#corellian hound | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hellfiresky · 3 hours ago

Text

Private Parts (Uncensored)

Contribution to @clonexocweek | Theme: What if?

What if the 79's hosts a comedy night?

Summary: When 79’s hosts a drag-themed comedy night, a surprise guest throws the whole night into dangerous territory. With a fucking non-clone brass lurking in the audience, Parts and his MCs (Fives and Hardcase) must walk the thin line between comedy and insubordination.

Pairing: Parts (Clone OC) x Several Clone Troopers (Hardcase & Fives & Bacara & Wolffe & Howzer & Rex - platonic, sibling dynamics, no clonecest/ship) Word count: 10,7k Warnings: Way too many real life swear words, Republic being shitty towards clones, clone rights, very sarcastic and critical towards the Republic, self-deprecating jokes.

Taglist: @orangez3st @msmeredithrose

79’s had always been a conventional bar, albeit clone-friendly. Well, very clone-friendly. Clone troopers practically got to drink their cheapest beer for free (pale ale, some troopers swore it was just repackaged pisswater). But when you’re officially considered property of the Republic, given the bare minimum BAS, and expected to die young and obedient, you take whatever you can get.

The bar, like any other on Coruscant, ran special nights to keep things interesting. Mostly ARC Night, officially named “Shock & Shots” - a testosterone-fueled event where Advanced Recon Commandos got up to some of the wildest shit known to the Republic. That included drinking contests that had led to at least one ARC getting medevaced out after chugging Mandalorian Tihaar straight from the bottle. Another one was Brass & Glass, where captains and commanders got their overpriced whiskey and Corellian brandy at half price, turning 79’s into an impromptu officer’s lounge whilst the shinies watched in awe (or boredom, if Cody was getting preachy). It was fun. Always had been. But for Parts? Still boring as hell.

Parts was a marine. A hard-charging, fungal-cloud-in-your-goddamn-armour-and-freeze-your-tits-off-on-Rhen-Var-surviving marine of the 21st Nova Corps. He didn’t get the cushy life of a Coruscant Guard trooper - those fuckers spent their days chasing pickpockets and breaking up the occasional bounty hunter attempt on some senator’s overly botoxed face. Big whoop. Out in the field, entertainment was a joke. Sure, some of the boys smuggled old HoloNet games. Some ran illegal sabacc rings. Parts once saw a trooper get genuinely emotional over a five-year-old issue of Swoophead Monthly because it had a full spread of a custom-modified swoop bike. If you were lucky, you got the GAR Broadcast - a looping HoloNet program hosted by Bettie-Bot VJ, a BD-3000 luxury droid with proportions that made even the straightest, most regulation-abiding shinies start questioning shit. Not Parts, though. He didn’t give a fuck about Bettie-Bot. Why didn’t they make luxury droids look like Pebrito Paksal? That Corellian actor? Now that was a man worth watching.

Stand-up nights. That was what saved Parts from dying of sheer fucking boredom. It had started small - Commander Bacara, surprisingly, had a dry and dark sense of humour, and he actually encouraged the boys to blow off steam by roasting the absolute shit out of each other. Rhen Var. Middle of a fucking snowstorm, nothing to do but huddle in a tent with some questionable “hot caf” (which was just ground up date seeds, filtered, and mixed with water). Someone set up a crate, a couple of glow rods for dramatic effect, and boom, stand-up night was born.

Parts killed. He had the best material. He was observational. He was sharp. He had a big fucking mouth, and people loved it. It spread. The Nova Corps started broadcasting it on the GAR intranet. Soon, other legions caught on. 501st had Fives and Hardcase, a duo so chaotic they needed a stage. 212th had Boil and Waxer, whose material somehow always involved the obvious tension between their marshal commander and general. Coruscant Guard had Hound, whose entire routine was just roasting Commander Fox, and the troopers fucking loved it. Ryloth’s sweetheart, Howzer? Shockingly hilarious. Who knew good hair came with good comedic timing?

For months, they plotted in a group chat that never fucking shut up. A nightmare of meme spam, drunken voice messages, and Fives insisting they needed a fucking theme song. Then it happened. They hacked into 79’s schedule. It was time. Not just for the officers, not just for the ARCs. This was for everyone.

Grand Clowns of the Republic Parts: So it’s settled???? Hound: Yup, all hail Hound and my boy Grizzer. Thorn: Bro brought the massif to the establishment, they had no choice but to say yes. Fives: Everyone align your calendars and schedule. I'll be back from Ossus in three days. Waxer: That means we only have 72 hours to make this shit legendary. Dogma: Can someone explain to me why we are doing this? Echo: Because the Republic pays us like shit, and morale is important Fives: AND because representation matters, you repressed bastard Cody: No Cody: No, I am not doing this. Wolffe: Neither am I Fives: Lies. Both of you are performing Fox: Wolffe, you owe me for that time I covered your ass back on Kamino Wolffe: … I fucking hate you. Hardcase: I ALREADY PICKED OUT YOUR NAME WOLFFE. Wolffe: I am going to start a war crime Howzer: Wait, why do we need a name again? Hardcase: PRETTY BOY WASN’T BRIEFED? Parts: BECAUSE WE WILL PERFORM IN DRAG

It started, like all great disasters, as a joke. One drunken night in the group chat, Parts and Fives got philosophical. “We have karaoke nights. We have stand-up nights. But you know what’s missing?” Parts had said, probably slurring from whatever substance the medic gave him after he got shot - straight to his chest, barely holding his comm up. “A government that respects us as individuals?” Fives bit back.

“Well, yeah, but also drag.”

Fives went silent for a second. “Holy fuck.”

"Holy fuck, indeed."

"You know what this means?"

"We are going to corrupt the entire GAR?"

"We are going to corrupt the entire GAR."

And that’s how it began. The next morning, Parts woke up to 200 unread messages in the group chat, half of them Fives screaming in all caps, and the other half Hardcase trying to convince everyone that there should be pyrotechnics involved. At first, it was just them. Just Fives, Hardcase, and Parts talking shit, bouncing ideas back and forth, coming up with the campiest, most chaotic possible versions of this. Then the boys from the 212th found out. Then Hound got involved, which meant Thorn got involved, which meant everything got ten times more unhinged. And then, in a twist of fate, Bacara saw the chat and, instead of shutting it down, just sighed and muttered to Parts in person, “This got out of control.”

That was basically approval.

Shore leave couldn’t come fast enough. And when it finally came, Parts was fucking happy to see his brothers. Not all of them made it back, of course, that was just the price of war. A price he had slowly, begrudgingly, learned to accept, because what the fuck else could he do? Was it sad? Obviously. It was devastating every damn time. But when half your employers saw you as expendable meat in armour and the other half didn’t even think you were worth paying properly, well. Shit. Parts could either cry about it or laugh, and laughing hurt less. It was like that for all of them, a whole army of men cracking jokes and being absolute fucking menaces just to cope. Life was short. Fuck, their lives were shorter - might as well fucking laugh in the process.

This was one of those rare occasions where a lot of the legions ended up on shore leave at the same time. 212th. 501st. 21st Nova Corps. Even some of the shinies (freshly arrived from Kamino and spent their time doing caf runs for the Corries) had managed to sneak their way into Coruscant’s lower levels instead of wasting time at the military barracks. It was electric when this happened, all these troopers - brothers, bastards, absolute dumbasses - spilling out into the city looking for entertainment, alcohol, and questionable choices. The Corries always loved it when the off-world units came in, because Coruscant duty was half shit, half fun. The entertainment scene was unmatched - clubs, bars, swoop races, gambling dens - but at the same time, they were fucking glorified cops with no Jedi oversight and no real combat. Worse, most of the good clubs were too damn expensive unless you went underground.

But the underworld. Now that was a different story. Parts had seen a lot in the underworld - had seen things that made battlefields look boring, had done things that weren’t in any Republic training manual - but what changed his fucking life? Drag night.

And it wasn’t even his idea to go. He never would’ve gone on his own. He was too busy running around hidden gems in the surface levels with his very secret, very confidential boyfriend, a boyish, disgustingly handsome Chiss named Arok. Arok worked as an info broker for the Pykes, which made him fun as hell and also a walking liability, so obviously, Parts was stupidly into him. There were rules about this sort of thing. Republic loyalty, military integrity, blah blah blah - but if Captain Rex from the 501st could date a fucking Mandalorian bounty hunter, why did he have to care about rules he never agreed to in the first place? And Arok was beautiful and dangerous, with cheekbones sharp enough to gut someone and a mouth that could talk his way out of anything except the times Parts shut him up with a kiss. One night, during their usual night out, Arok had literally fucking dragged him into an underground club deep in the Core’s underbelly.

