ll get out of the way,” Chuckles said as casually as he could. “How much time?”

“Five seconds.” 

“Give me a countdown.”

“Five…four…three…”

Chuckles flipped the direction of the thrust again, pulling back on the yoke with all of his might and sending the ship skyward. He pushed the engine to its max, searching for a clear hole in the speeder lanes to shoot through. 

“Two…”

The clone pilot could feel his teeth creaking as he ground them together. Glancing at the radar that showed the orbiting ships, he held his breath. Just need our trajectory to stay clear for another few seconds.

The ship jolted. Nita screamed. 

“ARNI! NOW!”

Chuckles felt the familiar pull of his stomach pushing to the back of his chest cavity as the hyperdrive whined to life, pressing him back in his seat. Coruscant’s sky seemed to smear past the viewports as the engines began to roar, the sky rushing towards them. Chuck closed his eyes and exhaled.

Please let this work. 

In between heartbeats, he felt the pressure on his chest ease as the ship stopped accelerating, the roar around them fading to a steady hum. Chuck opened his eyes slowly, and felt his body almost sag into the chair in relief at the familiar sight of blue and white star streaks of hyperspace that were rushing past them. Turning his head, he looked at the Twi’lek next to him. Arni was still clutching the guns so hard their knuckles were pale, visibly quivering. Chuckles climbed out of his seat, flicking the safety back onto the guns before gently removing Arni’s hands from the triggers and pushing the weapons controls away. The Twi’lek had a dazed expression as they looked at him, their eyes somewhat blank as Chuckles spun their chair to face him. 

“You did good, kid. You did exactly what you needed to do to get us out of there, alright?” Chuck said quietly, resting his hands on Arni’s shoulders. The youngling nodded slowly, swallowing hard again. 

“What do we do now?” they asked quietly. 

Chuckles took a deep breath, exhaling it in a deep sigh. “I don’t know yet. But we’ll figure it out.” 

Arni bobbed their head, but their eyes were glued to the floor of the ship. 

Unsure of what else to do, Chuck searched for the right words. “Hey, look at me.”

Arni met his gaze, their wide brown eyes glossy with unshed tears. 

“Do you trust me, kid?” 

Arni’s eyes became focused as they studied the clone crouched in front of them. After a few seconds, they nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Because I’m going to need you and little one back there to help me. We’ll get through this. Together. One step at a time.” 

“Why did your brothers want to kill us?” 

The memory of the smoking hole in the front of the trooper’s helmet flashed in Chuckles’s mind again, and he blinked rapidly, trying to fight the tightness that suddenly began squeezing his chest. 

Keep it together in front of the kids. Focus.

“I don’t know, kid. It doesn’t make any sense. But I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you and Nita. Alright?” He held out his pinky again, and a small smile tugged at one corner of Arni’s mouth. They wrapped their thin blue pinky around Chuckles’s thicker, gloved one. 

“Alright.” 

The sound of coughing made them both turn and Chuckles grimaced as he took in the sight of Nita holding his helmet in front of her as she vomited into it. 

“I’m sorry. The ship made my tummy upset,” she said softly after she finished retching. 

Chuckles ran his fingers through his mohawk again, giving her a small smile. “It’s ok, honey. We’ll get it cleaned up. Definitely my fault for flying like a drunken mynock.” 

The little Pantoran giggled before tilting her head back down and emptying the rest of her stomach contents into his bucket. 

Chuckles sighed. 

One step at a time.

 Tag List: @seriowan @rosmariner @misogirl828 @ellichonkasaurusrex @zoeykallus @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond​ @partoftheeternalsoul​ @hockeyjedi13​

[mtreebeardiles]

Date Night at the Armax Arena

Finally done! Definitely wanna play with these voices more and see what else I can tease out of Dana haha

Full piece on AO3!

There were many things the Butcher of Torfan was known for, and pining wasn't one of them. 

And it was all-out pining, Kaidan was stunned to learn. Soft sighs, distant expressions, thoughts a million miles away. He'd come to learn a lot about Dana Shepard over the past few years and while he would easily count most of those things as genuine surprises, this newest facet of the Commander took the proverbial cake. 

"Just ask her out."

An exaggerated huff as she collapsed onto the sofa beside him and he hid a grin, shaking his head. 

"You can't just go asking people out, Kaidan! There's a war on!" 

"So?"

"So!" 

He reached over, prodding their cheek until they swatted his hand away. "You've run into her three times now --"

"--two times, I don't think freeing her from the Thorian really counts --"

"--and she clearly likes you enough to send you messages, see how you're doing. So what's the harm? Worst she can do is say no."

"No," Dana retorted, eyes narrowing. "Worst she can do is realize how awful I am at small talk. I don't do dates, Kaidan. I don't do the whole…romantic dinners and long walks on the beach thing!" 

"Citadel doesn't have a beach."

"I am going to throttle you."

He ignored this threat, humming musingly to himself. "We also don't actually know what Asari like for their dates, either," he pointed out. "Bit presumptuous to assume all humans even like the same stuff, let alone different species."

"Not really seeing how that helps me, Kay."

He turned, drawing a leg up to face her more fully. She was slouching in the spot next to him, fingers running through black hair still wet from a shower. The short mohawk was gone, shaved sides having grown in since the Collector mission, and she'd left the top to get a bit longer than he'd remembered back on the SR-1. Definitely not regulation, but given the means with which she'd rejoined the Alliance, he had the distinct impression the Commander gave even less of a shit now than she had back then. 

Loose cannon, was how most described her. Kaidan knew better. Dana Shepard's personal values just didn't always align with what others expected from them, but they were notably consistent if you bothered to pay attention. 

And this? This surprising shyness when it came to something so simple? The more he thought about it, the more he should've seen it coming. 

"Ask her to do something you both might enjoy," he said. "You're both well-respected fighters; you both have impressive service records. You both don't stand down if you see someone bullying someone weaker than them. Who gives a shit if you explore these things together somewhere a little less…traditional?"

Dana's lips twisted into an uncertain frown, thick brows furrowing. "Mmm maybe…"

"And if the 'date' part is still freaking you out," he ignored her responding scoff, smiling a little at the hint of pink in her cheeks, "then don't add that extra pressure. Two friends, blowing off some steam. So long as you enjoy each other's company, I think it'll be worth it."

She stared at him a moment longer but her gaze was turned inward, dark brown eyes a touch unfocused as she chewed his proposition over. Finally she sighed, puffing out her cheeks. 

"Fine," she muttered, drawing up her omni-tool. "This goes badly and you're going to the shooting range with me, Alenko."

"Of course," he replied. He didn't bother trying to hide his smile now. 

----

The first thing Dana Shepard had noticed about Shiala was her voice. 

This was impressive, considering the Commander and her ground team had just blasted their way through Thorian Creepers and not a few Asari commando clones before meeting the Asari herself. Covered in Thorian blood and guts and Dana had seen right past it, hooked immediately on the low, throaty quality of the woman's voice. She wanted to listen to it longer, wanted to hear all about whatever the woman felt like addressing, even if it was related to the giant, hideous plant monster they'd just killed. 

But Dana was a professional at the end of the day, and wasn't the sort to hit on a woman who'd just been through something any sane person would recognize as being pretty fucking traumatizing. 

Then she'd met her again years later after the Commander's world had been turned upside down. Sitting on a bench in the financial district of Illium, looking determined but at the end of her rope, and even though she had a problem that needed solving just like everyone else in the whole damn galaxy it had been…calming, talking to her. Helping her out. Hearing her again, her quiet confidence strong despite waylaying frustrations. And even though there had been that spark, that gentle caress of the Asari's hand on her cheek, Dana hadn't asked her then, either. 

The Collectors were hurting people, and Shepard had a job to do. It simply hadn't been the right time. 

