Fox having genuine stress dreams about being commander of the 501st and having to put up with anakin skywalker telling him what to do and waking up and having to look at his gear and check its all still red . Texting Rex in the middle of the Coruscanti night cycle like "had the dream again. fuck your life" and rex just snapchats him the bird
Commander Fox WIP #147 🙄
shhh. brain SHHHH. i am THINKING. About Khonshu and the Coruscant Guard because I am mentally ILL because I am DERANGED because I am UNHINGED
what if Commander Fox was Khonshu's avatar?
Like shhhhh what if. shhhhhh just WHAT IF. Thire or one of the other CGs that gets to travel off-world comes back with the smallest, oldest little statue. So old that most of the features have been worn away by time and the elements until all that remains on this palm-sized thing is a distinct beak, sunken eyes, and something that looks just vaguely crescent-moon shaped. It's given to him by a local of some planet that barely anyone knows about - some layover on a Senate diplomatic trip. A local presses the figure into Thire's hands and says, "For justice. For vengence. To protect the travelers of the night." And he keeps it, because clones own so little anyways, and brings it home to the barren CG barracks. Brings it home to his vod'e who are hurt every day by the very people they were created to protect. His vod'e who mourn those that have been disappeared into the Coruscant lowers never to be seen again. His vod'e who are not on the frontlines but are no less Travelers, no less warriors.
And the little figure comes to live in the Commander's office. First as a joke, because who needs vengence more than Fox? "For justice. For vengence. To protect us," the guardsmen say when they pass by to deliver reports, mission briefs, messages. It's the shinies that are the first to leave the little figure offerings because Fox is always kinder with the younger brothers, in his own way. They bring loose seeds, for the weathered old beak. They arrange Fox's moldy caf-cups around it like a shrine. They bring belongings from the vod'e who don't come home after shift - hand-made bracelets and paper crafts and hair ties.
And with each gift, the Commander's office transforms. It's subtely warmer. Warm like it never has been before. Warm like standing in a patch of sun on a desert planet. The air is always clean and clear even when the rest of the Guard HQ smells like mildew and burnt caf, blaster discharge and GAR standard soaps. The bags under the Commander's eyes steadily improve, although they never disappear. And Coruscant's four moons burn brighter than they have in centuries, even despite the light pollution. More brothers come back from their shifts, for the moons have begun to walk the guardsmen home.
And the old, once-forgotten but now remembered god begins to speak with its priest, the one who keeps the shrine. Fox. Fox who has been exposed to the Dark for a while, now. Fox who has been scared by it. Fox who doesn't balk that the little stone bird is speaking to him, now. The walls on Coruscant have eyes, afterall. Fox has learned to listen to the warnings they bring him. What's one more voice, aged beyond all age? Weathered but not worn? Brusque but not cruel? Caring but not kind?
Maybe there's an inciting event. A riot that sees many CGs dead by natborn hands. A senate bill that starves their supplies so dramatically that vod'e begin to fall to once treatable injuries. Or maybe there's not one at all, but rather the steady accumulation of power through belief. Either way (or perhaps both), one night, when Fox is drunk and wounded from something he can't quite remember, staring at the little bird-headed figure and it's shrine, the once-forgotten-now-remembered god introduces itself.
The Commander's armor gains a new marking - a crescent moon in white, wreathed in red. And the Coruscant vod'e no longer walk alone. The Moons walk them home. And the God dines in luxury every night on the hearts of the wicked.
Fox comes alive all at once from out of the half-slump of semi-patient waiting, hand spasming around the stem of his wine glass in a manner that serves to abruptly remind one that, although Fox is built somewhat slighter than the average clone, he has dedicated the totality of his meager existence honing himself into a lethal weapon. His predator-sharp eyes are locked on the entrance to the bar somewhere over Wolffe’s shoulder—paranoid little osik refused to even set foot over the threshold until Wolffe had conceded the most well-defended position—and the sheer force of his attention has the fine hairs on Wolffe’s arms raising.
“Immediately no,” Fox declares. “Absolutely not. Iba’shabuir.”
For a 5 sentence fic prompt: "Cody, No."
“Cody, no.”
Cody keeps walking, slowly but purposefully. Waxer twists to stare pleadingly at Fox instead.
When Cody had said, just after the General signed off to make Waxer’s promotion official, Next time we’re on Coruscant, we’re getting you shitfaced, Waxer had thought that meant 79′s. Or rotgut in the Corrie bunks.
Not some lowest-levels bar, haphazardly set up in what might’ve once been a warehouse, run by natborns, patrons also all natborns and almost all visibly armed. Waxer’s pretty sure the only reason Fox should be in this place is to shut it down.
He should’ve expected this, though. That’s probably the entire appeal.
And now some guy’s said something, just loud enough to carry over the ambient noise, and Waxer didn’t hear what it was but going by the look that washed over Cody’s face it was nothing good.
“Listen, kid,” Fox says, as Cody shoves his way to the guy’s table and says something quietly, “That’s not how you Cody-wrangle.”
Waxer blinks at him incredulously. Someone else at the table has pulled a knife.
“Telling Cody not to do something,” Fox continues, like he’s offering advice on weapons maintenance, “means he will do it. No matter what it is. What you do instead is distract him -- you know why we’re not at 79s?”
Waxer’s never spent any time with Fox before, so he’s not earned the right to say ‘Cause the two of you are insane even by vod’e standards. But almost every minute since his impromptu field promotion has demonstrated very effectively that officers are a level of utter karking batshit Waxer didn’t think a person could be and still be functional.