And that was the night that changed everything. Because drag night was a fucking revelation. Parts hadn’t participated - he didn’t even know what the fuck was happening at first, thrown into the middle of it with no context, surrounded by a storm of glitter, synth music, and people dressed better than anyone in the Senate. There was something otherworldly about it. Regal, like a battlefield but with more glitter and less death. The sheer confidence, the power of the performers - they commanded the room like generals, but instead of armour, they wore velvet and silk and sequins, and instead of war, they demanded joy. It wasn’t just a performance. It was a declaration of presence. I exist, I am here, I am magnificent, and you are going to watch.

And Parts watched. And something in him clicked. It wasn’t even about gender, or identity, or whatever deep philosophical shit some Republic senator would’ve made it about. It was about owning the space you took up, and making damn sure no one could take it from you. It was about looking society in the face, spitting on its rules, and then making yourself so loud and beautiful they had no choice but to respect you. After that, it was only a matter of time before the idea for Drag Night at 79’s was born.

He already had the perfect fucking name for it.

As a marine, Parts was cold as hell. First in, last out. He had earned his name in his first mission, a legend in the 21st Nova Corps for surviving a horrifically bad landing during a high-altitude insertion. His gunship had malfunctioned mid-drop, smashing into the ground so hard it nearly cracked his fucking spine, but instead of dying, he had crawled out of the wreckage, dazed as shit, and still shot three droids in the face before passing out. From that moment on, he was Parts. Private Parts if he wanted to pull ranks (or the lack of it). Because half his fucking armour had shattered into spare parts, and because clones were assholes who thought names like that were hilarious.

The joke wrote itself. Private Parts had a new meaning. Impeccable drag name. Impeccable Army of the Republic. It was destiny. And it was going to be the greatest fucking thing 79’s had ever seen.

“Ya got everything checked, Case?” Fives elbowed the tattooed trooper next to him, the two of them crammed into the back room of 79’s that they’d definitely not been given official permission to use as a dressing room. The place reeked of cheap cologne, sweat, and whatever the fuck Hardcase had used to style his synthetic wig (it was probably some kind of engine lubricant, knowing him). In front of them, hunched over a cracked mirror, Parts was butchering his own damn face. He had no makeup skills. None. But that had never stopped him before, and it sure as shit wasn’t going to stop him now. He dragged a streak of eyeblack. Yes, actual eyeblack, the one used to reduce glare in battle, across his eyelid - smudging it like some tragic battlefield makeup tutorial gone wrong.

"Yep," Hardcase said, distracted, flipping a glow-in-the-dark wig over in his hands like it was a grenade he was about to throw. “But since we have no money, we gotta make do. None of us are gonna be as pretty as the queens in Uscru.”

“Uscru?” Parts scoffed, still wrestling with his war crime of an eyeliner attempt. “Please, those queens have budgets. We’re over here making ball gowns out of blankets and tarps.”

Hardcase shrugged. "Might as well just throw the wigs on and call it a day. As long as we’re funny, right?"

"And as long as we have fun." Parts threw his eyeblack across the table, missing Fives by half a centimetre. “Besides, drag ain’t mandatory. We just need these dumbasses to show up and perform.” He grinned. “Especially the commanders.”

“Oh, speaking of.” Fives cackled so hard he nearly dropped his drink. “You know we forced Rex to perform?” Parts paused mid-swipe, turning to squint at him. “Your captain?”

Hardcase barked out a laugh. “There’s only one Rex.”

“Nah, nah, you don’t get it—” Fives wheezed, bracing a hand on the cluttered table. “We tricked him into it. We said it was just a public speaking exercise.’”

Parts let out a horrified gasp. “You fucking maniacs. Rex is gonna murder all of you.”

Hardcase wiped a tear from his eye. “Worth it.”

Parts, feeling emboldened by their collective commitment to clownery, yanked a brunette wig onto his head, fluffing it with the kind of grace one might use when shooting a droid. “Well?” he tossed the wig’s synthetic curls over his shoulder. “Do I look like Senator Amidala yet?”

Fives lost it. Hardcase was doubled over, choking. “Amidala - Amidala in armour. Armourdala!”

“Yeah, battlefield chic.” Parts smirked, adjusting the wig.

“You’re a fucking menace.” Fives absolutely lost it.

"Correction," Parts grinned, tilting his head just enough for the neon bar lights to catch the absurd shimmer of his highlighter. “I’m Private Parts. And tonight, boys—” He turned to the mirror, inspecting the look he had assembled. “Tonight, I’m gonna be a fucking queen.”

Parts did not expect the turnout to be that… good. Like, what the actual fuck. He peeked from behind the curtain, half-expecting the audience to be just his usual batch of idiots and some drunk shinies, but no - this was a full-blown GAR gathering. Commanders, captains, even the stiffest, most regulation-abiding bastards in the whole damn army had shown up. He swore under his breath, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him from fucking ascending.

Bacara was there, of course, his own goddamn CO, sitting with Commander Blackout, looking every bit like the two most dangerous fuckers in the galaxy had somehow ended up at the worst possible talent show. Fox and Cody shared a table, both looking like they were already regretting being there. Rex sat with his men, and - was that Jesse? With a girl? What the fuck? Parts squinted. He wasn’t sure if she was real or if Jesse had just coerced some poor soul into this.

The private took a breath, turned away from the audience, and looked back into the absolute war zone that was the dressing room. The performers were hyping each other up in various states of questionable preparedness. None of them was in drag. Well, Howzer had glitters in his fades. Wolffe was wearing some kind of silky material shirt. Fives had replaced his kama with silk scarves, and Hardcase had thrown on glow-in-the-dark wigs. So, technically they were also in “drag” if you looked at it sideways and with the lights off.

And then there was Parts himself. The only one actually in full drag.

He adjusted his dress, ignored the existential crisis forming at the base of his spine, and - oh. His eyes caught on someone in the crowd. Front row. Arok. The stupidly good-looking Chiss info broker who had dragged him into this world in the first place, sitting there smug as hell, sipping something that looked way too expensive for this establishment. Parts swallowed. He looked cute as fuck. Shit.

Parts shook it off, straightened his back, and turned to the poor souls he was about to wrangle into MC duty.

“Ayo, vod, who’s gonna MC?” he raised a brow at Wolffe, who was standing there with the expression of a man enduring divine punishment. Wolffe did not move. Did not blink. Did not fucking breathe. Parts could practically hear the calculations running through his brain, weighing the cost of his dignity against whatever debts he owed Fox for covering his ass back on Kamino.

Then, Parts turned to Howzer. “Or maybe you, sir?” Howzer, who had up until this point been unbothered, leaning against the makeshift vanity with the stance of a man who had never known a bad hair day, suddenly looked very, very interested in the exit.

“I’LL DO IT!” Two voices, in perfect fucking unison.

Parts barely had time to turn his head before Fives and Hardcase shoved past him, their glow-in-the-dark wigs bouncing, looking like two men who had been waiting for this exact moment their entire goddamn lives. Okay. Not bad. Not bad at all. If there were two people in the GAR who could command a room, it was these chaotic dumbasses. Fives and Hardcase weren’t just entertainers - they were fucking legends.

The entire Torrent Company was like that. Popular as shit. Serving under Anakin Skywalker did that to you - he was the Republic’s golden boy, the Hero with No Fear, and probably the reason none of his men had a proper grasp of military professionalism. Fives and Hardcase had spent years absorbing Skywalker’s unhinged energy, plus whatever teenager slang their thirteen-year-old general Ahsoka had drilled into them.

"This drip deserves a stage!" Fives shouted, doing an absolutely unnecessary spin in his silk kama.

"Let’s fucking go!" Hardcase smacked Parts in the back. And Parts could only grin back. If anyone could hype up a bunch of battle-hardened, traumatised, and heavily drunk clone troopers, it was these two. He stepped back, letting them take center stage, and turned to look at the audience again. The room was packed. Commanders, captains, even a few officers who were absolutely going to pretend they were never here. Parts exhaled slowly, adjusted his wig, and braced himself. This was it. The greatest fucking disaster the GAR had ever seen was about to begin.

The second the lights hit the stage - which was just tables pushed together - Fives and Hardcase exploded onto it like they were born for this shit. “LADIES! GENTLEMEN! AND NON-CONFORMING BADASSES OF THE GRAND ARMY!” Fives’ silk kama was lopsided, but he didn’t give a shit. “AND THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE HERE BECAUSE YOU WERE BLACKMAILED, COERCED, OR OTHERWISE FUCKING FORCED INTO ATTENDING!” Hardcase added, his glow-in-the-dark wig was pushed a bit too much to the back of his head.

The crowd erupted. Parts, watching from the sidelines, was biting back a laugh. These two were good. Fives adjusted his mic. “Welcome to the first - AND ABSOLUTELY NOT LAST - GAR DRAG NIGHT!” Hardcase leaned in, his grin was so wide it could have split his face in half. “That’s right, ladies, we are gathered here today to celebrate, to entertain, and most importantly - to watch a bunch of grown-ass clone troopers have a complete and total breakdown in real-time.”