They weren't convinced now was the right time, either, but it was getting to the point where Dana had to admit that maybe Kaidan had a point -- that the company was what mattered, circumstances be damned, because the way shit kept going there may never be an ideal time. 

No matter how badly Dana wished she could give her one. 

She'd never go so far as to call herself a romantic, given that her skills in that area were lacking. Flirting with someone she was actually interested in was difficult, words getting caught in her throat or slipping past her lips in ways different from how she'd thought them, and any hints of charisma she may have claimed always went right out the damn airlock. Need her to talk down mercs and threaten pirates? No problem. Need her to whip soldiers into shape and follow orders? Piece of cake. Need her to get politicians to get their heads out of their asses? Maybe a touch more difficult depending on how well wedged the politician was, but she'd get it done.

Make normal-ass conversation with an intelligent, funny, beautiful woman? Word vomit. 

Every. Fucking. Time. 

[eyayah-oya]

My Brothers

66 FOLLOWERS!!! Thank you to everyone who has followed me and stuck around as I mess around with Star Wars and the Clone Wars.  This fic is for you all!

Also, I’ve had this story idea rattling around in my brain since last Saturday.  I hope you all enjoy and I’m sorry in advance.

Rating: T

Pairing: none (maybe Rex/Echo if you squint)

Warnings: canon typical violence and death (I’m sorry a named clone gets killed off screen ToT)

Ao3 link

           Echo let his blaster fall to the ground from his numb fingers.  The Empire had sent Crosshair after them again, with five full squads of troopers, trying to terminate the traitors.  They’d finally managed to subdue them all, including Crosshair, and had removed his chip.  All that was left was waiting for him to wake up and help him deal with being under the control of an evil regime.

           Hunter, Tech, Wrecker, and Omega gathered around Crosshair, just like they had done for Wrecker when his chip had activated, and waited.  And suddenly, Echo found he couldn’t stay there a second longer.  He had other duties to attend to.

           The small clearing the Empire had cornered them in was covered in the bodies of fallen stormtroopers.  If Echo blocked out the past year, he could even believe that these were squads of shinies and that the rest of his brothers would be at a camp nearby, mourning the loss of the ones killed in action.  But the Empire destroyed everything good left in the galaxy and left behind flimsy illusions of a perfect society.

           Rather than pay any kind of attention to his team—because they weren’t quite family, not really—Echo moved to the closest stormtrooper, clad in the new, weaker armor the Empire supplied its army with.  He knelt down in the blood-soaked dirt and pulled off the trooper’s helmet, needing to see their face.

           The clone that looked up at the starless sky with blank eyes couldn’t have been older than eight.  They had probably only just been deployed before the Order went out and the galaxy fell.  Echo brushed his fingers over their eyelids and closed them.  “Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la, vod’ika,” he whispered.  Echo wished he knew their name.  Instead, he slipped the tags from around their neck, emblazoned with their CT number, and placed them in his hip pouch.  There wasn’t anything he needed in there at the moment, and it was more important that these brothers be remembered.

           Echo moved to the next one and repeated the process. Again.  And again.  Some clones were older, like Rex or even Echo himself.  Others were obviously shinies, sent to die for the new Empire.  Most fell somewhere in between.  All of them carried the face that Echo had spent his whole life looking at, a comforting familiar that he no longer could indulge in. None of the clones he had teamed up with shared a clone’s face.  The only one that Echo had seen since they’d left Kamino was Rex.

           Force, Echo missed Rex.  He wished Hunter had taken Rex up on his offer and they could have gone off and actually made a difference in this awful galaxy.  Maybe Echo could have helped save his brothers instead of slaughtering them.

           But.

           Standing among the bodies of his dead brothers, Echo felt like wailing.  Like crying. Like giving up for once in his short, pathetic life.  He hadn’t felt this way since Rex had told him exactly what had happened to Fives. And Hardcase.  And Kix.  And Jesse. And the rest of the brothers that Echo loved and fought beside.  They were all gone.

           When he’d been rescued from the Techno Union and realized the full extent of what they’d done to him, Echo had sworn he would never hurt another brother again as long as he lived.  He’d already been the weapon used to kill countless numbers of clone troopers (and Echo really didn’t know how many brothers had died because of the information the Techno Union had dug out of his brain), he refused to be used like that again.

           Echo stood in the middle of a clearing, surrounded on all sides by the bodies of the brothers he had helped kill to save one.  How many could he have saved if he’d just spoken up to the rest of the Bad Batch?  How many would still be alive if he’d had the courage to present his own tactics instead of relying on Hunter’s?

           The next bucket he pulled off revealed a face that was more familiar to him than all the others.  This was a vod he knew personally.  His hair had been shaved down, but from the tan lines on his head, it was obvious he had had a mohawk for years.  There was the cute scar on his lip from when he’d sparred Commander Cody and bitten through his lip.  Echo had laughed with Fives and congratulated the shiny on lasting longer than usual against Commander Cody.

           There wasn’t a speck of 212th gold on Wooley’s armor.

           They’d stolen his mind, his free-will, his identity, and Echo had stolen his life.  He’d killed the adorable floofy-haired kid with the most lethal tooka eyes in the entire GAR and a wicked right hook.  The one who loved stories and songs from far off planets and could weave the most incredible tales around the fires after a battle.  His sightless eyes gazed up at the stars he’d loved so much.

           With a silent sob, Echo fell to his knees and pressed his forehead against Wooley’s, cradling his body as best as he could without a hand. “Ni ceta, vod’ika,” he rasped as tears streaked down his cheeks.  “Ni ceta. I’m so sorry, Wooley.  I should have saved you.  I could have saved you.”

           There was nothing but the still-warm skin of Wooley’s forehead pressed against his own.  No shaky breaths or snarky comebacks or easy forgiveness.  Nothing but the soft murmur of Hunter’s voice as he assured the others that Crosshair would be alright.  Nothing but Echo’s own gasping sobs as he mourned the lives he had taken with his own hands.

           “Echo?”  Omega’s voice startled him, and he nearly reached for the blaster he’d dropped before he registered that she wasn’t a threat.  “What are you doing out here?”

           “It’s nothing, Omega,” Echo said, his voice rougher than usual.  “Just gathering intel.  You should go check on the others, make sure they’re holding up alright now that they have Crosshair back.”

           “I’m sure they’d all feel a lot better if you came and joined us,” Omega suggested.  She sounded worried.  Echo didn’t have the heart to turn around and comfort her, knowing she would see the tears on his face.

           “I’ll come back when I’m done.  He’ll probably be waking up soon anyway.”

           For a moment, there wasn’t any sound behind Echo, but he refused to turn and look.  Someone had to be the voice of reason for the Bad Batch, even if they didn’t listen very often, and he couldn’t do that if they saw how broken he really was.  Not even sweet Omega.

           A gentle, small hand settled briefly on his shoulder, and then Omega walked away, picking her way carefully through the dead bodies. Echo let out a shaky sigh and set Wooley down on the ground again.  As gently as he could, he closed Wooley’s eyes and ran a finger down his cheek.

           “Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la, ner vod’ika.  I’m so sorry, Wooley.  I will do everything I can to free the rest of our brothers.  Haat, ijaa, haa’it,” Echo vowed softly.  He wore Wooley’s tags around his neck, rather than putting them in the pouch with the others.  Echo wanted—needed—the weight to keep him grounded even as he continued to mourn and honor the brothers he’d killed.  Dread and grief weighing down his every step, Echo moved through the remaining bodies, removing their helmets and collecting their ID tags so he could remember every one of them.  There were a few more brothers he recognized from the 212th and the 327th, though he hadn’t ever been as close to them as he had to Wooley.  It still hurt, looking at these men whom he’d loved and cherished, knowing that he was the one that had killed them. Knowing that he was responsible for them dying as slaves of the Empire.

