#hellfiresky

Everything looked blurry from where you were sitting, especially since the steam from the vent underneath the ledge smoked up your goggles. You swiped a gloved thumb across the glass, but it only smeared the neon reflection of a flickering Wok-The-Tok restaurant sign into a purplish bruise across your vision. A quick scan of your datapad showed three more black-ops freighters needing a discreet top-off at Landing Pad 98.

Ever since the Empire’s doonium quotas turned your Lothal peach garden into a dusty crater, you’d learned that sentiment didn’t feed your hunger, but volatile liquids did. Selling roadside fuel, decanting refined rhydonium from stolen Imperial drums into repurposed thermojugs for the local swoop-rats, or hauling high-capacity pods from your hidden garage for the larger freighters was the only thing that kept you dry and fed. You knew that hawking it to pilots who’d rather pay a forty-percent markup than deal with official port taxes was a high-risk hustle; one accidental drop, and you’d be a memory. But in the perpetual grime of Janix City, it was the only work that felt as honest as the dirt you used to have under your fingernails.

When it came to the black-ops freighters, you never expected a captain or some kind of head of the operation to buy directly from you. It was always a grunt, some hired muscle tasked with the heavy lifting, hauling the fuel pods on the back of a military-grade speeder whilst the person in charge stayed cosy somewhere in the armpit of Janix.

So when the shadow fell across the ledge, the only thing close to a workbench in your spot, you were unbothered. In your mind, you already had the scene figured out - they’d slide a few credits, you’d bargain, and if they were grunts from the scheduled freighters, you’d lead them to the garage and, kaching, rent paid for the week.

But the shadow didn't move. It didn't reach for a credit chip or a weapon. It stayed static in its place. From the corner of your eye, you tracked the silhouette. A heavy, hooded poncho that swallowed the light. Ugh, one of those guys, you thought. Definitely not a grunt. Likely a swoop racer looking for a high-octane fix, or worse, a member of Nico Deemis’ syndicate. You knew the type, low-level enforcers who hadn't even earned a lesser boss title yet but acted like they owned the sector.

“Whaaat?” You dragged the question out, eyes never leaving the blurry nightscape in front of you, silently cussing at the rain that started to drizzle. “Before you even ask, no. I can’t just give your speeder a full tank for free because you’re with Deemis, or Vario, or whatever the fuck gang you’re pretending to represent today. No discounts for ‘influence,’ and no tabs.”

The silence that followed wasn't the awkward quiet of a shamed gang member. It was a black hole. There was a brief sound of a metallic hiss, the sound of high-end cybernetics servos in the dampness of your corner.

“I am not with a gang,” the voice said. It was lower than you expected, vibrating through the metal ledge and up into your dangled legs. They didn't even sound like one of those cocky gang members, they sounded like an old, tired engine finally being turned off.

You eventually looked back. The neon blue of a nearby corner shop sign caught the stitching of his hood, but his face remained a void. He wasn't looking at your fuel jugs. He was looking straight ahead. Nowhere, and everywhere at the same time.

“Still. Even if you’re homeless, I won’t give it out for free.” You rolled your eyes, turning back to your datapad to hide the fact that your heart was hammering against your ribs.

“Did you water down the rhydonium?" He asked. The question was surprisingly banal, delivered with a calm that somehow felt more menacing than any brawls you’ve ever found yourself in.

As you squinted through the steam, you realised the figure wasn't just a tall man in a poncho. He was a Zabrak, his skin a deep, bruised red, with black tattoos that looked like they had been carved into his flesh by some kind of ceremonial blade. Even in the dim light, he looked less like a person and more like a statue of some ancient god left out in the rain.

“Wild accusation,” you said, finally pulling your goggles down to rest around your neck. You tried to summon your best unbothered glare. “Even if I did, I’ve never had any complaints! My customers keep coming back because my fuel gets them where they’re going without the Imperial tax.”

After a pregnant pause, the Zabrak finally turned his head, sickly yellow eyes locking onto yours.

“Indignation is the shelter of the guilty,” he remarked, voice remaining that gravelly vibration that seemed to harmonise with the muffled beat of a nightclub nearby. “I do not care for your moral justifications, nor the fragile contentment of your clientele. I merely find the mechanics of your deceit... compelling. You compromise the chemical integrity of rhydonium to sustain the longevity of your own survival. It is a necessary subterfuge, is it not? To subsist on the margins of a galaxy that offers nothing but the cold residue of progress.”

He walked closer, the smell of ozone and wet leather overpowering the dizzying scent of the fuel.

“You dilute the flame to stay in the game a little longer. But sooner or later, the engine always stalls. The debt of your mediocrity will be collected, one way or another.”

“Rude,” you grimaced, “doth mother never taught you mannerth?”

For a terrifying five seconds, the only sound was the bass thumping from the nightclub and the rhythmic drip of the evening shower hitting the unsheltered area of the rooftop you were in.

“My mother,” he began, the words felt like a trail of poison coming out of his mouth. He looked down at you with a hollow exhaustion that made your snarky retort suddenly feel very small. “My mother was a leader of witches. And my... past, his only lesson was that manners are the luxury of the weak.”

“So... you’re buying?” You raised both eyebrows, refusing to let his words rattle you. You wondered where this aimless conversation was going, and more importantly, if it was going to end with a kaching or a corpse - preferably not yours, though it was the most possible outcome.