Raucous cheering from the back tables. Parts peeked out again - yep, Rex had his head in his hands. Cody looked like he was considering making a run for it. Fox was sitting so stiffly he looked like he was about to implode into a dust. Fives clocked it immediately.

“Oh, what’s the matter, boys?” He grinned directly at their table. “You look tense! You’re telling me the finest, most elite, most battle-hardened leaders of the Republic can survive an entire war but can’t handle a little heels and hairspray?”

Hardcase gasped, “Unbelievable. These are our commanders? These are our protectors? These are the men leading us into battle?” He violently shook his head. “Honestly, boys, I think we deserve a raise.”

Someone in the back yelled, “FUCKING SAY IT AGAIN.”

The bar fucking erupted. Troopers pounded their fists on the tables, boots slamming against the floor. Parts could barely hear himself think over the absolute roar of it.

Fives raised both hands, commanding silence. “A raise?” he said innocently. “Oh, boys, don’t be ridiculous. The Republic already gives us so much.” Hardcase gasped again, putting his hand over his chest. “You’re right, vod. We already get so many benefits.”

“Oh yeah. Like the privilege of being government property.” Fives nodded solemnly. Hardcase pretended to wipe away a tear. “I mean, you’re telling me we get to risk our lives for a system that doesn’t even think we deserve citizenship? What a fucking honour.”

The cheering turned wilder. Shouts and yells clouded the room. “Oh, and don’t forget the wages, vod,” Fives continued, pacing the stage now, fully in his element. “I mean, what else could we possibly need? We get… what? Three credits a week? A meal plan?” He paused. “That sometimes we have to pay for if you want extra protein cubes?”

Hardcase nodded sagely. “And the best part? The longer you live, the more of a financial burden you become!” Fives turned to the crowd. “Because let’s be real, boys. What happens if you get too injured to fight?” The laughter turned bitter almost immediately. Silence. Until someone yelled from the back, slurred and angry, “They fucking kill you.” Fives simply spread his arms wide. “Exactly! And you wanna know the best part? The Senate call us heroes.” He put a hand over his heart. “They say they care. But last I checked, none of them are fighting to get us paid.”

The bar fucking howled. And Fives, a fucking menace, just kept going. “I mean, honestly! We could have been anything! We could’ve been doctors, we could’ve been musicians, we could’ve been…”

“STRIPPERS!” someone from the 104th shouted, and the room nearly fucking collapsed.

Fives grinned. He had been waiting for that exact moment. “Well, good news, vod! Tonight, we finally get to choose what we wanna be! We got a spectacular lineup for you tonight. Some of the GAR’s most talented, most charismatic, and most absolutely-fucking-blackmailed troopers are gonna be taking this stage”

“AND SPEAKING OF CHOOSING YOUR DESTINY!” Hardcase cut in. “Our next performer. Nay, our first fucking performer of the night - is living proof that YOU CAN HAVE IT ALL!”

“That’s right, folks! He’s got talent! He’s got beauty! He’s got a complete and utter refusal to get fucking promoted!”

The crowd lost its shit. Parts grinned from backstage, fixing his wig in the mirror, already bracing himself for whatever the fuck these two were about to say. Fives continued, barely holding back laughter. “Ladies, gentlemen, and all distinguished guests - allow me to introduce the only marine in the entire GAR who has served under Commander Bacara, survived some of the worst shitholes in the galaxy, dropped from high-atmosphere insertions straight into hell, and still said, ‘No thanks, I’d like to stay a Private because it makes my drag name fucking perfect.’”

Hardcase threw a fist in the air. “Because why the fuck would you ever mess with perfection?!”

“Because what is a marine without his rank?!” Fives turned to the crowd.

“WHAT IS A NAME WITHOUT MEANING?!” Hardcase screamed.

A pause. And then, in perfect fucking unison:

“INTRODUCING… PRIVATE PARTS!”

The audience went feral. And Parts strutted onto the stage like a goddamn queen. The cheap, makeshift dress swishing around his thighs, showing off calves sculpted from months of dropping straight into warzones with nothing but a rifle and armour. His makeup was done with a powder borrowed from a bartender, a red lipstick, and the earlier eyeblack. His wig was styled just enough that it had the illusion of looking like Amidala’s hair. And when he stepped out, tossing his wig over one shoulder, placing a perfectly manicured (okay, definitely armour-paint-stained) hand on his hip, he oozed confidence. “Well,” he purred. “If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s serve.”

Parts barely had time to brace himself before the cheers hit him like a seismic charge. Even his own CO, Bacara, was clapping. Commander Blackout raised his glass in his direction. This was why he did it.

The clones had always accepted each other. They had to be. They were all they had. That was just how it worked. Your sibling was your sibling, no matter what. He remembered a few months back, when one of the troopers had come out as a woman - Sister. And it was her own brothers from the 7th Sky Corps who gave her that name, who made sure the whole GAR knew exactly who she was. Because in a system that didn’t let them choose anything, they chose each other.

“Thank you, thank you! It’s your favourite trooper with the best ass-ets - Private Parts, reporting for duty!” He let the mic linger at his lips, waiting for the next wave of applause. “And by ‘duty,’ I mean the duty of keeping my fine ass alive long enough to collect all three credits they owe me for a full week’s work.”

Another burst of laughter from the crowd.

“I serve under Commander Bacara, and let me tell you… that man is cold. I once told him I was sick, and he just said, ‘Don’t.’” From the side of the stage, Fives and Hardcase were full-on wheezing. Both of them trying their best not to knock over the sound system beside them.

“You ever met someone who was SO committed to violence that even the Jedi looked at them and went, ‘Damn, maybe chill a little?’ BRO, THAT’S BACARA.”

That cracked up the room, troopers pointing at Bacara who was sitting at the front row like they had witnessed his war crimes firsthand. “You know it!” someone, definitely a fellow marine from the 21st, shouted. From the stage, Parts noticed that the bar was getting even more packed. Civilians and clones alike, elbow to elbow, drawn in by the sheer force of the show. Parts smirked before he continued his read. “Maybe if you just got railed properly, you wouldn’t be out here trying to fight the entire climate system of Hoth.”

Troopers were pounding their fists on the tables. None of them dared to read the marshal commander like that. And Bacara. To his credit, the man didn’t even try to defend himself. He simply sipped his brown drink, completely unbothered by the fact that he had just been publicly diagnosed with untreated rage issues and a chronic need to get dicked down, or just generally get laid, whatever his preference was.

“Bacara is by the book. Perfect soldier. Follows orders to the T.” Parts adjusted his wig, tilted his head just enough for the lights to catch the shimmer of his plastic earrings. “I’m just saying, vod. You tell Bacara ‘jump,’ he jumps. You tell him ‘execute,’ he executes. You tell him ‘Order 69,’… and that kama and codpiece are gone.”

That was it. Bacara, Marshal Commander Bacara, the man who had personally led the marines through some of the most inhospitable hellholes in the galaxy, who had fought through avalanches, blizzards, and enemy fire without flinching, choked on his drink. This personification of war machine was fucking wheezing, coughing into his fist, eyes watering as he shook with laughter. Soon after, the entire table of commanders fucking lost it. Cody, who had been sitting there stiff as a goddamn cadet on inspection, slammed his fist on the table, laughing so hard he had to physically turn away. Rex had his face buried in his hand, shoulders shaking. Fox, the most stressed man in the Republic, was openly cackling - violently smacking Cody’s shoulders.

It felt like winning the war. Parts basked in it, hands on his hips, watching men who had spent their entire lives fighting, bleeding, dying - finally just fucking laugh. This was why it mattered. Because it wasn’t just about war. It wasn’t just about the next deployment, the next battle, the next fucking mission. There was more than the war. And for the first time in a long time, Parts felt like he’d found something real.

“But enough about Bacara - tonight, we’re on Coruscant!” Parts paced the stage. “The city of lights! The shining heart of the Republic! Where everything is so clean, so polished, so perfect. Why? It’s almost like there’s an entire force dedicated to keeping it that way!” He paused. “Oh, look! The Coruscant Guard is here! Give it up for the guards, everyone!” From their respective seats, Fox, Thorn, Stone, Hound, and a handful of other Coruscant Guard troopers stood up immediately, all at once. “No, no. Not just clapping!” He shook his head, eyes wide with mock disappointment. “Tip them. Come on, be generous! They need the extra credits for the emotional damage of serving under the Chancellor alone!”

Was there a tiny, nagging anxiety in the back of all their heads that somehow 79’s was bugged and the Chancellor himself was about to hear a bunch of clone troopers shit-talking his crusty, ancient ass? Absolutely. Did they care? At this point, even Fox was probably ready to roast the old raisin himself. Stone, unexpectedly the most unhinged one out of all the Coruscant Guard commanders, which was saying something considering the company he kept, actually walked into the crowd, bucket in hand. “Help a trooper in need!” he called out. “Every credit goes directly to my therapy fund!”