           At some point, Echo heard Wrecker’s joyful yell, Tech’s babbling lectures, and Hunter’s quiet reassurances.  Even Omega chattered excitedly.  Crosshair must have woken up, then.  Echo didn’t move to greet him or welcome him back to the world of free-will. Instead, he focused on his task. There were only a few left, and then . . .

           And then what?  What would Echo do?  He had the commlink Rex had slipped him before he’d left them on Bracca, but could he really abandon the Bad Batch now that they were all reunited?

           Yes, Echo realized.  Omega was the only one that he would miss extensively.  He just didn’t belong with these off-color clones. He might not really belong anywhere, but he had a duty to his brothers and to Rex.  His last true brother.  Echo would try to contact him.

           But first, Echo couldn’t leave his brothers like this. Left rotting in some forgotten clearing on some forgotten forest moon in a forgotten sector of the galaxy.  It felt . . . wrong to leave them like this.  Echo knew there was a shovel among their gear on board the Havoc Marauder.  It would be difficult, but he could bury them.  Give them each a proper send-off.

           It was a good plan.  Echo knew that the others wouldn’t understand.  They’d be angry with him, probably try to make him change his mind.  Maybe even tell him that these “regs” weren’t worth the effort it would take Echo to bury each of them.  Especially since he only had one hand.  Handling a shovel would be difficult, but he would do it. For his brothers.  Regardless of what the squad said or complained about.

           With a final, murmured Remembrance, Echo stood and made his way back to the ship.  Tech probably kept the shovel in the cargo hold with the rest of the gear they didn’t use as frequently.  Most likely with the other survival gear he’d dubbed “unnecessary until necessary”. Echo knew that feeling very well.

           As cluttered as the cargo hold was, it actually didn’t take Echo very long to find the shovel, and soon, he walked back down the ramp to go find the best place for a mass burial site.

           “What are you doing?” Tech asked, and Echo stopped in his tracks.  “Why do you have our shovel?  Is there some kind of specimen that would be beneficial to take with us?”

           Echo’s grip on the shovel constricted and he very carefully didn’t look at the others.  “Just a little bit of maintenance and storage,” he answered, voice tight with anger. “Don’t worry about it.”

           “Is there something wrong with the ship?” Hunter asked.

           “No, there’s nothing wrong with the ship,” Echo answered, a bit shorter than he’d intended.  “Relax. I have everything under control.”

           “Oh, great,” Crosshair drawled, and Echo had to fight to keep his shoulders from climbing to his ears.  He’d forgotten how caustic the sniper could be.  “We’re taking orders from the reg now.”

           “What’re you talkin’ about?” Wrecker boomed.  “Hunter’s still our Sarge!”

           Echo decided it would be better just to walk away. Until a soft, sweet voice halted him in his tracks.

           “Echo, are you going to be digging holes for the stormtroopers?”

           “Don’t be ridiculous, Omega.  That would be illogical.  Echo wouldn’t spend time burying a bunch of stormtroopers, especially as he doesn’t have two hands and can’t hold the shovel properly,” Tech scoffed.

           More machine than man, Echo sighed heavily. He turned around and faced the Bad Batch for the first time since they’d managed to take down Crosshair without killing him.  They would see the red, sore eyes and the tear tracks down his grimy cheeks.  They’d see Wooley’s tags, standing out against the dark paint of his armor.  As much as he should be worrying about showing them that vulnerability, Echo had reached his breaking point.

           “Yes, Tech, I am going to bury them.  It’s the right thing to do,” he said slowly and evenly, desperately trying not to lose his temper.

           Tech heaved an annoyed sigh, like Echo had been placed on this team specifically to bother him.  “Again, that is illogical, Echo.  The Empire will send someone out to dispose of the corpses, or the wildlife will eat them before anyone else arrives.  We will need to move shortly to avoid detection, especially since they’ll know we have Crosshair once they see this failure.”

           Failure?  Echo swung the shovel off of his shoulder and dropped it to the ground.  “Is that what you see?  A bunch of failures that we merely disposed of?” he growled softly.

           Wrecker gulped and muttered a not-so-quiet “uh-oh” while Hunter’s eyebrows raised in surprise.  Omega looked like she wanted to hug someone, maybe somehow prevent this fight, and for a moment, Echo regretted starting anything.  She was the bright star left in his life, but he was fighting for all the other bright stars that he’d murdered.  He needed to say this.

           Crosshair didn’t actually say anything, and Echo couldn’t help but be relieved at that.  He only had to deal with Tech.

           “Well—yes,” Tech fumbled, clearly confused as to why Echo was clarifying anything.

           “You know what I see?” Echo asked.  He didn’t wait for an answer.  “I see my brothers that we killed to save yours.  I see my brothers that I swore to never harm again, murdered by my hand.  I see men who had as much choice in their actions as Wrecker or Crosshair, killed simply because they were in our way while we saved Crosshair.”

           “We didn’t have a way to save them all,” Tech argued back. “Besides, they’re just regs. Crosshair is a modified clone who would be more dangerous in the hands of the Empire than any other average clone. It was logical to rescue him above the others.”

           “Tech—” Hunter tried.

           But Echo snapped.

           He pulled Wooley’s tags from around his neck and held them out, a vicious snarl on his face.  “Do you know who these tags belong to?  Of course, you don’t.  These tags belonged to my little brother.  Wooley from the 212th.  I watched him grow up from when he was a just a little shiny, rescued from the Separatists who had been planning on selling him to the Trandoshans to be hunted down for sport.  I watched him learn how to fight from Commander Cody himself until he could hold his own for several minutes.  Wooley had a stupidly adorable, fluffy mohawk and the best tooka eyes in the GAR that he used liberally on General Kenobi to get him to go to medical.  He loves music and stories and the stars.  And I killed him.  I shot my little brother, my vod’ika, so you could save yours.

           “I’ve killed hundreds of my brothers, men that I served proudly beside for two years, to save your brother.  I swore to never harm another brother, and I broke that promise for you, just so you could save Crosshair.  And now, you want me to just leave them here to rot?  For the Empire to find?”  Echo shook his head with a sharp, bitter laugh.  “No, I’m done.  I refuse to turn my back on my brothers and if you can save yours, then I can save mine. Get Crosshair and Omega out of here and lie low so the Empire doesn’t find you, but leave me here.  I’m saving my brothers, this time.”

           He leaned down and picked up his shovel.  Really, he had no idea how he was going to dig fifty graves with only one hand, but he had to do it.  He had to try.

           “Echo,” Omega whimpered and he couldn’t help but drop to his knee and hold his arm out towards her.  She immediately rushed into his hug and Echo held her close for a moment, dropping his shovel back to the ground.  “Don’t go, please?”

           “Omega, I don’t want to leave you,” he said softly.  “But my purpose is elsewhere in the galaxy. Hunter and the others will keep you safe, but right now, I have a duty to save my brothers and I intend to do it. I can’t do my duty if I stay with the Bad Batch.”

           “What if we came with you?” Omega sniffled.

           Echo locked eyes with Hunter, and then Tech and Wrecker. Crosshair didn’t even bother looking up. “These guys are your family, Omega, and they need to do what’s best for you.  You shouldn’t have to experience war, and that’s exactly where I’m going. I’m a soldier and a weapon that any rebellion against the Empire could desperately use.  That’s what I was made for.”

           “You’re not—” Hunter started, and Echo could see the desperation and uncertainty in the Sergeant’s eyes.  “You’re not just a soldier or a weapon anymore, Echo.  You have a place with us.”

           “I’m a droid,” Echo said.  He gently nudged Omega back and pressed his forehead against hers for a second before giving her a little push towards the rest of the Bad Batch. He stood up and looked at the other clones, so unsure of what to do in this kind of situation.  “I was turned into the ultimate weapon against my brothers, and Tech said it himself.  I’m more machine than man now.  All I’m good for is doing menial repairs on the ship and being sold for credits.  I was “just a reg” before I became a prisoner of war, and you wouldn’t have even given me a second look if I wasn’t torn apart and put back together again.  I’m just a replacement that can be used when one of you isn’t able to fulfill your duties. A stand-in.