He shrugged before taking a deep audible breath that felt like forever, and dropped a metre next to you. Separated only by a potted plant you carelessly placed to add a touch of decor in the makeshift shop, cybernetic legs dangling off the ledge. “Buy, buy, buy. Even loyalty from mercenaries costs credits these days,” he hummed.

“Huh?” You almost laughed. Mercenaries? Was this guy mad? Who would’ve—

Oh.

A grainy, high-contrast holographic poster you’d seen flickering in the Sector 9 transit hub suddenly hit your brain. A face like hell, eyes like burning sulfur. Without realising it, your jaw dropped. Instinctively, you scooted a few inches further away, worsening the state of your ripped trousers as you let them scrape against the rough metal.

“I know that look,” a soft chuckle escaped him as he took off his hood. “I doubt you’d have the guts to turn me in,” he turned back to the city lights. “Many have tried. All failed.”

You simply rolled your eyes, though your hands were shaking as you put down your datapad. You tried to recall the name from the poster, the letters blurry in your memory until they formed into focus.

“Ma—Maul?”

The sound of his name competed with the thumping bass of the nightclub that got louder as the night grew darker and the ever present hiss of the vents. He didn't react. If anything, he seemed to lean into the sound of it.

“I have been many things. A Lord. A son. An apprentice. A brother. Now I am merely 'Maul' who haunts the corners of this city. A cautionary tale for those who think they can run the underworld.”

“Dude, your head costs a lot these days,” you blurted out. You cussed your reckless mouth the moment the words left your lips. Dammit. This was what you got for trying to survive in the bowel system of the galaxy for too long. Eventually, your filter dissolved in the acid waste along with your sense of survival. It was as if nothing truly scared you anymore, not even sitting a metre away from a death-sentence.

“I am aware. As I have mentioned, many have tried to collect the bounty. None have survived.” He looked out at the horizon where some freighters were idling. “I have paid dearly for the loyalty of a band of Mandalorian commandos. Death Watch. Their commander has not questioned my orders, but I have seen the others... the way they look at me when they think I am not watching.”

He let out another short sigh before he turned his face to yours. “They need to be dealt with, don’t they?”

“If only I could just ‘deal with’ the sleemos that keep putting it on a tab and never pay their shit in full,” you chuckled, ignoring how deeply tired you sounded. “I’d be so rich they’d be on their knees begging me for a discount.” You laughed at your own complaint, the absurdity of comparing galactic-scale treason to a back-alley fuel debt hitting you all at once.

The yellow of his eyes was almost neon in the dark, tracking the way you crossed your legs, and turned your body to face him.

“To you, I am a bounty. To you, betrayal is a matter of credits and unpaid tabs.” He observed. “There is a strange honesty in that. My ‘sleemos’ do not keep themselves busy with credits, they play with brittle loyalties, and false promises, and eventually a grand betrayal. But the rot is the same, isn't it? The weakness of character. The failure to honour a commitment.”

“I just call them assholes,” you tutted, leaning back on your elbows, facing upwards as if your shelter would agree with you. The rain was finally starting to soak through the fabrics of your makeshift shop, but you didn't care. “Is that why you’re not sitting on a throne somewhere in the underground of Janix? Too many assholes to deal with?”

Maul let out a sound that might have been a humourless laugh. “Thrones are for those who believe the seat itself grants the power,” his voice dropped to a near-whisper that fought the noise of the city. “I am no longer that person. And my 'assholes', as you so eloquently put it, are symptoms of a larger plague. One I intend to cauterise.”

“You love big words, don’t you?” You couldn’t fight a small, lopsided smile. “Personally, I’d like to cauterise Myke. He’s uhh… get this, he’s a swoop racer who always loses. Zero moulee-rah in his pocket, and I think he’s also a symptom of a larger plague, as you so eloquently put it. Because not only does he put his fuel on tabs, he keeps borrowing everyone’s credits in the name of ‘sponsorship,’ promising them a big win. Meanwhile, that cold, hard cash goes straight to some stupid HoloNet gambling ring. Jawa Depot, ever heard of it? Fuckin’ hate it. Their ads are everywhere in the HoloNet.”

There it was again, that micro-smile haunting his face. Bathed in the ever-shifting colours of the city lights, his red-black complexions seemed to look less and less diabolical. “Myke,” he repeated, testing the common name as if it were a foreign tongue. “He does sound like an asshole.”

You nearly choked on the humid air. Hearing the most wanted man on Janix use the same term you used for the guy who owed you sixty five credits was the most surreal moment of your life. You let out a genuine, barking laugh. “See? I knew you’d get it. Forget the Empire, it’s the Mykes of the galaxy that are going to be our downfall.”

The micro-smile lingered on his face longer than before. For a moment, Maul looked like a normal guy who had once known how to find something funny. The structure-wide light from a massive health insurance company building in front of you pulsed from a harsh blue to a soft lilac, and for a split second, the red of his skin appeared less like blood and more like the warmth of a sunset on Lothal that you missed so dearly.

He looked down at the wilting baby Lothal Peach plant in the cracked pot between you, the one you carelessly placed, the one kept for good luck - knowing that none of your seedlings would survive the climate of Janix. His tattooed hand hovered over it, fingers unsurprisingly steady, before he pulled his hand back.