Parts leaned into the mic, voice solemn. “Just one credit a day can provide a Coruscant Guard trooper with the emotional stability he so desperately lacks.” Before he began again, Parts whispered into the mic in a conspiratorial tone. “I actually met a Coruscant Guard trooper earlier,” The crowd quieted just enough to listen. “Told him I was on my way here to perform, and you know what he did?” Parts placed a hand on his hip, smirking. “The bastard tried to fine me.”

There were some cackles in the crowd. All of them knew - it was probably done as a joke, or some stiff shiny did that without knowing. Parts raised a finger, pointing skyward. “You wanna know what my offence was?”

“My bedazzled codpiece.”

Parts saw how that single line that he made last minute - that he thought was not funny - was enough to set the bar on fire. It was either because he was actually funny, or they were all under-entertained (and was a bit tipsy). “Sir, my name is Private Parts. That’s a birthright, not a felony!” He wasn’t done. “If anything, the only crime here is Fox’s caffeine addiction.”

The marshal commander barked out a laugh.

“Someone check on that man! Fox is the most overworked clone in the Republic!” The private turned towards him. “Commander, be honest. When was the last time you got a full eight hours of sleep?”

Fox shouted from his seat, “Kamino.” Beside him, Cody’s face turned red from laughter. He reached over and tousled his younger brother’s hair. And that was a sight - the commanders acting like shinies, like they weren’t the hardened warriors of the Republic, like they weren’t the men carrying an entire galaxy’s weight on their backs.

“And you know what’s wild?” Parts pointed back at Fox. “Fox hasn’t slept in years, but he still looks better than half of y’all civilians.”

One civilian audience actually clutched his chest like he’d been personally victimised. “Tragic!” Parts declared. He took a slow step back, gesturing towards the wings. “We also have other performers lining up here tonight! But seriously, some of these performers are like our Phase 1 armour, completely fucking basic.”

A unified, horrified gasp from the audience.

“Donate more?”

Surprisingly, some troopers were throwing small changes onto the stage. Someone tossed a ration bar, which was caught mid-air by Hardcase. He looked at it, ripped it, and ate it. “Now, before you all start throwing your entire fucking paychecks at these boys, let’s keep the show moving!” Parts flipped his wig over his shoulder. “Because trust me, the next performer is just as fucking broke as the rest of us! Everyone, give it up to the one and only. Here because he owed Fox something. Commander Wolffe!”

Wolffe was one of those commanders. Famous. Not the fun kind of famous. Not Jesse accidentally got himself latrine duty for a month because someone caught him running an illegal moonshine distillery in the barracks. Not Fives and Hardcase are banned from three cantinas famous. Not Parts resisting to get promoted to retain his name famous. No, Wolffe was famous for being terrifying. If Bacara was the most feared, Wolffe was the most intimidating. Strict. No-nonsense. The man could silence a room just by existing in it. Most troopers had only ever seen him on the battlefield.

Seeing Wolffe reluctantly drag himself onto the stage, looking like a man who had just been drafted into public execution, was a sight to behold. No one knew how he was around his fellow commanders. How he acted when he wasn’t surrounded by his men and battle tactics and casualties. And right now, Fox and Cody were yelling at him like he was their annoying little brother who had just embarrassed himself in front of their entire extended family. It was strange. Refreshing. A rare fucking moment of life in the middle of a war that didn’t let them have any. And then Wolffe grabbed the mic. And just stood there. With his arms crossed and blank expression. Staring out at the wild, drunk, screaming audience. Slowly averting his gaze to his men, the vicious Wolfpack, who were literally howling like maniacs just because they could.

“I don’t know why I’m here either.” Wolffe hummed to the microphone.

“Apparently, when you work in the Grand Army of the Republic, you don’t just fight a never-ending war - you are also forced into public humiliation.” That successfully broke the audience again. Most of the shinies who were usually standing at attention whenever they breathe the same air as the commander laughed their ass off - losing all sense of decorum.

"Don’t look at me. This is Plo Koon’s fault. He said I needed to 'loosen up.' Said I needed to 'connect with my brothers.' Like I don’t already spend every fucking waking moment surrounded by them. Like I don’t already have to share rations, bunks, battlefield trenches, and the occasional near-death experience. ‘Connect with my brothers,’ he says, as if I haven’t spent years side-eyeing every dumbass decision made by the fine, upstanding members of the 104th." Wolffe let out a long pause before deadpanning, "Commander, please. I barely tolerate them on the battlefield."

The audience went wild at that. From his corner of the stage, Parts exhaled. Okay, everything worked out so far.

"So, of course, the moment I walk in, the entire bar already knows I’m only here because I owe Fox a favour. Yeah. I don’t wanna be here. I don’t wanna be in this situation. I don’t wanna be in this itchy outfit—" Wolffe pulled on the silky grey shirt that Hardcase procured from maker-knows-where. "And the worst part? The reason I even owe Fox is because he covered my shebs back when we were shinies on Kamino. And that was… I shit you not… because I lost a bet and had to steal one of the instructors’ binocs. You know, those training binocs they used to train you at recon classes? Thought I was being real clever, sneaking up like some commando. Got it off the guy, felt like an ARC - until I immediately tripped over my own boots and knocked myself out. Fox had to haul my unconscious ass back to the bunks before anyone noticed, because if the instructors found out I was out there committing petty theft, I’d still be doing push-ups in Tipoca City to this day."

The crowd chuckled - more out of shared nostalgia than anything else. The type of reaction that says, Yeah, I did some dumb shit too. Because, let’s be real, every single one of them had been in his shoes - stuck on that grey, eternally damp, depressing excuse for a planet, where the only form of entertainment was either starting fights, breaking rules, or seeing how much you could get away with before an instructor made you regret existing. They all knew exactly what he meant. The endless drills, the constant discipline, the same fucking corridors over and over again. You had to make your own fun or you’d lose your mind.

"And for that one singular act of brotherly kindness - Fox has been holding this over my head like some debt collector. Years later, I’m out here, fully grown, with an eye scar and an existential crisis, and that smug bastard just goes, ‘Wolffe, remember Kamino?’ And next thing I know, I’m standing in a fucking drag show in the middle of 79’s, questioning every decision that’s led me here." The reaction was… lukewarm. A few chuckles, but no real pop. They basically said - Alright, that was kinda funny, what else you got?

Wolffe exhaled, scratching the back of his head. "Oookay. That didn’t work. Tough crowd. Fine, here’s a little extra for you—" he lowered his voice. "The instructor was Alpha-17, if any of you actually care." Now that got a reaction. A ripple of groans and winces swept through the audience before they turned into laughter.

"Yeah," Wolffe nodded, satisfied. "Now you get it."

"You think war’s bad? Try dealing with a squad who believes in team-building activities."

Wolffe let the words hang in the air before turning his head slowly towards the Wolfpack’s table. "Boost. Sinker. Comet." He let their names drop. A ripple of laughter finally moved again through the crowd. "You don’t understand," Wolffe continued, still staring at them. "These idiots tried to make trust falls a thing. Trust falls. In the middle of a warzone. I’ve got battle droids shooting at me, artillery fire raining down, and Boost is behind me going, ‘C’mon, Commander! Fall back, I’ll catch you!’ Like I’m about to let my entire life depend on a man who once walked straight into a parked LAAT/i because he was too busy arguing about limmie scores."

That got a louder laugh. Wolffe sighed and massaged his temple. "And don’t even get me started on the time they tried to implement ‘mandatory morning affirmations.’ Nothing wakes you up for war like hearing, ‘You are strong. You are capable. You are valued,’ while you’re trying to eat your ration and contemplate the meaninglessness of existence."

The laughter swelled, and the commander himself laughed. It was good seeing him in that light. It was good seeing everyone in that light. "You know," Wolffe switched gears, "I actually had a few jokes prepared about the Galactic Senate." He let that sit for a moment, then added dryly, "But I’m trying to keep my job."

In the front row, Cody - smacked the table, he was wheezing so hard like he wasn’t about to be deployed in the next 48 hours. "But before I leave," Wolffe continued, sweeping his eyes across the room, "I wanna give a shoutout to the real survivors of this war." That got their attention, and a hush fell over the room.

"Anyone who’s ever worked under Commander Fox."

Silence before the room erupted. It was almost tradition at this point, if you were in someone’s house, you roasted them. And they were on Coruscant, in Fox’s jurisdiction. It was only right. Besides, Wolffe had earned this moment. He was up there because Fox had threatened him into it. The room knew it. Fox knew it. And, judging by the smirk on his face, Fox expected it. What Parts didn’t know was how the hell this entire lineup got cobbled together. He had been given a list of the night’s lineup, assuming it was the usual crowd. Then, out of nowhere, the Grand Clowns of the Republic group chat got hijacked by a bunch of commanding officers, and to this day, no one knew who had invited them.

Was it a prank? A glitch? A sign from the galaxy? Didn’t matter. What did matter was that suddenly, high-ranking officers - people who regularly made life-or-death decisions - were now here, on the same list as his usual batch of amateur stand-ups, about to tell jokes. Wolffe, meanwhile, had had enough as he stepped off the stage, looking equal parts relieved and done with the entire ordeal.