           Echo took a deep breath.  “I need to fight against this Empire the best way I can, and I need to save my brothers. That is my mission now.  I will fulfill my duty.”

           “But you can’t go,” Omega said, and there were tears glistening in her eyes.  “Echo, you’re a part of my family and I just got you.”

           “Omega, you’re a part of my family, too.  But you know that we’d do anything to save our family and I have a whole galaxy filled with my brothers who all need to be saved.”  Echo reached into one of the pockets on his belt and pulled out the secondary secure communicator he had built just in case.  “I’ll always be there for you, Omega.  I’m only one call away, and if you or the rest of the Batch get into trouble, I’ll come and help.  But I need to do this.”

           She took the comm in trembling hands, then with a sob, threw her arms around Echo’s legs and shook.  “I’ll miss you so much, Echo.”

           “I’ll miss you, too, Omega.  But don’t worry, I’ll keep in touch as much as I’m able to.  And we’ll see each other again.  I know it.”

           Echo let Omega hug him for as long as she needed as he ran his fingers through her hair soothingly.  He would miss her a lot.  In fact, she reminded him a lot of Ahsoka when she was a youngling at the beginning of the war.  Naïve and just wanting to prove her own worthiness.  Eventually she stepped back, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand.

           “I understand why you need to go,” Omega said with a watery voice.  “I’ll call you every day, okay?”

           He chuckled.  “Maybe not every day, but as often as we can both manage.  I promise.”

           Hunter stepped forward and put his hand on Omega’s shoulder. “Echo—“ he began, but Echo held up his hand.

           “It’s alright, Sarge.  Just—take care of her and each other.  And if you’re ever stuck in a situation, give me a call and I’ll come help.”

           “Are you sure we can’t convince you to come with us? There’s plenty of room for you.”

           Echo shook his head.  “You saved your brother.  It’s time I saved mine.  And you need to do what’s best for Omega.  Taking her into war zones would be a terrible idea.”

           Hunter stared at Echo for a long time, likely trying to figure out if there was any way he could convince him to stay, but Echo held firm. He didn’t belong with the Batch. Never really had.  They were good for a temporary posting, just to help readjust since Rex was busy with the war and dealing with the loss of so many brothers before everything went to hell.  Echo was ready to get back into the thick of the fighting.

           “Wrecker, go grab Echo’s gear and whatever rations and medical supplies we can spare,” Hunter ordered.  He turned back towards the rest of the Batch.  “Tech, get Crosshair on board and start up the engines. We need to get going as soon as possible in case the Empire returns.  Omega?  You should probably go get strapped in for takeoff.”

           The Batch scrambled to obey, though Echo noticed both Wrecker and Tech giving him uncertain looks.  Little brothers were always the same.  They always wanted to make sure they were doing the right thing and looked to their ori’vode for advice and help.  Hunter had filled that role for so long, but Echo had carved out a tiny space for himself, too.  As much as Echo wanted to help them, he had his duty.  And he could only really help them if they actually listened to his advice. But it didn’t hurt to leave them with a few last suggestions.

           “Hunter, don’t trust Cid.  They’re only looking out for themself and will likely betray you if it’s profitable enough.  Find someone you can really trust and have them teach you how the galaxy works so no one else can take advantage of you.  And take care of yourself and the others.  Especially Omega.”

           Hunter nodded and saluted Echo.  Echo gave a weak grin and returned the gesture before he picked up his shovel once again.  He had work to do.

           It didn’t take long for the Havoc Marauder to take off, and he watched the ship silently until he could no longer see them before turning back to the field of white, broken bodies.  His hand slipped into his belt pouch and removed the secure transmitter Rex had given him before they’d parted ways.  Without hesitation, Echo flicked it on and called the only saved frequency.

           “Rex?  Yeah, I’m gonna need a pickup.  Got room for one more in your little rebellion?”

             (Hours later, and after Echo had finally finished burying the last body, Rex’s ship touched down in the clearing.  The door slid open and five notes were whistled out of the opening.  It was a call Domino squad had come up with while on Rishi and one that he and Fives had continued to use in the 501st.  The only person left that would know that tune was Rex.  Echo grinned and returned the whistle.  Seconds later, a shape that was definitely not Rex barreled out of the ship and into Echo’s arms.  Ahsoka was taller than he remembered, and a lot more weary and sad.  But she was alive, and that’s what mattered most.

           Echo looked over her montrals and grinned at Rex, who leaned against the ship and just watched him reunite with his long-missed jetii’ka vod’ika.  The Empire may have taken everything good out of the galaxy, but a few small pockets persisted.  They had hope and they were willing to fight for it.

           “Let’s go save our brothers,” he said, arm wrapped around Ahsoka’s shoulders as they walked back to Rex.  Echo only paused once to look back at Wooley’s grave.  He would not be forgotten, and Echo would make sure that for every life he took, he’d save two more.  It’s what he owed them.  It’s what his brothers deserved.

           Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la.  Not gone, merely marching far away.)

[skyemak]

Cater Gets a New Do

Cater stood under one of the various trees of the courtyard. His hands were deep in his pockets as he swayed heel to toe. As a cool breeze brushed his skin, the leaves above him rustled slightly. Again, Cater glanced around the courtyard, and looked behind the tree. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone from his pocket, both to check the time and to check for any Magicam notifications. Recently there hasn’t been much going on at Night Raven College nor at his dorm. It was about two days since his last post, which was unlike him. However, he felt a sort of creative block recently, and no matter how many selfies or pics he took, he didn’t feel they were up-to-par to post to Magicam.

“Oh, Cater-senpai, what’re you doing here?”

Cater glanced up from his phone, a relaxed smile appeared on his face when he saw his familiar underclassman. “Hiya Ace-chan!” He raised his hand by his face, making a peace sign. “Yuu asked me to meet her here after school—said she wanted to ask me something. I wonder what it is~”

“Heh, I think that’s obvious.” A smug smile grew on Ace’s face.

“Hm?” Cater dropped his hand to rest on his side. “What’re you thinking, Ace-chan?”

“Nothing~ Just get ready for a new confess tag to post on Magicam,” Ace chuckled to himself, strolling away.

Cater blinked and looked down at his phone screen before quickly shutting off the screen. He grabbed a piece of his hair with his thumb and finger as he stored his phone back into his pocket. “Heh, as if.” But his mind began to wonder.

This school is surrounded by boys, so it’d be no surprise if Yuu-chan got a crush on someone.

She hangs out with the Adeuce combo a lot, so I’d first guess she’d like one of them.

Ah, but they’re not the brightest crayons in the crayon box.

As a human, Yuu-chan would probably prefer another human so they’d be more compatible. At NRC, that would leave Heartslyabyul, Pomefiore, and Scarabia.

Pomefiore is kinda intense in their own way.

I heard a lot happen as Scarabia…

Well, a lot happened since Riddle’s overblot too…

Now that I think about it, Yuu-chan always smiles in the morning when she sees me. It probably isn’t much though since I’m always acting peppy anyway.

Cater used his index finger to lightly twirl his hair in thought.

…But if she did confess… What would I say?

His ears tinted pink as he glanced down. The beat of his heart quickened slightly.

Well, I admit Yuu-chan is a little cute.

Another breeze flew by, rustling the leaves of the tree he stood by. Cater glanced up the wood. Soon the season will be changing, which will probably give Cater better potential selfies for his Magicam account.