“I once had a brother,” he said softly. The authoritative tone was gone, replaced by one that sounded like a memory of a kinder world. “He was... fragile. A weakling, the others called him. But he was mine to watch over. My mother - as I have stated, was a leader among her kind - but she taught us that victory wasn't measured in conquest. She taught us to commune with the trees, to find the life force in the chaos.”

“And he spent his money on Jawa Depot?” You joked.

“Hmpf.” Another muffled laugh caught in his throat, tactfully covered by a dry cough. “No. On Dathomir, the world can be dark. My brother was afraid to venture far from our home. I would spend my days in the wilds, foraging for species he could study. I’ve always preferred the silence of the woods.”

He reached out, tattooed fingertips hovering just millimetres away from your wilting peach again.

“I once found a cluster of redweed in a deep ravine. They only bloom in total darkness, fed by the minerals in the cave walls. I spent hours propagating them in a hollowed out gourd just so I could bring them back to my brother. I wanted him to see that beauty didn't need the sun to survive.”

You didn’t know why Maul was sharing this with you. Why the so-called Shadow Lord of a criminal empire was sitting on a dirty ledge talking about botanical species, but you nodded anyway. Before you could say anything remotely snarky back, he continued, gaze fixed on the hazy horizon.

“And then there were the fire beetles that lived in the forgotten swamps near my village. They are foul, bioluminescent things. Venomous if they nip you, and some subspecies would even eat your flesh.”

“And what’s that got to do with Myke?” You let a small, genuine smile grow on your face.

“Nothing,” he answered.

The silence that followed wasn't the pressurised quiet of earlier. Strangely, it was the kind of silence you shared with a regular customer at 0300 when the galaxy felt too stupidly massive to talk about so you settled on menial things like the increasing gas prices and the quickest way to make credits and get the hell out of Janix.

“Nothing,” you repeated softly, looking down at your own hands, stained with engine grease and the soil of a world you couldn't go back to. “Right. Just two folks on a ledge talking about bugs and losers.”

Maul stared at the rain, eyes distant, as if he were seeing the red sunrise of Dathomir instead of the pouring rain amidst brightly coloured signs.

“I would spend all night catching them in a bottle. I would get stung a dozen times, hands swelling until I could no longer comfortably grip my zhaboka, just so I could put the bottle in the centre of our shared bedroom. I thought if Savage had a 'little sun' in our room at night, he wouldn't be afraid of the eerie magical ichor that seeped into our village whenever mother was communing with her sisters.”

He went quiet for a moment, tilting his head towards the sky far outside the city’s structure.

“He was a fool,” he murmured. “He believed the dark could be bargained with.”

The zabrak turned his head just enough for the colourful neon lights to catch most of his face. He didn't look like a monster right then, but like the boy who used to catch weeds in gourds, wondering if collecting fire beetles would be enough to make his brother safe.

“And that was… centuries ago?” You finally asked. You’d never really bothered to learn about the lifespans of other sentients, but Dathomirians had always struck you as an intense, ancient species. You’d only heard about the witches from stories your mother used to tell you when you were a child running around Lothal, “Come back home before dusk, or the Nightsisters will kidnap you!”.

“That was twenty two years ago. I was fourteen,” he recalled flatly.

“Wait, you’re thirty six? I was expecting three hundred and eighty seven.” You laughed at your own admission, the absurdity of it melting the tension.

“I am a Dathomirian Zabrak, not a Hutt.” He let out another sigh, and you swore you saw him roll his eyes.

“Explains the knee,” you probed, subtly pointing at a tiny spark jumping around the casing of his mechanical joint. It was a small flicker of blue light, almost lost in the smog, but your eyes, trained by years of keeping junk-tech running, couldn't ignore it. “Looks like you took a hit. The stabilisers in your servos are trying to compensate, but the feedback loop is causing a misfire.”

Maul looked down at his leg, watching the tiny spark for a moment. The mechanical limb whined in a high-pitched protest as he shifted his weight. “It is a souvenir from a skirmish down there,” he didn't sound proud of it, if anything, he sounded annoyed. “It functions well enough. Still carries me where I need to go.”

“Yeah, until whatever lubricant you’re using catches that spark and your leg becomes a firework,” you countered. You reached for a compact toolkit you kept tucked under the fuel jugs display case, the one you used to fix the fuel pumps whenever the climate gummed them up. You pulled out a small tube of high-viscosity insulation paste and a hydro-spanner. “Sit still. Or don't. But if you blow up my shop, it’s going to be a real bitch to clean up, and I’m already behind on my night shift.”

For a heartbeat, you thought you’d pushed it. You expected a red blade to light to life and end your career right then and there. Instead, the Shadow Lord simply watched as you leaned in. He didn't move. He didn't even seem to breathe.

You applied the paste with the practiced thumb of a gardener-turned-mechanic, sealing the leak and smoothing the wear-and-tear of his cybernetics. “There,” you muttered, wiping your hands on a rag. “It won't make you faster, but it’ll stop the clicking. Other places would probably charge you a hundred credits for a custom service like this, but consider this one on the house.”

Maul stood up. He tested the joint, the spark gone, replaced by a smoother motor. He looked at his knee, then back at you. “Thank you.” The words were heavy, as if they had traveled a long way through a very dark place to reach you.

“No worries,” you shrugged, throwing your tools back where you found them. “If the scheduled freighters bailed on me, then at least this made me feel like I actually worked today instead of just loitering around.”