Parts barely had time to acknowledge him before checking the next name on the list. Howzer. Huh. Okay. That wasn’t bad. Howzer was surprisingly charming. Funny, even. At least during their online sessions. He had that effortless charisma that made people like him, made them listen when he talked. Parts could work with that. Was he still hoping for Gregor? Absolutely. But too bad, Gregor had an immediate distress call on the frontlines, and there was nothing funnier than war completely ruining your plans at the last second.

"Alright, alright," he raised his hands for silence. "Try to get yourselves together, yeah? We got a long night ahead of us. Next up…" He gave the audience a moment. "Captain Howzer. Get your charming ass up here."

Howzer had the kind of charm that made every other officer - clones and organically ejected people alike - furious. Like, how can someone be this naturally charismatic? How dare he walk into a room and make people like him without trying? And now he was walking up to the stage like he was about to give an inspiring CORTalk speech instead of telling jokes in the middle of a packed bar full of drunk, emotionally stunted soldiers who’d probably just spent the last sixty minutes trying to decide whether it was worth using their one (1) approved monthly therapy session or just set up the simulation room to let off steam.

"Good to see you all," Howzer started, smiling so wide it crinkled the sides of his eyes - making the heartthrob of the GAR looking even more charming. "I gotta say, I love this whole thing we got going on - clones getting together, sharing laughs, not getting shot at for once. It’s nice. It’s…" he considered his words carefully. "a refreshing change of pace. But let’s be honest, we’re all still on edge. I swear, every time someone opens a door too fast in here, at least one of you reaches for a blaster you don’t carry." A solid wave of laughter swept across the room. One of the shinies at the front let out a full-bellied laugh, and Howzer pointed at him. "See? That guy knows what I’m talking about. That’s years of trauma, my man."

He let the crowd settle before starting again. "You know, I was gonna do a whole thing about how we never get to relax, because let’s be real, no one here knows how to do that properly. What do we do with our ‘leave’? Do we rest? Do we recover? No. We find increasingly reckless ways to almost die for fun. We got guys joining swoop races in the Underworld, guys drinking homemade jet juice that tastes like ass, we got Hardcase.” The audience howled at the mere mention of the famously hyperactive trooper. “But the worst? The absolute worst?"

The captain in turquoise-marked armour looked at the crowd. "The guys who go straight back into combat simulations." Immediate cackles came from the audience. Someone from the 212th shouted, "It’s for training!" to which Howzer, without missing a beat, responded, "Brother, you already do that every day. What are you training for? A second death?" And another successful jab that earned a solid laugh.

"Speaking of self-destructive tendencies, let’s talk about the Coruscant Guard for a second." Of course, The Guard let out a collective groan. Parts, who definitely did not approve of playing favourites but was also not about to shut down the funniest thing happening tonight, just chugged his watered-down ale from the side of the stage. "I gotta give it up for them," Howzer cocked his chin towards the cluster of red-armoured troopers in the back. "You lot live a thankless existence. You wake up every day and immediately have to deal with the absolute worst non-clones the galaxy has to offer. Senators.”

The bar immediately rumbled with laughter. There it was again, another punch at the people who were supposed to protect them, supposed to represent them, supposed to treat them like actual sentient beings - but let’s be real, that wasn’t the case. Oh, sure, there were some that cared. Some that fought for them. Some that looked at them and saw people. And then there was Orn Free Taa. At this point, Parts was making a mental note to treat Hound to a full week of proper lunches, just so he and Grizzer could do a full sweep of the bar for bugs. Because if a single word of this got out, the Senate would be filing complaints before sunrise.

"The Senate gets real passionate when the Holonet cameras are rolling. ‘Clones deserve fair treatment! Clones should be valued! Clones are the backbone of the Republic!’ But the moment you ask about pay, benefits, literally any legal protections whatsoever, suddenly it’s all—” Howzer adopted a high-pitched, overly concerned voice, tilting his head like a confused bureaucrat, “Ah, well, the logistics of that are quite complicated…”

The audience barked out another bitter laugh. Because, yeah, you had to laugh. You had to. The alternative was sitting with the realisation that your entire existence was a fucking clerical error away from being erased. “And I know some of you are thinking, ‘Well, Howzer, it’s not that bad.’” He held up a hand, nodding. “Bro. If we die and don’t get recovered from the battlefield, the Republic charges our battalion for lost equipment.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Because some of them knew it was true, had heard the whispers, had seen the reports, and then the audience exploded. Howzer just stood there with his arms crossed, nodding along, waiting for the noise to settle. “Now,” he dryly said, “I really hope that’s just a rumour.” Howzer paused for a second. “Because that would be insane. That would be criminal. That would mean the Republic literally sees us as, oh wait, what’s that word again?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, eyes sweeping the room before snapping his fingers. “Oh, right. PROPERTY.’”

Another howl of laughter, this time it was tinged with that comforting self-deprecation, because fuck, he was right. Howzer let the sound roll over him before delivering another blow. “You ever try to return a piece of Republic property? The paperwork works just fine. If I steal a speeder, that shit is tracked, located, repossessed within hours. But you ask where the fuck our healthcare went? ‘Oh noooo, the budget disappeared, guess we’ll never find it, too bad, so sad. Wha whaaa.’”

Directly in front of the stage, Fox slammed his head against the table, laughing his ass off. “Funny how that works,” Howzer muttered, taking a sip of a drink that was handed to him by cackling Hardcase. "Anyway, thanks for coming to comedy night, drag night, or whatever you want to call this insanity. Tip your bartenders, hydrate, and, uh… someone make sure Fox doesn’t quit his job before the night’s over. Goodnight!" And with that, he strolled off the stage, leaving behind absolute wreckage.

From across the room, Boil and Waxer, dedicated clowns in Parts’ comedy club but, more importantly, the unofficial bouncers for the night - caught Parts’ eyes and did the cutthroat hand across their necks. That was all it took. The three MCs up front - Parts, Fives, and Hardcase - immediately straightened. Because whilst this was supposed to be their space, their night, Coruscant was still Coruscant. There was always a line you didn’t cross. And if someone important was in the room now, well, best to tread carefully.

Parts let out an exasperated sigh. It wasn’t unusual for 79’s to pull a crowd. What was unusual was the silent warning from Boil and Waxer, two men who had spent the better part of the war making jokes, shutting them down. He and the others had learned a long time ago that there was a fine line between blowing off steam and saying too much. This was not the place to have an actual heart-to-heart about clone rights, about war, about what it really felt like to be treated as property. But comedy was a loophole. You could say anything, so long as it came with a punchline, so long as the laughter kept coming. But that only worked if no one in power really started paying attention.

"Who came?" Parts whispered to Hardcase. The blue-tattooed man was on his comlink with Boil, pressing a finger on his left ear to get better clarity amidst the rowdy bar. "High-ranking," Hardcase answered loud enough only for Parts and Fives to hear. "Brass."

“How high?” Fives, scarves wrapped around his hips in lieu of his usual kama, broke character in an instant. His ARC training kicked in like a second skin, scanning the room with new eyes, every exit, every blind spot suddenly tactical considerations rather than just part of the bar’s familiar layout.

Hardcase pressed his comlink closer to his ear to hear Boil’s voice amidst the noise before he let out a nervous chuckle. Then, through gritted teeth, he dropped the name. "Tarkin."

This was bad. Really bad. They still had plausible deniability, no one had said anything explicitly treasonous yet. But that didn’t matter. The wrong person in the audience changed everything. It turned harmless jokes into lawsuits. And Tarkin wasn’t just any brass. Tarkin remembered things, and filed shit under “to be handled later.” You didn’t just brush past someone like that. You didn’t get two chances with Tarkin. Parts clenched his fists, itching to rip off the makeshift dress and wig, fun as the bit was. He could be kitted up in under a minute, armed and ready, if it meant keeping his siblings safe.

"What’s the strategy?" Parts kept his hushed voice. Fives scratched his goatee. "I mean, we could move to safer ground? Shut it down early, act like the whole thing was a joke that got out of hand…"

"Not an option," Hardcase firmly cut in. "Shutting it down fast looks suspicious. We bail now, and whoever’s watching us starts asking why."

He wasn’t wrong. The second they looked too careful, that’s when the real problems would start. Tarkin wasn’t here for fun - he was watching. And if they gave him anything that smelled like an organised effort, the next thing they knew, there’d be investigations, reassignments, a sudden crackdown on anything resembling clone autonomy. Fives nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. So, plan B, we lean in."

"Lean in how?" Parts narrowed his eyes. Before he could get an answer, Fives stole the microphone in his hands and strode back onto the stage, grin locked in place, the perfect picture of a man with absolutely no fear.

"Captain Tarkin is here, everyone!" Fives announced, voice bright, loud, completely unfazed. "Make some noise for him!"