“Senpai!” a voice yelled in the distance. Cater immediately turned his head toward its source and saw Yuu running toward him. “I’m sorry for making you wait!” she exclaimed. Yuu approached, stopping a few feet in front of him, out of breath.  She slouched over with her hands on her thighs, trying to catch her breath. “Trein-sensei made me stay late since I did so bad on his last test…” she whined. Cater chuckled, “Heheh, Trein-sensei can be quite strict. I know all too well.”

After a few moments to balance her breathing, Yuu heaved a sigh and stood straight up. She looked directly toward Cater with a determined look in her eyes. “Anyway, senpai!” Cater flinched. Abruptly, he felt his chest tighten. He glanced away from her. “Y-Yeah?”

Yuu grabbed Cater’s hand and held it gently in both of hers. “Senpai, I need you!” she exclaimed.

“Huh?!” Cater erupted. “M-Me?” He couldn’t help but notice how soft her hands felt against his.

Is…Is she really gonna confess?!

Okay, she is more than a little cute now that I see her more closely.

We could also post couple-y photos on Magicam.

I can see the comments now. “OMG so cute!” “I’m so jelly I wanna boyfriend/girlfriend~” “You two look so cute together!”

Wait, I need to consider her feelings too!

Ah, but she would probably expect me to wanna take selfies together.

Wait again, what about when she goes back to her world?!

“Senpai?” Yuu asked innocently, still holding his hand. He snapped back to reality.

“Ahhhh! Fine! Okay! I’ll do it!”

“Yay! Uh, Senpai, why is your face red? Are you feeling okay?”

Cater covered his face with one hand, looking toward the ground. The sound of his heartbeat rang through his ears. “I-I’m fine…” he muttered.

“Great!” Yuu smiled. “Can we do it at your room then?”

“…Huh?”

“I think I could also use two of your clones for it.”

“What?!”

-----

Yuu opened a tote bag swung over her shoulder and began to set out various hairbrushes, a curling iron, flat iron, and other hair products on Cater’s dresser. Cater stood by, watching her bring the products out. He timidly put his hands together and covered his nose and mouth with them.

She… She just wants to practice different hair styles on me…

“Cater-senpai, would you sit here?” Yuu beckoned. Cater twitched a bit in surprise. He looked over and saw her gesture toward a chair, holding a salon cape. “Y-Yeah.” He stepped forward, plopping down on the chair.

“By the way, Yuu-chan.”

“Hm?” she asked, pulling the cape around him to clip.

“Why me…exactly?”

“Well,” she began, taking the clip out from Cater’s hair. “You have nice length hair and it’s easier to try different styles with your hair. Plus, your unique magic makes it so I can practice multiple hairstyles at once! Oh, I don’t need them yet though.”

“Is that so…” he trailed off. Yuu gently ran her fingertips through Cater’s hair. Each time the brushed his hair with her fingers, it felt soothing to say the least. She stepped toward the dresser to grab a brush. Without realizing, Cater let his lids fall as she brushed through his orange strands of hair. Her movements were so gentle and tender, any tension he felt in his body just oozed away.

“I’ll just start with something simple,” Yuu said, setting down the brush and grabbing a fine-toothed comb.

“Okay,” Cater briefly replied.

She used the end of the comb to separate the top section of his hair to carefully tie into a rubber band. Once in, she tugged a bit at the hair in the rubber band at the top of his scalp to add some volume. When satisfied, Yuu again used the end of the comb to section out a piece of his hair at the side of his head.

“Yuu-chan,” Cater spoke up as she began to braid the section of hair. His eyelids still shut.

“Oh, does something hurt or feel uncomfortable?”

“No,” he quicky said, “I was just wondering why you’re practicing hairstyles on me.”

“Yeah, hold on, lemme finish this braid first, Senpai... There, that looks good,” Yuu said, tying the braid into another rubber band. “Well, there’s a couple of hairstyles I wanna try for myself but I wanted to practice them. But there’s a few I wanted to try but hmmm… How should I put it?” She took her comb to section out another piece of hair at the other side of his head. She took that piece and combed it to looked less disorderly. “It’s hard to figure out how to do hairstyles that have the focal points on the back, or that are consistent throughout. I don’t have anyone to kinda help me with that, but I thought if I could try it on your hair, I can get a good idea how to do it for myself, I guess? Plus, I can practice more than one at a time because of your unique magic! So, it’s hitting two birds with one stone, you could say.”

Yuu took the new section of hair and braided it as well. “Ohh,” Cater said.

“Whatever is done to your clones doesn’t reflect your appearance when they disappear, right?” She rubber banded the section of hair.

“No, not really.”

“Good…” Yuu smiled to herself, combining the two braids to the first piece of hair she rubber banded earlier. “Ah, this one is looking cute.” She grabbed a pink ribbon to tie a bow around the three pieces of hair. “I thought it was gonna be easy.”

“What’s it look like?” Cater asked.

“I’ll take a pic,” Yuu said, taking out her cellphone Crowley had given to her not too long ago. She snapped a quick note before facing the screen toward him. “See?”

“Oh, that’s a cute look! It’d probably would look really cute on you, Yuu-chan!”

There was a brief pause. Cater felt his cheeks redden. He just said what popped into his head without realizing it. The man was grateful Yuu couldn’t see his face. Yuu pulled her phone away from view, and quietly replied, “You think so…?”

There was another short pause before Cater spoke up, “So, you said you needed two clones to practice?”

“Uh, yeah,” Yuu answered abruptly. It involves using a curling iron, so I wanted a backup for when I mess up.”

“Okay, Split Card!”

-----

“Hey, Yuu-chan,” said Cater copy #1, “you did good makin’ these wavy curls.” He shook his head joyfully, singing out the curled waves in his hair. “They’re so bouncy!”

“Oh yeah,” said Cater copy #2, “I have this nice braid crown going over my head.” He gestured toward the top of his head. As he said, a braid wrapped around his head, and a few strands of hair dangled from the crown. “Truly I am King Cater!”

“Which one is Yuu-chan working on now? Number 4?” Cater copy #3 said, rocking an orange mohawk.

“A-Are you sure you want me to shave it?” Yuu asked timidly to copy #4, hesitantly holding a pair of clippers.

“Yeah, sure, go ahead!” Cater copy #4 delightfully replied. “Doesn’t affect the original! Plus, it’ll make for fun selfies to put on Magicam.” The other copies shouted, “Yeah!” in unison.

“I don’t need my followers to think I changed my hairstyle 5 times in one day!” the original Cater spoke up.

Yuu had asked Cater to make two clones of himself originally, to have one as a backup, but found she only needed one try to figure out how to curl waves with a curling iron. Then she asked for another two to try the braid crown in case she needed a backup, and then it just snowballed from there.

“Cater, you want me to try shaving the side of your head?”

“Yeah!” Copy #4 said, “I always wondered about those asymmetrical cuts!”

Yuu glanced over at the original Cater. He just shook his hand as if to say, “Go ahead.” Like copy #4 said, it doesn’t affect the original.

“Okay, here I go…” Still unsure, Yuu turned on the clippers, causing a faint buzzing sound.

-----

Hard thumps could be made out in the Heartslabyul dorm hallway carpet. The dorm leader was gritting his teeth, his face red in anger. “What need would he have to make his clones and make such a racket?!”

“Calm down, Riddle,” Trey kept pace beside Riddle. Trey’s efforts were only brushed aside as Riddle trampled on, beelining to Cater’s room. As they neared, loud sounds of giggling and laughter echoed behind the door. Ready to cast his unique magic the second he opened the door; Riddle grabbed the doorknob with great vigor. The next second, Trey’s arm swooped in front of Riddle’s body.

“Riddle,” he said. His voice was gentle, but stern. “Let’s access what’s going on before doing anything drastic, okay?” Trey smiled reassuringly. Riddle took a deep breath in before heaving a heavy sigh. The red faded from his face. “Fine,” the dorm leader said, almost with a pout.

“Uh, Cater-senpai, er, senpais?” a female voice said behind the door.