“Hmm.” He hummed as he pulled his hood back over his horns, the shadow swallowing his face once more. “You possess a curious brand of mercy,” he remarked. “Most would see a broken machine. You see a flaw to fix.”

“Most would see a murderer, judging from your records. Yeah, I was reading about you on the HoloNet just then,” you added, a little bolder now that he was standing. You waited for the anger, but again, it didn't come.

“Well… we make do to survive.” A micro-smile escaped him again, gone as quickly as a fire in the rain.

“There’s something about you. It’s… um… hard to explain,” you cursed yourself for being reckless one last time. But you’d always liked reading people, and Maul was no exception. “I mean, if you’re up for a chat, or more philosophical rants in High Galactic language, then I set up my station here every Zhellday at least for the next two weeks. On Taungsday, I’m usually over in the Sector 4 bay.”

“I’ll come find you.” Maul nodded.

And before you could even blink, he was gone. Dissolved into the Janix smog, possibly magically manifested somewhere amidst the crowded buildings like a ghost returning to the machine. You shook your head at the absurdity of it. You could have called the local security precinct, but there was no point in reporting a ghost to the very institution that would shut down your illegal hustle in a heartbeat.

Suddenly, your datapad chirped, three immediate pings. The freighters had confirmed their refueling schedule - they were sending their speeders to your spot in less than an hour. Then, a new notification scrolled across the screen. A Kom’rk-class fighter had booked a high-capacity fueling for the coming two days. Neat, you thought. You’d never seen a Kom’rk in person. It was a special Mandalorian ship, at least based on your growing starship knowledge, and that usually comes with a shut-up-money that would pay for a whole new warehouse.

Rex

Sleeps exactly at 2100

Drinks sterile milk. Thinks it’s good for recovery even though it’s 70% sugar.

Has IBS.

Keeps a journal but writes in it maybe once per month. Most of the entries are like “forgot to write today.”

Has a perfectly folded pile of laundry he’ll put away later. Later = never.

Doesn’t read group chats

But will suddenly drop a very niche brainrot meme once in a while

If you’re his partner, he leaves you on read after 9pm because sleep is important for recovery.

→ Makes up for it by shaking you awake at 0500 for an “easy run” that magically turns into a 10k at least.

→ If you complain he just goes “it’s good for cardiovascular health”.

Cody

Knows every SOP ever written.

Says “huh” a lot.

Sleeps at 2200, a bit later than Rex because he doomscrolls before bed.

Loves spicy food but can’t take acidic food.

Actually journals.

PR trained, like seriously trained, he’s the go-to marshal commander to be interviewed. Regularly seen on holonews.

He’s not as calm as you think he is. He’s always on the verge of throwing hands.

If you’re his partner, good fucking luck. Bro disappears into paperwork for hours, comes back and asks “did you eat?”

→ Keeps your favourite snacks in hand.

→ “Did you eat? Did you drink? Did you shower?”

Wolffe

Permanent migraine

Has one functioning pair of wired earphones (yet one of the earbuds is broken) that he refuses to replace.

Doesn’t like loud places. Goes to Coruscant’s equivalent of Berghain every time he’s planetside.

Crazy perceptive

He likes isotonic drinks more than alcoholic drinks

Curses a lot

Scared of clowns which is insane knowing his capabilities

Is actually very funny once you know him well

If you’re his partner, he acts annoyed whenever you show some kind of PDA but doesn’t complain and lets you do it anyway.

→ Accidentally calls you ‘vod’ or ‘bro’

→ small spoon

Fox

What is sleep?

Has GERD

5 shots venti Coruscanticano

He chews antacid before every meal

Knows every alley in Coruscant that sells illegal alcohol.

Is actually a filmbro. His favourite films are space Chunking Express and space Blade Runner.

He’s VERY chatty when he feels like it

Knows everything about everyone

Occasionally joins underground swoop races with Thorn and Hound

Has a BARC-ing permit (he’ll share some if he likes you)

Member of several insufferable run clubs

If you’re his partner: he’ll text you “u up?” at 0200 but it’s because he wants to vent about bureaucracy.

→ Falls asleep on your couch in full armour. You just throw a blanket over him.

→ Has opinions about interior designs (he hates minimalism)

Bacara

Gym rat

Has Neyo on speed dial

Has at least seven flavours of protein powders in his room

Has two modes: menacing marshal commander or gym bro

Tried pilates once and fell off the reformer

Favourite beer is stout, particularly imperial stout

Watches anime

Listens to dad rock

Shares a playlist with Boss (they met each other once at 79’s)

Has a homemade tattoo machine

Lets his men roast him as a treat (they’ll have freshers duty waiting for them)

If you’re his partner, he can and will literally and randomly pick you up.

→ Calls you “civilian” when teasing you. It’s kinda hot, ngl

→ Mentally replies your text and forgets to actually respond

Neyo

Has Bacara on speed dial

Dry humour, blank expression.

Prefers his droid over others company

Can and will disappear without notice

Science-based lifting

Somehow has a name in the galactic metal scene (he writes in-depth album review in his free time)

Likes gummies and fruit roll-ups

The inventor of the BARC-ing permits

Likes to write nerdy shit (Neyo’s Almanac of Clankers is a living proof)

“I’m so tired.” times 10 every hour.

Has a space Discord server with over 800 members

Has a crypto phase

If you’re his partner his love language is acts of service but in a weird way.