The crowd’s reaction was instant. It wasn’t outright panic - these were clones, trained for war, not easily rattled - but there was a noticeable shift, just like how they would in the battlefields when an unexpected threat had just walked into the perimeter. And at the front table, the commanders - Bacara, Fox, Cody, Wolffe - all straightened immediately. Parts hated this. Hated that their one rare moment of peace, their one night to actually be something outside of soldiers, was now under scrutiny. Hated that even here, even in this space, they had to be careful. Had to adjust. Had to dance around the fact that they weren’t citizens, weren’t people, at least not in the eyes of men like Tarkin.

And yet, as much as he hated it, Parts knew exactly what Fives was doing. The ARC trooper knew how to control a room.

"Speaking of captains," Fives continued smoothly as if he wasn’t actively trying to keep an entire room from panicking, "there’s another captain in this room, a very special captain, who had no idea he was about to be dragged into a drag show!"

A more relaxed laughter started rippling through the bar. "And why is that, you ask?" Fives placed a hand to his chest. "Because, my dear brothers and sisters and siblings alike, this man - our fearless leader, our role model, never reads the group chat!"

Parts couldn’t even pretend to be mad at the execution, Fives was doing exactly what was needed. He was shifting attention. He was forcing Tarkin’s presence into the background by bringing in a new target, someone everyone in the room could focus on. "And wouldn’t it be a blast," Fives fed off the energy, "if we dragged him onto this stage right now?"

The crowd was frothing. Everyone knew exactly where this was going, and they were all in. "Everyone, please welcome…" Fives milked the pause for maximum theatrics. "Captain Rex!!"

The roar from the 501st troopers was instantaneous. Some were already getting up like they were about to physically haul him up there. Rex groaned and slouched himself in the booth he was sitting at. "No."

A firm, clear rejection from the captain, but it didn’t matter. His own traitorous men were hyping him up, and to make it worse, he felt the familiar weight of judgmental stares from his fellow commanders at the front. None of them was going to help him. They were enjoying this. Rex scowled, flipping his men the bird. Then, for good measure, he flipped his ori’vod the bird, which should have been the end of it - except Wolffe immediately smacked him upside the head, followed by Cody backhanding his shoulders.

Rex sighed, long-suffering, before dragging his feet towards the stage. As soon as he grabbed the mic, he muttered through gritted teeth.

"Are you fucking me?"

"Nah, sir, you’re our saviour. Now joke about something, I don’t know. Whatever brainrot jokes you picked up from Anakin and Ahsoka." Fives grinned.

Rex looked out at the expectant, gleeful faces of his men. Looked past them to where Tarkin sat, impassive, watching, assessing. Yeah. He had to sell this. Fine. He tapped the mic twice, and sighed.

"Alright," Rex deadpanned. "I’m Captain Rex of the 501st Legion. I work with Anakin Skywalker… uh… yeah. Pray for me."

That was all it took. The room erupted again, because everyone knew. Anakin Skywalker was a lot. "You think I’m joking," Rex paced the makeshift stage with his dry tone. "I don’t even try to give him a battle plan anymore. I start to explain strategy, and then he gives Ahsoka the look, and poof, suddenly I’m flying."

Laughter filled the room. No one had suffered under the absolute chaos that was General Anakin Skywalker more than Rex. "I’ve given up trying to understand the general. Don’t get me wrong, he’s amazing, I’d go to hell and back for him. But if you ever see me standing there, completely still, staring off into the void? That’s me buffering. That’s me trying to process why I’m alive after another one of his manoeuvres."

Another wave of laughter cracked through the room. Rex let the noise die down before inhaling deeply, then exhaling, rubbing a hand over his face before he started again. "...Also," he dropped his tone dangerously close to sincerity, "I’d like to formally apologise to my boys for all the stress, trauma, and irresponsible shit we’ve been through." The blond paused to let the entire audience coos at the unexpected softness. "It will happen again."

Tup - sweet, unfortunate Private Tup from Torrent Company was gasping for air. His face was red, shoulders shaking, and every time he tried to inhale, another wheeze slipped out, sending the 501st into another round of hysterics. The entire 501st troopers present at 79’s had been losing their minds the whole time Rex was on stage, making the most noise out of anyone in the bar, like a bunch of rowdy cadets who had just watched their instructor trip and eat shit during drills. It wasn’t every day their beloved hardass of a Captain got publicly dragged into something ridiculous, and they were relishing it.

And sure, Rex was one of the better ones. He wasn’t as rigid as some of the other commanders. At least he didn’t have Bacara’s terrifying tendency to drill his men like how Alpha-17 made him do it before he was made marshal commander - but on the field? He was still fucking strict.

"There is no escape. I have tried." Rex clicked his tongue. Rex turned his feet towards the MCs, then back at the crowd. "Before we end this wonderful night of completely regulated, very Republic-approved bonding…" He pointed his palm at Parts. "Private Parts, you look fantastic."

Scattered hoots, cheers, and whistles came from the marines. Parts twirled in his dress dramatically. Rex just held up a hand. "...And Fives and Hardcase?"

"Yeah, Cap?"

"Enjoy it while you can. Because tomorrow, you’re on freshers duty." That successfully drew another round of claps from the crowd. Another day another save by none other than–

"CAPTAIN REX, EVERYONE!" Private Parts threw his arms up, soaking in the applause. "Thank you for coming. Listen to Howzer and tip your bartenders, don’t start a fight you can’t finish, and for non-clones, if you wake up hungover next to a commander, congratulations, you’re officially a Jedi general!”

The crowd was still electric, the final cheers for Rex rolling through the air like the last embers of a fire, but the energy was slowly changing. The second Private Parts dropped the mic back onto the stand, the DJ took the cue, lights dimmed, the atmosphere returned back to normal. The music came back just loud enough to remind everyone that this was still just a bar, that this was still 79’s, still their home, and that whatever had just happened? Whatever almost happened? It was over. Done. It had to be. It better be.

Parts let out a long relieved sigh, feeling the weight of it settle in his bones. The close call. The way they had to dance that line so fucking carefully and now they had to act like none of it ever happened. He elbowed Boil as the man returned from his unofficial duty, almost knocking back Boil’s drink like he’d been physically holding back the urge to swing on someone all night. "Is he gone?"

Boil wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Yeah, left twenty minutes ago. Probably on his way to some emergency meeting, clutching his pearls about how Captain Rex was making fun of his Jedi at 79’s."

"Joke’s on him," Hardcase smirked, "Anakin is in our group chat."

"Yeah, we invited him, but, you know… husband duty." Fives cackled, violently clapping Parts on the shoulder. "Congrats on the drag night, vod! Even though, technically, you’re the only one in drag." Parts rolled his eyes, still shaking out the last of the tension from earlier, but before he could respond, Fives threw an arm around his shoulders, turning back towards the bar and raising his voice. "Officially the most badass private in the fucking GAR! WHOOP WHOOP!!"

The entire bar erupted in agreement. "PRIVATE PARTS, GALACTIC ICON!" A fellow marine yelled from the bar. Hardcase cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "GET THIS MAN A MEDAL! OR AT LEAST A BETTER WIG!" That earned a wide grin from Parts. He was fucking stressed out and exhausted but grinning, riding the lingering adrenaline as the cheers swelled around him. And then… Bacara.

Parts saw him before he got close, because Bacara wasn’t exactly subtle.

"Private."

Bacara’s tone was neutral. No amusement, no judgment, no edge. "Commander." Parts snapped into attention immediately - because even though Bacara had been crying laughing an hour ago, even though he had clutched his ribs when Howzer delivered the Senate joke, this was still Marshal Commander fucking Bacara. The same man who could juggernaut through a battlefield in a fucking second and maybe faster. The same man who could, and would, command him to do one hundred burpees for less than five minutes.

For a moment, Bacara just studied him, his muddy brown eyes, mirroring his own - only older, and more exhausted. Then he finally opened his mouth. "You handled that well."

That was not what Parts had expected to hear. Sure, Bacara had a sense of humour. After all, he let Parts run these stand-up nights, let his men have their moments of relief, but this was still Bacara. Marshal Commander Bacara. The guy who took everything seriously.

"At ease."

Parts hesitated before forcing himself to relax, at least, as much as someone could relax while standing in front of a literal war machine in human form. He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "Yeah, well," he muttered, "not exactly what we had in mind for the night."

"You kept it under control." Bacara patted his shoulder. "That’s not easy to do."

And for a second, Parts didn’t know what to do with that. Because his commander got it. He knew what it took to keep that balance - to take something dangerous and make it palatable. To hold a room full of soldiers in the palm of your hand, to guide them somewhere just edgy enough without letting them fall off the ledge. To let them think without making it look like thinking. That wasn’t easy. And Bacara, of all fucking people, had noticed.

“…Thanks,” Parts finally answered, still a little thrown off by the sincerity but absolutely not about to turn down a rare, fucking impossible compliment from a Commander. Bacara gave one last appreciative nod before stepping back into the crowd, rejoining the other commanders. Private Parts rolled his shoulders, letting the last of the tension finally bleed out of him.