“Don’t worry!” said Cater.

“We’re just having fun, Yuu-chan!” said what again, sounded like Cater.

“Yuu?!” Trey stated. His eyes opened wide in shock.

“That’s it!” Riddle forced the door open, stomping inside before yelling. “Cater!”

“Yuu, are you--?” Trey began but cut himself off.

“Oh, uh, hi,” Yuu awkwardly waved at the two. Not in any danger, but a bit tense, Yuu was sitting in the chair the previous Caters sat in before. Multiple Cater clones were pointing at her hair or held a piece of it in her hand.

“A fishtail braid would look great in her hair!” said the Cater with a braided crown.

“You know our sisters said we sucked at it growing up!” said the Cater with wavy curls.

“Well practice makes perfect right?!” said the braided crown Cater.

“I think a French braid is a classic. Plus, we were usually good at them growing up,” said Cater with a side-shave. His arms were crossed as he stared at Yuu’s hair in thought.

“Uh, Caters, maybe let’s not tug at Yuu-chan’s hair,” said the original Cater, his hair still with the braided back style.

“Don’t be so stingy,” braided crown Cater said.

“Yeah! I know you’d wanna do a fun hairdo with her too, since you could take a couple-like selfie with it!” said cater with the side-shave.

“Wha--? Why would I?!” the original Cater argued, but pink flushed his cheeks. He dared not look at Yuu’s face. What sort of expression she was making, he had no idea.

“’Cause we’re all thinking the same thing?” said Cater with the braided crown. “We haven’t posted anything on Magicam in a while anyway.”

“Uh, I kinda have some other homework I needed to get to tonight…” Yuu mumbled, looking as lost.

“I think we should try something new entirely!” slipped in Cater with a mohawk. In his hand were the clippers from before. With a smug look on his face, he turned them on. Yuu yelped.

“OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!”

Riddle’s signature collars appeared on all the Caters’ necks. Then, all the clones poofed out of existence, leaving just the original Cater, still in the collar.

“Oh, hi there, uh, dorm leader…” Cater mumbled, trying to avoid any eye contact.

“What’s going on in here?” Trey asked.

“Hair styling practice?” Cater hesitantly answered.

Riddle sighed. He crossed his arms and stood with authoritatively. “Cater, you’re making too much noise. Also, it’s past the allowed time for visitors. I won’t punish you for breaking the rules this time but be aware. I won’t be as forgiving next time.”  

“Y-Yeah, I’ll be sure not to let this happen again,” Cater said, bowing toward Riddle.

“Glad it wasn’t something major…” Trey remarked. His forearm leaned against the side of the doorway. “Alright, Riddle, let’s let them clean up.”

“Hmph.” Riddle turned on his heel and walked back into the hallway, Trey following closely behind.

“Uh, hey!” Cater said, running toward the door. “What about this collar?” A few seconds later, the collar vanished from his neck. He heaved a sigh and walked back into his dorm. Yuu was already packing up her supplies, and just about finished.

“Um,” Cater spoke up, gaining her attention. Yuu looked toward him, zipping her bag up and swinging the handle over her shoulder. He put his hand at the back of his head. For a few moments he stared at the floor, shifting his feet, before looking back toward the girl. “Sorry, I didn’t realize it’d get so…hectic.” He chuckled. Yuu looked toward her back, fiddling with the strap of it between her fingers. Cater took notice, lowering his hand from his head, staring at her expectantly. When Yuu finally spoke up, her eyes were still at her fingers. “We can…still take a selfie together…if you want.”

Cater jolted. “A selfie…?”

His chest tightened when she nodded timidly, a soft pink in her cheeks.

-----

Cater sat on the bench at the foot of his bed. His leg was bent with his foot on the bench, and his cheek squished as he rested his face on his knee. He looked idly down at his phone screen, swiping through his camera roll. He selected one of the selfies with Yuu recently, and chose to open it in an editing app. The default recommended filter was to add hearts around their faces.

He turned off the screen, setting his phone screen down on the bench. “I don’t really wanna post any of the selfies…” he mumbled. After a few moments, he vocalized a heavy sigh. Cater raised his other foot to the bench, then used his legs to launch himself backwards to fall into his bed.

“I liked the idea of a French braid on her…”

[howtohero]

Being Stuck in a Love Triangle With Your Superhero Identity

Ah love, that beautiful, tragic, kinda pancakey (if you’ve ever been in love then you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t know what I’m talking about then you’ve never truly been in love!) thing. It fills our stomach with (live {no} oh so they’re dead?) butterflies and warms our hearts and preoccupies all of our thoughts. It can be wonderful sure, but it can also be needlessly dramatic and as with all things, superheroes do it more dramatically than anybody else. See, since superheroes have (at least) two identities, they’re sort of like two separate people. Due to the need to have two distinct identities, superheroes often try to make their superhero identities everything they want to be, attractive, powerful, hygienic, etc. Which means that their civilian identity needs to be the exact opposite: shlubby. Now, if you were a single looking to mingle, would you not rather date the attractive, muscular person who showers as opposed to Snively Joe who is none of those things? I know I would. Yet, superheroes don’t often date in their heroic identities, they usually only use that form to save the day and fly away. (It’s almost like it doesn’t matter if they’re attractive and have good posture and that there’s a clear misplacement of priorities here.) So what often happens is that Joe Nevershowers develops a crush on a reporter or a ukulele player but that hard hitting ukulele player has no interest in Pick-a-Nose Joe and instead has set their sights on Slovenly Jovenly’s alter-ego, Hatman, or whomever. Hilarity ensues.

So, what we have here is a classic love triangle. Person A likes Person B who instead likes Person C because Person C is better than Person A in literally every way. They can fly. That’s better than walking. Only here instead of there being two people in “competition” both Person A and Person C are really the same person. So logically there shouldn’t be any problem. The two people like each other! Only one person doesn’t know it. And also, the version of the person that the other person likes is a version of that person who isn’t really a person at all and thus can’t go on excursions and dates and whatnot. So, to sum up, the other person like the undatable version of that person. Rough times. 

You can’t date anybody in your superhero identity, that would negate the entire purpose of having a secret identity to begin with. That’s like becoming a doctor just so you can get people sick. Sure, you’re technically giving yourself more work, in both cases you now have more people to save, but it definitely seems counterintuitive. But you like this person, and they technically like you right? This could definitely happen, there might just be a future here. You just have to get schemey first. Start meeting up with your crush in your superhero guise. Perhaps they’ve got a job that’s valuable to a superhero. If they’re a journalist you can make it seem like you’re trying to give an exclusive interview. If they’re a ukulele player you can tell them you want a killer ukulele solo on the new version of your theme song. Then, when you’re hanging out with your crush, who definitely thinks you’ve already asked them on a date, start talking about your secret identity. Be like, “Hey, I’ve got this friend, Cool Guy Joe, he’s so cool. He’s probably the best person in the world. Everything I know about being handsome and good at bowling I’ve learned from him. Did I mention he’s single?” This might seem very off-putting at first and indeed your crush might not respond at all. They might think you’re being really weird. And they’d be right! You are being weird. Just ask them out like a normal person you weirdo. 

This is an especially bad way to go about things because there’s literally zero chance of you succeeding. Best case scenario, your crush agrees to meet your friend Bad-Breath Joe, the two of you hit it off, but now they expect you to be friends with super-you and you have to somehow perpetuate that lie. Possibly through the use of clones or holograms. Middle case, they agree to meet Joey Macaroni Face solely in an attempt to get closer to super-you. Worst case scenario you alienate them completely and you’ve lost your chance.