→ Fixes things around your place silently. You turn around and your broken lamp is fixed and he’s just standing there like 👍

→ Dates are 80% quiet. Honestly kinda nice.

Ponds

Tired older brother energy 99% of the time

Says he “doesn’t gossip” but knows EVERY scandal in the GAR. He’s plugged into the matrix, just like Fox.

Says motherfucker a lot

Legitimately good at paperwork

Lactose intolerant

A group chat admin

Turns on his map EVERY WHERE he goes. Even to the supermarket down the street

Likes broccoli soup

Loves true crime podcasts

Drinks matcha twice a day to help with his digestion

Ends every sentence with ‘the fuck’

If you’re his partner, he texts you like a dad.

→ “Arriving in 8 minutes.” “Have you eaten.” “Why is your location in level 3340.”

→ Also carries meds and pads (if you menstrute) for you in his pouches

Bly

Looks responsible. Is not responsible

Thinks “rest day” means “swim 2k at a slower pace”

Writes terrible poems in his datapad

Also has IBS

Likes to eat foraged foods

Say “what” a lot

“I don’t know, man, what the fuck?”

Also great at paperwork, SOP, and quite PR trained

People pleaser

Into Twi’leki literature thanks to his boss

Prefers cold meal somehow

If you’re his partner, he will constantly send you a “be safe” text

→ Brings weirdest souvenirs from missions.

→ takes sunset/sunrise pics every day and sends them to you

Gree

Very outdoorsy

Granola bro

Has 80 wildlife facts ready at any moment

Will absolutely stop a mission briefing to point at a bug and go “that species is endemic to—”

Forgets to eat but remembers the diet of every mammals and insects on Kashyyyk

Likes carnivorous plants

Is actually very chill

Trail runner

His body aches if he spends too much time in the city

Unironically enjoys MREs

Low key spinstagram famous

If you’re his partner, he excitedly infodumps at you at all times.

→ You will learn three new facts every date whether you want to or not.

—————————

The sink was full with dishes you should’ve cleaned an hour ago, but you’d gotten distracted scrolling through something unimportant, and now the caf in your mug had gone cold. You rinsed it out, set it down. The chrono on the wall said late - but not too late. Late enough that Wolffe should be home soon. The apartment was quiet. Outside, the traffic droned on like white noise, Coruscant’s city lights slowly came alive over the window blinds. You rubbed at your neck, stretching a little, the warmth of the day still clinging to your skin. It had been a long one. Not bad, just… long.

You heard the familiar hiss of the front door sliding open. A heavy sigh. The unmistakable sound of armour moving. The clunk of heavy boots hitting the floor one by one. Then—

“Shinies need to get their shit together.”

You smiled to yourself, drying your hands on a towel as Wolffe stepped into the kitchen, rolling his shoulders like the weight of command hadn’t quite settled yet. His blacks hugged him, sweat around the collar, hair slightly mussed. He looked tired. More than tired.

“You sound like an old man.” You leaned against the counter, watching him.

“I am an old man,” he pressed his palms on his lower back with a slight wince. “Physically, at least.”

You snorted, reaching for the cupboard. “You want caf?”

“Nah.” He stepped behind you, pressing a quick, absentminded kiss to your temple before resting his chin on your shoulder, exhaling deeply. “Kriff. Today was long.”

“Yeah?” You rested your hands over his where they settled at your waist.

“Yeah. Shinies kept missing their marks in drills. Had to run ‘em through it five times before they stopped embarrassing themselves.”

“You sound so proud.”

“I would be! If they weren’t so damn slow.”

You chuckled, squeezing his fingers before slipping out of his hold. “Go shower, old man. I can smell the armour stank.”

He made a face. “You love it.”

“Debatable.”

He grumbled something under his breath but listened, taking off the armour pieces, and tugged his shirt over his head as he headed for the ‘fresher. The moment the door shut, you sighed, stretching again. The tiny kitchen droid blinked at you. The dishes still sat in the sink. The microwave probably needed fixing. None of it was urgent, none of it was important, but all of it was there. You rolled your shoulders, letting the familiar mundanity of it settle in.

“You want anything to eat? I made cream soup and bought that nerf burger on the way home from The Hub.” You called out from the bedroom, picking up his discarded blacks and tossing them into the shared laundry bin. The laundry droid from your go-to laundry by kilo place would swing by in the morning, same as always, before you headed back to the Hub. You’d set it up ages ago - automated pickups and drop-offs. It was a necessity, really. The last thing you wanted was to get flagged for laundering blood-stained blacks in the middle of CoCo Town. The GAR had its own facilities, sure, but with a commander practically living in your apartment whenever he wasn’t on the frontlines, his clothes had inevitably started blending in with yours.

No answer. He always took his time in the ‘fresher, you’ve always loved how steamy and warm your fresher would be after his shower, though. Your apartment sat on the surface level of Coruscant, tucked into a quieter corner of CoCo Town - close enough to the underworld portal for easy access, far enough from the worst of it to avoid unnecessary danger. A good spot. One you’d spent years curating. The Hub, though - that was deeper. Lower levels. A small co-working space with communal terminals, and workstations where slicers came and went, sharing access codes and decryption scripts over cups of stale caf. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was home - or as close as a place like that could get.

You grabbed a dirty shirt from the chair and tossed it to the bin alongside Wolffe’s blacks. The sheets on the bed were still messy from where you’d been lying earlier. You debated fixing them, but - nah. You’d just end up messing them up again soon enough.