"You’re fucking insane, you know that?"

The voice came from behind him, a familiar posh accent. Warm as it was amused. Before he could even turn, arms wrapped around his waist, tight, solid, pulling him in like the last anchor in a chaotic night. And Parts melted. Because fuck yes, finally.

Arok smelled like smoke, spice, and a data terminal running too hot. "You love it," Parts murmured, leaning back into the embrace, letting the towering Chiss tuck his chin over his shoulder. The Chiss huffed, pressing a quick kiss against the side of his head, and Parts closed his eyes, letting himself breathe. Because yeah they had barely pulled that off. This whole night could have ended in disaster. But it hadn’t. So Parts let himself relax into Arok’s warmth, to feel his hands splay over his ribs, to feel the bass vibrating through the floor, to listen to his brothers drinking, talking, laughing. The night wasn’t over. And for this moment, they were okay.

#clonexocweek #clonexocweek2025 #clonexocweek2025 day 6 #clone trooper oc x Fives #clone trooper oc x Hardcase #clone trooper oc x command batch #hellfiresky #star wars fanfiction

3 notes · View notes

colleybrifanfics · 8 months ago

Text

Imagine a divergent universe, where Cassian Andor never met two bullies on Morlana 1.

He’s not the man he should be.

Jyn Erso, dedicated Rebel in the face of an impossible fight with a triumphant Empire, comes to Ferrix one morning to buy stolen parts. Cassian is very much… his old self.

NSFW below the cut. Smut with a distinctly wistful flavour.

Ferrix, Imperial Era 24

As the glow of dawn makes a rare appearance low on the horizon a flock of five steelpeckers flap over, low and squawking, heading from the main salyards to their daytime roosting sites in the surrounding hills. He tenses a little, instinctively, and hurries under the awning at Gueti’s. One of these birds had shat on him once, and clothes were basically unsalvageable after that. He isn’t ready to give up on this coat yet, not after all these years.

He doesn’t go off-world much these days as the risks are so high, but he does remember a few planets with … nicer birds. Birds that made pleasant noises to greet the day, a chorus of joy at a new beginning rather those guttural cries that put in mind a Corellian hound being throttled. He can't remember the morning songs of the birds of Kenari, though, and supposes he never really noticed.

He selects an outdoor table with a nearby heater, greets Gueti and orders caf and pistachio cake. Then, oh so casually, he places a little iron bowl on the table and pulls out the datapad from his large bag. The Time Grappler marks Start of Day but his, and Gueti’s, and his buyer’s (whoever they may be) has already started.

So. Something to read while he waits.

How many have died recently?

He rarely dwells on the news these days. It’s so hard to know what is the truth anymore. But illicit stations, broadcasting from ships flying under flags of convenience or from all-out pirate vessels, still pop up every few months before being shut down, and manage sometimes to broadcast text updates too. His datapad is ancient and he can’t afford the latest software update, but it doesn’t matter - these guys use old tech and the ‘dark’ holonet, whatever that is. He still likes old tech. He stares at the silently unfolding letters, telling the same familiar story. Another several-billion lives destroyed in a heartbeat. Apparently, a rebel cell had been located on this outer-rim world, a planet he had never even heard of - and that fact didn’t matter one bit because it didn’t exist anymore anyway.

Peace is, according to the official version, being kept. According to the unofficial version, Palpatine is simply wiping out any signs of resistance. He sighs. You think they would have learned their lesson by now, those rebels. How utterly pointless it was to fight back. It’s so much better to live. To eat, to sleep.

He is vaguely thankful, in a passing thought that commonly comes his way, that Ferrix has stayed relatively unscathed all this time. It’s a well-behaved community. Heads down, continuing as they always have to exploit those with money, whatever the design of their flag or logo.

His buyer is late. Still, he doesn’t mind. It means more time to enjoy the small pleasures of an early morning. He lights a cigarette - the iron bowl serving as an ashtray. It’s good cover for its presence, but he wants to smoke anyway. Since giving up the drink, told at last flat-out first by the doctor and then, more convincingly, by Brasso that it would be the death of him if he didn’t, he had felt.. hmm, rebellious … enough to take up another vice. Death-sticks had no appeal even for a risk-taker like him and the last thing he needed was more mental stimulation. Just something to make the days seem… a little more pleasant, in some indefinable way.

“Hello. Is this seat free?” The voice is from behind him and belongs to a human woman, with a clipped Core worlds accent, and obviously she is a small individual as he had not heard her approach over the sounds of the waking town.

He turns and takes her in fully. She is in Pre-Mor uniform, but of course that can mean very little and there’s something about the way she wears it just a bit… too well that makes him immediately positive that she isn’t Pre-Mor. No matter. As long as she has his money, he really doesn’t care.

She’s looking at him very directly, with pale grey-green eyes. She’s attractive. Definitely. He’s probably spending a beat too long looking at her as her eyes now dart quickly to the table - the little iron bowl there - and he realises she’s waiting for confirmation. He gives it with a little wave and she sits. Gueti is over in an instant and she orders caf but nothing to eat.

He sees her eyeing the cigarette. “Would you like one?” he asks.

She grimaces. “No, I hate the smell. Thank you, though.” She says this forcefully enough to compel him to hold the cigarette down and behind his stool so that the fumes don’t bother her. She’s intriguing him already. She doesn’t really look like a rebel. But he is immediately of the belief that that is what she is and wonders if she will realise that he suspects.

Negotiations begin. He’s so used to this now, it’s almost second nature. He's employing a favourite tactic today: try to bump up the price agreed remotely by introducing another unexpected piece as a bonus. The buyer would then sometimes think they were getting a bargain, without the time to research the actual value of said piece. But he knows not to push either the price or the deception too high. He likes repeat customers.

Repeat customers. She is talking now about how the masking transponder he has produced from the bag isn’t the exact model stated in their communications, and he’s telling her that it’s superior. He’s talking on autopilot, practically. A good part of his concentration is leaping ahead twenty minutes or so, to the time when he estimates that they will finish their business in a mutually agreeable way. He is thinking about how he might persuade her to delay her departure.

Because she is very attractive. And the problem with getting repeat customers on Ferrix these days is that … the women who live here all know him. Either directly or by reputation.

Off-worlders were a happier hunting ground these days. With them, he could very often rely on his old methods. Which basically consisted of throwing out the net and seeing if the object of his desire wanted to swim into it. He knew how good he looked, despite the signs of his past indulgences. He didn’t see it as vanity, just as a simple fact - evidenced by the way that the lamest of pickup lines would almost always result in… a pickup. Experimentally, he had even once tried the simple “I’m free if you are...?” - and had scored a pretty much instant success.

He realises soon enough that he should have put a little more thought into this, but then he wasn’t prepared for this particular buyer.

All he can manage, as they stand up, salvaged or stolen parts and credits exchanged, is “Would you like to stay a little longer and…”. He realises his error immediately, as her gaze goes from his face to his hand, where it had been making a vague waving gesture at the dusty street that seemed to suggest that the sentence might finish with ‘…let me show you the sights of Ferrix’, and then back to his face with a dawning expression of incredulous and derisive mirth.

Her laugh is loud enough to draw a glance from Gueti over at the counter.

“That’s actually hilarious. I was warned about you, y’know, by my contact before she gave me the rendezvous details. I thought you were going to be a real Loth-wolf. But this? Is this the best you’ve got?”

Stung but helpless and still hoping, despite these less than auspicious signs, all he can do is smile. Sometimes that would work. In fact, most things would work on off-world women. Again, he really wasn’t used to making much of an effort with them. He wasn’t very good at conversation. Perhaps he should just be frank.

“I just thought.. you might like a little fun. You know. If you want to, we can go…”

“Oh wow, you really don’t know when to stop, do you!” But her smile is now wide and genuine, and he still goes on hoping. He doesn’t mind being humiliated if a payoff may yet come his way.

At this most bizarre but strangely captivating impasse they continue to regard each other levelly. Finally, she tilts her head a little to one side and she subjects the full length of his body to a long, sweeping stare, as if assessing the visual condition of a speeder before deciding whether it is worth a test drive.

(Cont below - NSFW. )

“OK,” she says contemplatively, with a smile that reveals another glimpse of her prominent overbite. It’s… very cute. “Why not?”

He does have a very lovely smile, she thinks. And it had been clear that Caleen had feelings for him, despite the lighthearted warning. An intelligent being, especially a female, can often sense the painful truth behind the outward nonchalance. He was obviously an ex who she still cared about, despite everything.

But besides all that… she knows what she likes, and knows what she wants. Right now, what she wants is this slightly-built man with the unusual accent, the long jawline under a short beard and those big brown eyes that are somehow knowing, cynical and childlike all at once.

He is very, very attractive. And she has plenty of time today.