Cody’s about to pick a fight with some natborn civvie who’s likely wanted for murder at least, and that’s not even the worst thing Waxer’s seen him do this week.
“‘Cause you’re two of the highest ranking officers in the whole GAR?” He asks, carefully.
Cody grabs the guy by the front of their shirt, pulls them up out their seat, and shoves them up against the wall. He’s holding the other guy’s knife, now, to the first guy’s neck.
“‘Cause no one’ll pick a fight with a commander,” Fox agrees.
A third guy, the biggest of the group, swings a punch at Cody’s head.
Everything gets hard to follow, after that.
When the dust settles, Cody’s stood over a lot of unconscious people and a couple corpses. He’s up to three knives, and he looks incredibly pleased with himself.
He walks back over to their table, drops the knives in front of Fox, steals the last of Fox’s drink, and says, “Cody, yes.”
When Boba was arrested, before he was processed, before a decision was made about his fate, before he was sent off to prison, he had a visitor come to his holding cell.
Boba would have known what his visitor was by the sound of his footsteps alone. He didn't need eyes to recognize a gait he'd been hearing thousand-fold for much of his childhood. He didn't need sight but as it was, the cold durasteel chair he was sat in and the cold durasteel table he was cuffed to faced the doorway. As soon as the door to his cell opened, silent but for the unavoidable sound of the lock disengaging and re-engaging again, he had a clear view.
Boba saw painted duraplast armor and dark swishing kama.
please give him a break
um...whatcha got there?
Counting down seven days till Halloween, the Graveyarder is a collection of thriller/horror-style drabbles about the Coruscant Guard.. Follow the tag #thegraveyarder or #7daystillhalloween for daily updates on tumblr!
Content warnings: flashbacks, losing time
Dogma has nearly fallen asleep when the noise wakes him—a loudly and insistently chiming communicator, clattering its way across Fox’s desk with the force of its vibration. “Osik,” Fox grumbles, lurching for the thing. Dogma blinks, bleary, and realizes that Fox was probably halfway to falling asleep sitting up, too.
Counting down seven days till Halloween, the Graveyarder is a collection of thriller/horror-style drabbles about the Coruscant Guard. On the last day before Halloween, the full mini-story (all 7 drabbles) will go up on AO3. Follow the tag #thegraveyarder or #7daystillhalloween for daily updates on tumblr!
Content warnings: vomit mention, graphic depictions of violence
Fox had worried that it was too soon. He’d worried so vocally and so insistently that Steady had practically forced him out of the medbay.
“Your fretting is making the whole room reek like stress-sweat,” Steady had declared with all the begrudging affection of a mother tooka wrangling particularly obstinate kits. "Dogma is an adult, Fox. He can make these choices on his own.”
And Fox had let him.
Counting down seven days till Halloween, the Graveyarder is a collection of thriller/horror-style drabbles about the Coruscant Guard. On the last day before Halloween, the full mini-story (all 7 drabbles) will go up on AO3. Follow the tag #thegraveyarder or #7daystillhalloween for daily updates on tumblr!
<< Previous installation || Next installation >>
Content warnings: panic attacks
Dogma likes Hound. The sergeant is steady but with a rare sort of humor to him, too. There are worse people to make his first patrol with. At least Hound is entertaining if nothing else. Dogma would feel strange making his first official shift of active-duty with one of the Commanders.
Thire is unfalteringly kind and Dogma worries that Thire would not push him enough. Thorn and Stone have seen Dogma in too many low moments. Any step forward would feel tainted by that, by the shell that he was when they took him under their wing. And Fox?
Counting down seven days till Halloween, the Graveyarder is a collection of thriller/horror-style drabbles about the Coruscant Guard. On the last day before Halloween, the full mini-story (all 7 drabbles) will go up on AO3. Follow the tag #thegraveyarder or #7daystillhalloween for daily updates on tumblr!
<< Previous installation || Next installation >>
Content warnings: memory loss, clone reconditioning
He is unlike any graveyarder they’ve gotten before. Perhaps it is because Dogma was not one of theirs—not a Corrie, but a front-line trooper of some sort. Perhaps it is because Dogma, according to the medics, was clearly reconditioned at length. “It’s a miracle that he’s not a zombie,” Steady relays, quiet and grim-faced.
Counting down seven days till Halloween, the Graveyarder is a collection of thriller/horror-style drabbles about the Coruscant Guard. On the last day before Halloween, the full mini-story (all 7 drabbles) will go up on AO3. Follow the tag #thegraveyarder or #7daystillhalloween for daily updates on tumblr!
Content Warnings: brief, non-graphic mention of suicide; clone reconditioning
They call them the graveyarders.
They shuffle off of the transport, armor scrubbed shiny white and new, brains scrubbed just as clean. They move aimlessly, startle when spoken to, and don’t answer to any name other than trooper. They are the dead walking, coming back from the grave, and they aren’t the vod they were.
Counting down seven days till Halloween, the Graveyarder is a collection of thriller/horror-style drabbles about the Coruscant Guard. On the last day before Halloween, the full mini-story (all 7 drabbles) will go up on AO3. Follow the tag #thegraveyarder or #7daystillhalloween for daily updates on tumblr!
Content Warnings: brief, non-graphic mention of suicide; clone reconditioning
They call them the graveyarders.
They shuffle off of the transport, armor scrubbed shiny white and new, brains scrubbed just as clean. They move aimlessly, startle when spoken to, and don’t answer to any name other than trooper. They are the dead walking, coming back from the grave, and they aren’t the vod they were.
Fox ruins every photograph on purpose