The water shut off. Then Wolffe’s voice, rough from the steam filled the space.

“You ate yet?”

“Not really.”

A grumble. “Then I’ll take the soup. You can eat the burger.”

“Figured. I’ll heat it up.”

Dinner was nice. Well, as nice as homemade soup and a fast-food nerf burger could be. You both ate quietly at the small dinner table, the one that folded up into a workspace when needed, your favourite piece of modular furniture in the apartment. Easily the best thing you’d ever spent your adult credits on. Wolffe, freshly showered, dug into the soup. Between bites, he started grumbling about his most recent mission to Aleen - the same one he’d just returned from last week. Apparently, it had been hell. Not because of the planet itself, or even the mission, but because of some golden droid who wouldn’t shut up.

“He talked the entire time,” Wolffe shook his head. “I thought protocol droids were supposed to be helpful.”

“Maybe he was helpful. Just not in the way you wanted.”

Wolffe rolled his eyes before continuing. “You don’t understand. The relief mission itself? Fine. No problems. But that droid - he wouldn’t shut up. Narrated everything like some kind of sports commentator.” He scoffed. “Kept trailing behind me, throwing out ‘fun facts,’ trying to translate every little detail to the Aleenas.” He straightened slightly before straining his voice to a posh Coruscanti accent ‘We have been quite on an adventure, Commander Wolffe!’

That almost made you choke on your drink. “The fuck was that?!”

“Every. Damn. Minute.”

You let out a full belly laugh. It was kind of surreal, watching this man - Commander Wolffe, the guy who had lost an eye in the battle of Khorm to a Sith acolyte, who had once been stranded in the vacuum of space with only a handful of his men and still made it out alive - obsessing over what was, by all accounts, a fever dream of a relief aid mission.

“The Sith acolyte didn’t break you, getting spaced didn’t break you, but this droid did?”

Wolffe groaned, running a hand down his face. “I swear, I’d take another orbital skirmish over that mission any day.”

After dinner, Wolffe took over dish duty, cleaning plates in the sink whilst you made your escape to the bedroom. A fair trade - you cooked, he cleaned. It was an unspoken rule by now, one of the small, automatic rhythms of living together. You laid out on the bed, pulling up the latest episode of Sex and the Ecumenopolis - the old holoseries you were only watching because your friend had roped you into it. Wolffe hated it. Or at least, that’s what he claimed.

The bedroom door slid shut, followed by the sound of a dramatic sigh. “Naw, not this again.”

The mattress dipped as he threw himself down beside you. He barely spared the screen a glance before grabbing his datapad, thumbing through the reports his men had submitted.

You smirked, nudging his shoulder. “You know you don’t have to stay.”

“I was here first,” he muttered, eyes still on his datapad.

“You were not.”

Wolffe just grunted, scrolling through casualty assessments like he wasn’t very aware of the episode’s plot - because you knew he was. He’d sat through enough of this show to absorb its nonsense, no matter how much he insisted otherwise. And this episode? Oh, this one had gotten to him. Because the thing was, he had been outraged - outraged - about the tragic arc of Mireena and her doomed situationship with a man in a promotional sandwich costume. A sandwich, of all things.

“She was a lawyer,” Wolffe muttered under his breath, still flipping through reports. “And he was a sandwich. That was a real quote from the show. Maker help me.”

You bit down a laugh, already knowing where this was going. He kept going. “She had a whole career. A life. And he—” his left hand gestured vaguely at the holo, not even looking up from his datapad, “—was walking around dressed as a goddamn Ronto Wrap.”

You grinned. “So you were invested.”

“I’m saying it was stupid.”

“Uh-huh.”

Wolffe finally looked up with an unimpressed stare. “You’re telling me you didn’t think it was ridiculous?”

“Oh, no, it was completely ridiculous,” you admitted. “But it’s a pre-Clone Wars holoseries, Commander, ridiculous is the point.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “They made me care about a man in a sandwich costume.”

“They really did.”

“They never even showed his face,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Because here’s the thing - he could complain all he wanted, but you knew the truth. Not only did he know all the characters, he had opinions. Strong ones. And, most damning of all - he had a favourite.

Sahm’ara Joans. The self-made entrepreneur, the no-nonsense, I’ll burn this city down before I let a man waste my time woman. Wolffe swore up and down that she was the only tolerable character, but you knew better. He liked her. No, he respected her. Every time she delivered a one-liner or completely dismantled some poor bastard in the dating scene, you’d catch the slightest smirk on his face, like he was privately rooting for her.

On the other hand, there was Kaari Breesaw, who Wolffe detested. “She has the emotional intelligence of a gundark,” he grumbled once, after Kaari had, for the fifth time, thrown herself back into the orbit of ‘Big O’, a wealthy shipping tycoon with all the charm of a typical finance bro in the Financial District. “She knows he’s an asshole. She knows he’s gonna screw her over. And she still—” He’d jab his finger at the holoseries as if that would explain something.

“She’s in love,” you teased.

“She’s stupid.”

The best part? This was a recurring argument. Every time Sex and the Ecumenopolis cycled back to Kaari making yet another terrible decision, Wolffe’s patience wore thinner and thinner, until one day, he’d just flat-out refused to acknowledge her storyline at all.

“She’s dead to me,” he’d declared. “Tell me when they’re back to Sahm’ara.”

