Always Forward

I'm Odys and I'm a MASSIVE Star Wars fan. Have been for years, but lockdown really gave me nothing else to do... so I started writing.

I've always loved storytelling and I aspire to he a published author one day, but this time I just wanted a story to play with. No concrete rules. No pressure to impress a publisher. Just something I could make to enjoy myself with the art of storytelling.

Thus Forward was born. A fanfiction that takes place during the Clone Wars in the background of the main events. A story about clone soldiers, who have known no life other than violence, discovering there's something more to living than simply dying.

These original characters have come to live in my head rent free. They've evolved into so much more than I could have imagined they would, but OCs in a fanfiction or not, I love them and all their complexity. And it doesn't feel right to keep them to myself anymore. I wanna share them--these pieces of my soul--with whoever would like to come along for the ride.

The story itself is posted both to Wattpad and Ao3, under the title Forward - Into Shadows. That's only part one of five, however... I've got a lot of work ahead of me lol.

Come along and feel some emotions with me!

Forward - Into Shadows (in progress)

Forward - Into Light

Forward - Into Fire

Forward - Into Dust

Forward - Into Oblivion

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Blyn wears two sets of armor. One to protect his body. Another to protect his heart.

His armor patterns, inspired by similar markings on the Mandalorian armor of his training sergeant, remind him daily how important that second set of armor is.

Amongst the squad, Blyn keeps no secrets. He can't afford the lack of trust that would bring along with it. So he speaks, openly and plainly, and encourages his squadmates to be just as honest with him. He needs their trust. He needs them to know that when they're trapped under fire, not only will he have their backs, but he will move the Force itself to save their lives.

In all reality, Blyn only wishes he had that kind of power. He's just a man, like any other, fighting in a war that claims thousands of lives every day. The only power he has is to keep his squad alive, and even that proves impossible sometimes.

That's what his second set of armor is for. When a brother's life slips through his fingers into the beyond, piercing a hole right through Blyn's heart. When saving lives is his only job, failing feels like betrayal.

But soon, Blyn hopes, failing to return a man to fighting condition won't mean decommissioning for his patients.

If Tiptop is light, then Kaden is shadow. There is nothing calm, caring, or gentle about him. In a way, he is the caricature of what a Void Corps trooper is supposed to be.

With bloodied knuckles and a black eye, Kaden painted his armor. Not by choice, but because his brothers insisted he do so. When asked why his design lacked personality, Kaden simply responded that the burns he received to his arms and hands on Geonosis made painting difficult.

It wasn't true. The burns hadn't stopped him from starting numerous fights with his fellow troopers. All they'd done was seemingly suck the life from his eyes. Stolen the man his brothers knew.

The only unique bit of paint he has--the thorn-like shapes on his gauntlet--are a mystery, much like the rumors that surround his violent behavior. Why his constant fighting? Why all these whispers that he's killed brothers? And most of all, why do the men of Spire still tolerate his abuse?

Kaden won't speak on the matter, and Tiptop seems just as determined to keep his secrets.

Chronic exhaustion. That's where Tiptop's armor patterns originate from. The Battle of Geonosis left him in critical condition and unable to breathe unassisted, and it was there in the medbay that Tiptop drew these gentle, arcing ribbons. It was a simple way to put his mind at ease when insomnia tormented him.

Seventy looks at these lines and sees poetry. Most men in Void Corps opt for harsh lines. Complete plates of armor blacked out with stark geometry. Most men in Void Corps have also grown calloused. Cold. Empty.

Not Tiptop.

A scar cuts straight across his throat, choking his voice into just a hoarse whisper. Still, he whistles cheerful tunes. Sleep evades him most nights, and even after several cups of caf, he looks like a dead man walking. But he still won't hesitate to spend the night talking a troubled brother through his nightmares.

Tiptop is as different from the rest of the men in Void as his armor is. And without him, Spire Squad would surely crumble. Implode into their own agony. Just like everyone else.

Perhaps, if fate were kinder, Tiptop would be something besides a soldier. Because a soul like his was never meant to withstand the Clone Wars.

And yet, he persists.

For every moment Seventy spends in quiet contemplation of the world around him, Wink spends on the move, exploring it all. His curiosity—and relentless energy—knows no limits. And that’s exactly how he found his name. When lights-out came around during his training, questions about the wider galaxy would race furiously through his mind and ward off any attempt sleep made to pull him under. Eventually, his curiosity would get the better of him, and he’d spend the night in research. Reading articles discussing quality of life in different sectors of Galactic City. Watching documentaries about Kashyyyk and the estimated true age of the Tree of Life. Absorbing the bright colors of concerts on Zeltros through the screen of his datapad.

Eventually, he’d pass out into a sleep like death with the screen still illuminated. But even after spending most of the night answering his questions, exhaustion never found him. He was still too exuberant for his own good the next morning, despite not getting a ‘wink’ of sleep.

All it took was one comment from an older brother, likening him to a phoenix, and Wink latched on to the idea. A phoenix burns and burns, but never goes out. The destruction of the flames only makes it stronger. Makes it burn hotter. And that was exactly what Wink desired to be—indestructible. So full of life that his flame could never be put out.

So, when he was finally given the chance to paint his armor, he styled his helmet after the phoenix he’d been so fond of as a child. It didn’t matter that Void Corps wore a charcoal paint, as bad an omen as Seventy thought it was. Wink’s phoenix heart would never burn out.

A gentle shadow often lost in thought, he’s known to squad members as Seventy. He insists it isn’t a name—just a shorter way of saying his number. Saying all four digits without twisting your tongue is difficult, after all, not to mention inconvenient. Perhaps one day, the right name will find him. He’s hopeful. But the growing number of rejected monikers collecting in his datapad don’t suggest that day is anytime soon.

Quiet and nameless, yes, but Seventy isn’t lacking in creativity. His datapad is filled nearly to capacity with document files. Most of them are comprised of journal entries—each dated and signed—but scattered among them are bits of poetry and even retellings of quaint, fleeting moments he’d like to hold on to a little bit longer, kept in his pages like precious pressed flowers. Other documents are made up entirely of ornate, if unnecessary, vocabulary that he reserves for the perfect moment. None of his brothers understand this fascination, and his commanding officers grew tired of deciphering his reports a long time ago.