They attract a few knowing stares on the short walk to his place, but he doesn’t care, and he knows the starers don’t either. He’s gone home with a few Pre-Mor employees before. Some of whom turn a blind eye to his activities for that very reason.

They are upon each other even before the door slides completely shut, and her kisses taste so very good. She allows him to take her all at once and greedily, perhaps sensing that once this initial hunger is sated he will be more measured and considerate of her needs too. Maybe. He can’t think that far ahead. He can barely think at all. All his blood and energy seems to divert to his groin and he feels the familiar but still so delicious burning. He doesn’t even take his clothes off, bar the coat, concentrating on her tight-fitting uniform instead, featuring belt, buttons and zipped trousers that are not hastily shed. Panting, she tries to help him but her fingers get in the way of his, bringing a few snorts of laughter from them both. So she switches to unbelting and unzipping him instead, freeing the cause of that promising bulge that she had noticed from that first sweeping visual inspection. Finally, in frustration, he yanks her trousers and her panties to her mid thighs and she allows herself to be pushed back onto the bed. He follows and is delighted to find her so ready, absolutely sopping, her body belying that slightly demure expression on her face that he has adored for the last - hour?! - since he has met her.

He cradles her face with one hand as he pushes at her and she nips at his fingers with those cute teeth as he enters her fully, trying her out for size.

She breaks off from nibbling and fixes him with a frank gaze. “So,” she says conversationally, “what should I call you?”

He has almost forgotten that they didn’t know each other’s names. And here he is, buried deep and hard inside her. It does seem a little rude. For a second, distracted as he is by his lust he considers giving her his real name. But no, that wasn’t how this worked. “Keef,” he says after a little hesitation.

She smiles, as she knows that’s not his name, but he has answered the question truthfully enough. “Lyra,” she says immediately, before he even thinks to ask. He then vaguely wonders if, like himself, she has chosen the name of a real person of some significance to her life.

He finds himself frozen for a moment, despite the nagging from his nether regions to just get on with it already!. The past, always frighteningly close in moments of emotional vulnerability, lurks just outside his consciousness. Previously, he could drink it away.

“Come on then, Keef”, she growls with sarcastic relish, emphasising the F sound somewhat derisively. “Show me if the man lives up to the notoriety. Fffffuck me, Keefff...” and she blows the imperative and the false name into his lust-anguished face with those two long puffs of fricative breath.

Already thinking ahead to the next course, which might well involve that intriguing mouth of hers, he gets to work as instructed and she matches him, effortlessly.

***

They rest eventually, after over an hour of frenzied and gloriously messy sex. He wonders anew at the human female's ability to just… keep on climaxing, but decides again that he isn’t envious: if pleasure came that easily and frequently to someone like himself he doubts he’d ever do anything else remotely productive. It’s almost too much effort to light a cigarette, but it does really help to enhance the afterglow. She hadn’t seemed to mind the taste of him. It was a high quality tabac.

Very much to his surprise, she asks him for one. “I thought you didn’t,” he says.

“I don’t,” she replies. “Except after sex.”

“And how often is that?”

“I’m not telling you about my personal life.” But she smirks at him as he holds the lighter for her and she puffs the first little drag into his face coquettishly.

She is, quite frankly and once again, adorable. He wishes she could stay longer. Despite his reputation, he really dislikes one-night stands. Or one-day stands: whatever. There’s not enough time to get to know exactly what works for each other. Not enough time for getting to know each other. Just… not enough time.

Yes, there was definitely such a thing, with his relationships, as not enough time. But there was such a thing as too much time as well, of course. Bix knew all about that. Commitment. No matter how many times they tried it again, it seemed that he was never actually willing or able to give her what she really wanted. Perhaps that was sad. They had been so good together, when it worked. She was so good to him, even now. So good for him. Still, she had her life and that idiot of a husband and her cute children - and she seemed to be happy.

Switching his thoughts to the woman here now, as there's never any point in dwelling on the past, he calculates quickly - as he is still mostly as sharp and perceptive as he ever was - that “Lyra” doesn’t actually have sex that often. Or rather, that she doesn’t have regular sex with the same person. There’s something in her manner, her hunger, her eagerness to please him and to please herself that tells him that she is unattached. He feels even more certain now that she is a true-believer Rebel, despite her accent, and that her mere presence here was exceptionally dangerous, to him and possibly to the entirety of Ferrix, commercially valued though it was. No planet was ever, really, safe.

No. Rebels didn’t do long term relationships either, and in that respect he knew she was like him. Rebels put the cause first, always. They didn’t want to risk heartbreak. He snorts a little, cynically. So he does have something in common with them after all, albeit for a completely different reason.

An unpleasant thought threatens to cross his mind then but he quickly dismisses it, distracting himself with a long pull at his cigarette. They are sitting up in bed, the blanket covering them in a surprisingly modest-looking fashion. He thinks anew how nice it is to be sharing a bed when all they are doing are relishing what has been and looking forward to what is to come.

This in-between time… could possibly be his favourite part of a sexual encounter. Well, OK - but...top-three, anyway. Time to digest. Time to contemplate. Time to savour.

They could even be a married couple, he thinks, this silence between them is so comfortable.

She breaks it then, a child with a naughty joke. “Question: do you smoke after sex? Answer: I don’t know, I’ve never looked.” And she giggles.

As is often the case with jokes involving double meanings, as this is still ultimately a foreign language for him, he doesn’t get it.

Frustrated, but amused, she attempts to explain and finally ends up with - “You know - from the friction?!”

He gets it then, but as is always the way the joke is lost by this stage so instead of laughing he quizzically raises his eyebrows and suggests that after their next bout - they should look.

She finds that hysterical, apparently, and he finds her even more adorable.

***

They don’t, literally, smoke but he feels it’s a close run thing. By mutual agreement, they take turns to cool down any possibly overheating areas with their mouths, just in case. And both agree, after a great deal of intensive research, that this process is very counter-productive.

***

They break for a meal in the mid-afternoon. He can see she’s impressed by his store cupboard, packed high with dried ingredients and flavourings from across the galaxy, some of it rare and expensive. While he fries up some leftovers from the conserver, she explores the little house. There’s another bedroom, with a small single bed, in the front and he tells her it was his childhood bedroom.

As he had known she would, she soon spots Bee on his pad. “Your droid. He doesn’t seem to be charging.”

Even now, he can’t help but feel a stab of pain at that, but he keeps his voice light. “I know. He can’t be charged anymore. Eventually, he needed a completely new battery, and they just don’t make them anymore and I couldn't find a secondhand one. I keep him… just in case I do ever find the right model.”

“But his files will be corrupted by then. Have you transferred his memory? You could at least talk with him. Put him in another droid chassis, even.”

“I haven’t.” He concentrates on frying, stirring the vegetables and now adding the beaten fiejuc eggs. He has also just added Durmic spice so knows he can blame that for any dampness in his eyes that might come with his next words. “I made the choice not to. When my mother died, he was inconsolable. He couldn’t understand what death was. I could have had his memory wiped then, I suppose, but … he wouldn’t have been him anymore. His name was Bee. Is. I just … keep him there, in case…”

She has appeared at his side and he realises that while the Durmic might explain his wet eyes it doesn’t disguise the catch in his voice. He glances sideways at her, smiles slightly and sheepishly. He feels her arm around his waist then and her hug is one of comfort rather than desire, and it feels just as good somehow.

And he realises then that this is what he has really missed.

After this moment, and after the shared meal, things are different between them. Different in a good way. He realises later that they had moved forward with the liaison to the same stage that would normally take a week or so in his other casual relationships. There is a tenderness between them now. They talk. On light subjects, but they find common interests. It’s like a kind of cautious dance around the perimeters of each other.

And it’s all so good, and sweet, and delicious and somehow… medicinal. And hot.

It ends, as they had known it must. She needs to take the shuttle ferry out to the commercial port for her evening flight back to - wherever it was.

He wonders, as he watches her retreating form in the fading daylight, if he should call out after her, or tell her his real name. He decides not to. Perhaps she would decide to come again. If she lived that long. He feels a sudden and genuine chill that she will not.

He feels the pain anew then, and something of the old anger. The Empire. They had taken so much. Lives, chances, time.

He even wonders if he should join the Rebels, even at this stage. Belong, in some way, have a purpose, even if it is a short lived one.

Maybe one day. Then again, perhaps not. It is surely better to … live. To eat, to sleep. To do what you want.

He watches her until her retreating figure fades into the failing light.

Steelpeckers are nocturnal. Their dawn comes with the setting of the sun. Day shift; night shift. A flock of five fly over now, low, squawking raucously. Perhaps the same five from that morning - it is impossible to tell. The chimes for End of Day join their chorus as he stands there still, framed in the open doorway, looking, but with nothing to see.

From chapter 2.

#andor #alternate universe #andor fanfiction #canon divergence #cassian andor #andor show #rogue one #star wars andor #rebelcaptain #jyn erso #jyn x cassian #cassian x jyn

8 notes · View notes