And now, predictably, after the sandwich episode ended - he peeked over the edge of his datapad again. “Where’s Sahm’ara? Why does Kaari dominate this episode?” You barely looked away from the holo. “You know she’s literally the one narrating the story, right?”

“Mm. Don’t care.” His voice was flat, unimpressed. “They should give Sahm’ara the narration. At least she has a point.” You chuckled but didn’t argue. He had a habit of deciding exactly how a show should be structured and then getting personally offended when it didn’t conform to his vision.

You felt the shift in the mattress before you felt him - the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin as he leaned in, pressing his face against the curve of your neck. His datapad landed on the bedside table with a quiet thud, forgotten in favour of something else entirely. “How was your day?” he dropped his voice to a raspy murmur. His arm slung lazily around your waist, fingers tracing absent patterns over your hip like muscle memory.

“Good.” You tilted your head slightly to give him better access as his lips brushed along your neck. “My team and I managed to slice into that CIS propaganda holonet site - took most of the data down.”

Wolffe hummed against your skin, half-listening, half-distracted as he worked his way lower, his hand slipping under the hem of your shirt, and grazed up to cup your breast. “We rerouted their entire login system,” you continued, running your fingers through his cropped hair. It was still slightly damp from his shower, warm against your palm. “Every time they try to access their own files, it just redirects them to a looping video of a Toydarian singing Never Gonna Give You Down in Huttese.”

That actually got a huff of amusement from him. “Efficient.”

“Oh, and we stole some of their encrypted comms, rerouted a few of their shadow accounts into charity funds, the usual.” It was a routine for you, as if you were just recounting errands, rather than digital sabotage against the Separatists. “Big win for the cause.”

“Big win,” he murmured against your collarbone, nipping lightly before pressing a softer kiss in the same spot. His voice was growing raspier. You giggled, squirming as his two-days-old stubble scraped against your skin. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

“I am.” He kissed the underside of your jaw, exhaling warm against your skin. “Toydarian. Huttese. You’re very disruptive.”

“Oh, I’m disruptive?”

His lips curled against your throat before he shifted on top of you, his weight pressing more firmly against you, his hand sliding lower. “Mhm.”

“What about you?” You pressed a lingering kiss to the top of his head. “Anything else aside from the shiny training?”

Wolffe exhaled, his breath sent a heat straight to your core, he was clearly reluctant to re-engage with the topic now that he had his mouth on your skin. His hand moved down to the band of your trousers, slipping it halfway there before he finally muttered, “Briefing. Patrols. More briefings. Argued with a senator’s aide about the next relief mission logistics - again.”

You hummed, still dragging your nails lightly over the back of his scalp. “Win?”

“Does anyone ever win against bureaucracy?”

“Fair point.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against your shoulder for a moment. “Came this close to telling them to shove their ‘budget constraints’ straight up their senatorial asses.”

You snorted. “And yet, you restrained yourself. Personal growth.”

“Barely,” he muttered. His hand finally snaked down under your trousers in a slow and lazy rhythm, like his body was already more interested in other things. “Kinda wish Fox and I were still in the same unit. I would’ve let him handle it. He actually likes dealing with politicians.”

You sighed, his hand moving down your leg making your breath hitch. "Don't I know it," you said, voice raspy. "But someone's gotta help keep those senators in check. Maybe one day, you'll find a way to enjoy it." You ran your fingers through his hair again, closing your eyes. He hummed in response, nuzzling deeper into your neck. "Maybe. For now, though..." He trailed off, his fingers finally found their way into your clit, circling gently. You arched into the touch without thinking about it, moaning softly as he dipped one finger straight into your sensitive spot and began to tease it. Your head fell back on the pillow as a wave of pleasure coursed through you, overwhelming any lingering thoughts of work or stress. The sounds of the holoseries and the city outside faded away, replaced by the sounds of your breath and the soft rustling of sheets against skin.

"Maker, Wolffe," you panted, hooking an arm around his neck to pull him closer. "You're so good at this." His only response was a low grunt against your skin that sent a shiver down your spine. “You wanna fuck?” He looked up.

You blinked at him. “Duh. Why are you stopping?”

Wolffe rolled his eyes as he reached down to undo the tie on your trousers. “Because this thing is kriffing tight - almost cut off the circulation in my hand.” He gave you an unimpressed glare, fingers tugging at the waistband in irritation.

You giggled, still breathless. “Sorry, didn’t realise my loungewear was a hazard.”

“It is. I’m filing a report.”

You let out a huff of laughter, lifting your hips to help him along. This was just how it was with him. After so long together, this - the teasing, the grumbling, the way he always found something to complain about even whilst he was actively seducing you - felt as much a part of the moment as anything else. Sex with Wolffe wasn’t always some kinky planet-shattering affair. Sometimes, it was just another way to be close. A quiet affection between two people who had already seen each other at their worst and still wanted to crawl into bed together at the end of the day.

"There you go," he muttered, tugging your trousers down and tossing them to the floor without a second thought. You squinted at him. "Boo, you missed the laundry bin."

Wolffe didn’t even look at where they’d landed, just gave you a noncommittal shrug. “Not my problem.”

"Oh, it will be," you warned playfully, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer. "I'll make you pick them up later."

Wolffe raised an eyebrow, his hands sliding up your thighs. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Both," you breathed, arching into his touch. "Now, are you going to keep complaining about my clothes or are you going to do something about the fact that I'm not wearing any?"