Now, here’s what you really do. You date them, as a superhero. See, the only reason we don’t want you dating as a superhero is because it opens up your loved ones to supervillain attacks, but if the supervillains don’t know then what are they going to do? Guess who your loved ones are? I don’t think so. In fact, supervillains are so aware of this superhero tactic that they rarely even bother with trying to identify superhero’s loved ones. It turns out that superheroes don’t want anybody to die so any random chump on the street can be kidnapped and used as leverage against a superhero. So if you start dating somebody as a superhero most supervillains will (probably) think the entire thing is a big misdirection stunt. After all, why would you so openly and brazenly dangle somebody in front of them. It must be some sort of no good superhero trap. So, in the short term you should actually be able to get away with it. Now, you’re still better off going on dates somewhere away from the public eye, like the top of a famous monument or at that really chic Atlantean restaurant King Water Breather told you about. When you start your relationship be sure to make a comment about not being exclusive, this way they can still date Trash Bag Joe. As you date them take stock of things they like, things they don’t like, what kind of love language they have. (This is actually just good dating advice, even if you’re not scheming your significant other.) Then you can use that knowledge to impress them as Joey Can’t-Dance. Also maybe take a shower without your costume for once. And do something with your hair. It looks weird. I don’t even know what you were going for there. Like, is it a reverse mohawk? Is that what you’d call it. It’s not quite large enough for it to be you balding and it’s not thin enough to just be a regular part. What’s going on there? Where’s the rest of your hair? It doesn’t look like that when you’re a superhero, do you have like a strip of hair you put there when you put on your costume? Do you wear a wig? Gosh dude you’re so weird. 

With any luck Joe Who? will land his dream date and you’ll be flying high in both of your identities. Everything will be going to smoothly until... oh no... what’s this? A flyer for the Annual Intrepid Reporter/Amateur Ukulelist Ball Which Yes By The Way Is Definitely A Real Thing???? Gasp. Well, we all know how this story goes. Person B asks Person C to go to the ball with them but Person C, the supposably undatable version of you who has become a version of you that is actually a datable person, claims that he can’t attend this event, as he has an aversion to dancing. So Person B is left with no option but to invite Person A, the worsened version of the person. The version of you that is Person A gleefully accepts, and casts some crass aspersion at Person C (who, as we know is just another version of himself) to make yourself look better. But then, what’s this? Person C comes back into the picture, apparently this version of the one person we’re referring to has miraculously gotten over his aversion to dancing. He has made the conversion to a dancing version of the person. (Wait what, why would you do that to yourself?) Luckily Person B happens to have three tickets to the Ball, she was going to invite her Uncle Stu who loves dancing, but screw that guy. So now, without telling Person A, or Person C, who are in actuality two versions of the same person, Person B now has two dates to the Ball. Two dates who are the same person. (Again, there was no reason for you to do this to yourself.) So now both of you have to run around switching clothes and pretending to get drinks or going to the bathroom in order to just continue to dance with each other.   

Eventually though one of you will get caught. Probably you, if you wanted to expose your crush for two-timing at the dance you wouldn’t have gone to the dance as both versions of yourself in the first place. Your crush will be horrified and angry and confused (mostly confused about why you would manufacture this “two dates to the prom” situation in the first place instead of just going to the dance with them as one version of yourself) and will definitely storm out, leaving you alone. Now, this might seem like the opposite of what you want but I bet you’ll find that, in trying to court them, you actually learned a lot about what you want in a relationship. While taking stock of what they liked and disliked and how they expressed love you learned more about yourself and what you like and dislike and want out of a relationship. And who better to provide those things for yourself than yourself! In trying to chase after one person from two different perspectives you learned that the only person you really want to romantically pursue is yourself, and that the only person you want romantically pursuing you... is yourself. And that’s beautiful. 

Thus, as with all great love triangles, the best result can be achieved by removing the middle party. Person A realizes that their ideal version of love lies not with Person B but with the version of themselves that Person B loved, Person C. So, now that Person B has blocked both of your numbers and has issued to restraining orders against you, you can finally pursue happiness, with Person C, who is just another version of yourself. Love triangles are tedious, especially when they’re with yourself, but the end result can be a love more powerful than any love you have ever known before. Self love. Happy Valentines Day, go on an elaborately schemey date with yourself! 

[this-is-the-salivation-army]

REVISITING THE PERMISSION FACTORY Scott Treleaven (2015)

You’ll have to forgive a few extremely unsexy paragraphs so we can get down to figuring out the lifelong, tenuous romance between punk and gay culture: how it got started in the 70s, how it got revitalized in the 90s, and why this unique relationship persists. It’s the story of how gay culture rescued the first would-be punks from the sexual puritanism of their parents, and how punk would later resuscitate the fury of a devastated gay scene. When I first got into punk music as a kid I found that I connected with a sensibility that seemed to exist nowhere else. What I could only later describe as “Weimar-esque,” punk seemed to have awareness not only of how sex could be liberating and daring, but how it could also be used to *entertain* without being sapped of its vitality. Whatever can be said about punk’s stance against normalcy and capitalism, punks knew the importance of putting on a show; it didn’t have to be a good show, it didn’t have to be a long show, but punk always promised that there’d be something genuine to experience. The fact that some twenty years on it would become relevant again, in a regenerated form as “queercore”, is a testament to punk’s original intent. And once again this reincarnation would come partly as vaudeville, and partly as social hammer.

Of all the ‘origin of the species’ stories about how and where punk got started, who its progenitors were and what historical and cultural factors came together to birth it, Jeff Nuttal’s appraisal in BOMB CULTURE (1968) rings most true for me. Written almost a decade before punk existed, Nuttall surmised that the somber and shell-shocked post-World War II generation would also have to deal with the profound moral schizophrenia brought on by a moment that annihilated the reassuring binary simplicity of ‘good guys versus bad guys,’ forever. The men and women raising children in the late sixties in the UK and the US, the children that would eventually become the first “punks,” must have had found it hard to countenance that the good guys who liberated Europe had gone on to commit the unspeakable atrocity of dropping an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. Not only did it mean that the shadow of nuclear war hung over the world’s future from now on, but it begged the mostly unspoken question of how one raises a child with any kind of moral assurance when the supposed good guys were capable of the very atrocities they had fought against. Unlike the Bright Young People who emerged as a sort of upper-class, upbeat and insolent post-WWI phenomenon, the pervading air of nihilism and punk’s working class roots had more in common with the clownish despair found in Dada. The closeness of the US/UK alliance might also explain how mutual culpability created a climate that lead to punk’s simultaneous emergence in both countries. Always in the background, the same subliminal refrain, that the dominant culture no longer held moral authority.

The staggering austerity that punk emerged from made it seem like there literally was no future to be had. When I hear tales of kids playing in the bombed out ruins of an empire I think how it must’ve made the edifices of society seem as flimsy and impermanent as they, in fact, are. The only thing you could be sure of was that your young body was alive and filled with a kind of vitality that wasn’t mirrored in the landscape. Suspicion of tradition gave way to a thirst for what was outside, what was verboten. What the parents rejected the kids embraced. Reggae was alien, exciting and new; the Nazi paraphernalia that terrified their elders could be wielded partly for shock value but also to disgrace its symbolic power; and there was also a more pronounced cognizance that underneath the New York Dolls’ and Bowie’s slap was a frank acknowledgement of the wild frontier of gay culture and its influence on style. Along with the draggish maquillage, the bondage gear and the outright porn, what punk found thrilling in the burgeoning gay scene was its frank embrace of fringe and coded styles, its penchant for hidden venues, its gender non-conformity, and the inherent power in outsider camaraderie. After all, “punk” meant “gay” before punk meant punk. The queered sexiness that would become intrinsic to punk had the dual purpose of titillating the uninitiated while simultaneously ridiculing the uptight behind-the-plastic-curtains realm to which sex (or any arousing image outside of sanctioned smut and/or artwork) had been relegated by older generations. Punks were all about giving each other permission to flaunt, demystify and explore own their sexuality.

Eventually, after a particularly cold-blooded breed of Conservatism (perhaps there is no other kind) took hold at the end of the 70s, the virulence of its free market spirit had the effect of turning punk signifiers into just another load of feel good shopping experiences. Stock slogans, mohawks, safety pins and leather jackets became a uniform; anathema to the very things punk was initially about. While punk was defanged, an even more horrifying extermination of subcultural potential was taking place as the sexual libertinism and freedom that characterized the gay scene was ravaged by AIDS. Whereas the radioactivity from Hiroshima eventually dissipated, and the West somehow got back to convincing itself of its own decency, the AIDS epidemic was just getting started and the banner of morality was callously plied to create an exponential body count, and effectively ensuring a plague that could never be contained. By the early 90s the gay scene had gone back to adopting an attitude similar to the “clone” mentality of the late 70s; originally used as a way of signifying sexual difference and availability, the gay scene had now become cautious, conformist and grim as AIDS killed off most of the renegades and sexual astronauts. After approximately 500,000 cases of AIDS and 300,000 deaths in the US alone were reported by the mid-90s, gay culture was reeling and understandably desperate for some kind of homogeneity to patch together what was left. It was from this gloomy fray that queercore first emerged.

As punk had once turned to queer culture for its social-sexual strategies, now it was returning the favor. The blinkered gay and lesbian mainstream in the mid-90s felt neither inclusive nor progressive, or even particularly political, suffering as it was from what can only be called battle fatigue. Under siege for so long, the scene seemed to want to return to some kind of clement version of a pre-AIDS heyday where everyone could listen to mediocre dance music in the company of others who wanted to conform to the new gay normal. If the world was fair, the likes of Queer Nation, Outrage and Gran Fury would’ve thrived, but there was less room now for the libertine weirdos and troublemakers who might (or might not) have caused all of the chaos in the first place. Eventually two Toronto-based punks, G.B. Jones and Bruce LaBruce, would change everything by launching an incendiary campaign through zines, music and manifestoes, to call out the gays on their conservatism and to make the supposedly open-minded punks put their inclusivity to the test. Following their lead, queercore bands, zines and record labels – like Matt Wobensmith’s Outpunk – flourished. For me personally, as a twenty-year old punk recently transplanted back in Toronto in 1993 after a year of living hand-to-mouth in London, discovering that I could reconcile my music, my politics and my sexuality was a revelation. Already ideologically hopped-up on publications like RE:SEARCH, RAPID EYE and HOMOCULT, I’d also had a fortuitous meeting with queer saint Derek Jarman shortly before my return who clinched for me the idea that there was more to one’s sexuality than simply who you fucked. Jarman’s idea of queerness was that it was a blessing of sorts, a radiant kind of permission. It reinforced for me what I’d always felt: that being queer meant that you could slough off a past, an ideology and a trajectory, that's not yours to inherit and keep on forging paths that are as yet unimagined. And if that wasn’t punk, I didn’t know what was.

Graduating from art school in 1996, and with G.B. Jones’ help, I shot the world’s first queer punk documentary. More of a polemic than a who’s-who, QUEERCORE: A PUNK-U-MENTARY was an attempt to unify some of the politics and positions of the company of outcasts I was keeping. Combining these ideas with some stark pseudo-military aesthetics copped from postpunk bands like Psychic TV and New Model Army, I also started publishing my own zine, THIS IS THE SALiVATION ARMY. Rejecting salvation as a nebulous, ludicrous concept, *salivation* was where it was at; always on the tip of your tongue, something your body knows. And in the wake of the full on body-terror that followed AIDS, this kind of fluidic moniker was about more than just spit. Branding itself as a the mouthpiece of a full-fledged “queer pagan punk” movement with hundreds of members and everybody fucking each other, it didn’t seem useful, or poetically true, to tell readers that in reality it was just me with a gluestick, alone at 3am in an all-night photocopy shop. Another lesson learned from punk: print the legend. Aside from the hyperbole, the zine distinguished itself by trying to be an honest platform to discuss and celebrate sexuality in all its forms, and to this day it’s a point of pride to know that my readership wasn’t solely made up of horny homocore boys, but an equal amount of women, bi and straight readers, too.

Eventually the zine spawned a film of the same name in 2002 that would try to keep the myths alive alongside the truth. The fact that the zine and the film still get unearthed says something, to me at least, about its view of sexuality as something innately powerful, and the punk ethos at its core still gives the go-ahead to explore in the company of like-minded others; being part of an ongoing, swelling history is always better than being part of something unique. When punk first reared its head in the 70s, decrying sex as squelchy and boring was a genius way of disarming the shame-makers, the rockers and the doting hippies, showing a preference instead for anger and action over getting your rocks off and calling it a weekend. In the 90s however the slogan had shifted to take aim at the puritans and fear-mongers with a distinctly feminist pitch. The patches on people’s jackets were daubed with slogans like: You Say Don’t Fuck, We Say Fuck You!, Silence = Death, and Not Gay As In Happy, But Queer As In Fuck You! On the heels of this declaration that queers weren’t the filthy creatures that the religious zealots and right wing would have you believe, another reinvigoration of sexual awareness came in the form of a wave of punk-made porn. It’s almost impossible to imagine now, but in the pre-selfie, pre-internet world, occupying pornography was a radical act. Like industrial musician and performance artist Cosey Fanni Tutti’s astutely aware ownership of her participation in pornography – usurping the male-made-for-male-gaze structure – the queercore scene wrestled its bodies away from the overly muscled uniformity of the Aryan sideshow freaks that populated gay porn and made images of their own. Like Warholian superstars, Jones’ and LaBruce’s zines and films launched a new blue generation and everyone, myself included, loaned their time and their bodies to one another in the pursuit of a new kind of radicalism. Suddenly you weren’t jerking off to the too perfect torsos in mainstream porn, instead you could find insanely erotic homegrown smut to get off on that also served the purpose of smashing the stereotypes purveyed by the other mags. The empowerment had positive effects on the models, too. Starring in a couple of centerfolds and films, I found that the lowly view I’d held of my weedy twenty-year old body started to vanish. Better yet, as I got behind the camera I learned to make other models snap out of their narrow views of what turned people on as we added our own brands of eroticism to the collective pool.

The notion that punk was anti-sex, entirely cynical or entirely nihilistic is overplayed. There would’ve been no bands, no shows, no pageantry and no studied provocation if that were true. Now that gay culture has become obsessed with the push for “equality” an ugly, overwhelming sense of genteel propriety has come along with it. The church and the army – the last places on earth a punk or a queer should be – are the mindboggling territories being fought for. When I think about the first time I saw Pete Shelley mincing around in the video for ‘Homosapien,’ even at the tender age of eight I felt that the elegant futuristic world he occupied was going to be mine too, someday, not the weddings and wars that were the destiny of my other little friends. As the 2000s kicked in, my hometown Toronto was a hotbed of queercore activity well past the time when most of the early bands had hung up their guitars and the zines had folded. The late, great artist impressario Will Munro organized a vibrant scene there that was dedicated to the idea that the sexual vitality of the queer scene aligned with the restless utopic cravings of punk could still come together to create something *other*, something *better*. The entire planet is currently groaning under the weight of conservative corporatism, and those thinly veiled fascists are floating the idea that there is no other way but theirs. The spirit of punk, if it truly did anything in the past, and if it can do anything now, is to keep kicking the can further down the road; to say, “This is bullshit and it’s not enough, we can do better. And if you can’t make it better we’ll smash it up and start over.” Sex, punk-sex if you will, can remind us of where that desire originates. It’s in our bodies, it’s innate and it says something more to us about our human place in the world than simply being on a conveyer belt through a shopping-mall-cum-torture-chamber.

– originally published in ‘SHOWBOAT: PUNK/SEX/BODIES’ (2016), edited by Toby Mott   http://bit.ly/2twFApe