A wolfish grin spread across his face. "I think I can fix the laundry later."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that made you forget all about the discarded joggers before taking his own trousers off. His hands roamed your body, leaving trails of heat in their wake. You gasped into his mouth as he grind against you.

"Wolffe," you whined, breaking the kiss. "Please..."

"Impatient, aren't we?"

You huffed, about to retort, when he suddenly moved to align himself with your entrance. The words died in your throat as he slowly pushed in, stretching you in the most exquisite way.

"Maker," you breathed, clutching at his shoulders. Wolffe grunted in agreement, his forehead resting against yours as he bottomed out. For a moment, you both stayed still, savouring the connection. Then, Wolffe began to move. His thrusts were slow at first, drawing out soft gasps and moans from you both. You clung to him, one hand tangled in his hair while the other traced the scars on his back - a map of his history that you'd long since memorised.

"Faster," you urged, nipping at his earlobe. "Please, Wolffe."

He obliged, picking up the pace. The room filled with the sound of skin against skin and breathless moans. You pushed your hip back, meeting him thrust for thrust, chasing that building pleasure. "That's it," Wolffe’s voice was rough with desire. "Just like that, cyar'ika."

The Mando'a endearment sent a thrill through you, as it always did. You loved when he slipped into his native tongue during intimate moments. "Kriff, you feel good," Wolffe growled, his cybernetic eye reflecting the city lights from outside of your window as he gazed down at you.

"Anyway, what's going on with your neighbour?" he asked, maintaining his relentless rhythm. "Mmh, which one?" you managed to respond, trying to focus despite the overwhelming sensations that made coherent thought nearly impossible. The way he moved inside you was intoxicating, but there was something thrilling about the contrasting normalcy of your relationship - how you could be lost in each other yet still discuss the mundane details of life.

"The new one," he panted, letting your fingers dig into his shoulders. "The one who moved in last week."

"Oh, that guy." You whined as he pulled out. "Tall, dark, and handsome. Like you, but with a stupid amount of abs, cause, you know, Zabrak–oh, fuck! And a really nice ass." You gasped as he plunged back in, his hips meeting yours in rhythm again. "Shit, Wolffe," you moaned, your eyes rolling back in your head. “And he has the sexiest Dathomirian accent.”

Wolffe snorted, clearly amused. "He does, doesn’t he? Well, maybe we should invite him over for some drinks." You laughed despite yourself. "Yeah right. As if he could handle the two of us." Your body tensed and then exploded in a rush of pleasure around him. For a moment, there was silence between you both - just the sounds of your heavy breathing and his steady thrusts - before you spoke again. "I just came."

"As you should," Wolffe growled, his pace increasing as he chased his own release. "You're so fucking beautiful when you come."

You moaned, oversensitive but still loving every moment. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the muscles flex with each thrust. "Come on, Wolffe," you encouraged, nipping at his jaw. "Let go for me."

His rhythm faltered, becoming erratic as he neared the edge. You clenched around him, drawing a strangled groan from his throat. "Cyar'ika," he panted, burying his face in your neck. With a final, deep thrust, Wolffe stilled, groaning your name as he came. You held him close, enjoying the warmth he spilled inside you whilst rubbing your hand on his back as he shuddered through his release.

“Did you buy the jogan fruit?” You suddenly asked, still out of breath, and completely blissed out.

Wolffe let out a muffled groan against your neck. "Really? That's what you're thinking about right now?" You chuckled, still caressing his back. "Well, you did promise to make that jogan fruit tart I like. That recipe you learnt from Gregor?"

He lifted his head to look at you, his face was a cocktail of exasperation and fondness. "I'm still inside you, and you're worried about dessert?"

"I work up an appetite after good sex," you teased, pressing a quick kiss to his nose. Wolffe rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his smirk. "Fine. Yes, I bought your precious jogan fruit. It's in the kitchen."

You grinned, pecking him on the lips. "Good boy."

He slowly pulled out, both of you hissing at the sensation, before collapsing beside you on the bed. You turned to face him, tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "So, about that tart..." you began.

Wolffe groaned, throwing an arm over his face. "Maker, you're insatiable. And I don't mean just for sex."

You laughed, snuggling closer to him. "You love it."

"Force help me, I do," he pulled you snugly against his side. You nestled your head on his chest, where the rhythm of his heartbeat gradually slowed to normal, giving a comforting lullaby. "We should shower," you murmured softly after a moment, though you remained comfortably wrapped in his embrace, making no attempt to move. Wolffe's voice was a gentle rumble as he responded, "I have showered."

“Again?” you teased, fluttering your eyelashes at him. His laughter was a warm vibration under your cheek as he reached up to playfully tousle your hair. "Since when did that work?"

"Since never," you admitted with a grin, pressing a kiss to his chest. "But it was worth a shot."

Wolffe hummed noncommittally, kissing the top of your head. "In a minute. I'm comfortable." You couldn't argue with that. The warmth of his body and his musky scent were lulling you into a peaceful state. You let out a contented sigh, snuggling closer.

"So," Wolffe broke the silence after a few moments, "Tell me more about this neighbour of yours. The one with the 'stupid amount of abs' and 'really nice ass'."

You playfully swat his chest. "Jealous, Commander?"

"Hardly," he scoffed, but his arm tightened around you. "Just curious about the competition.”

“He has a boyfriend,” you giggled. "Oh?" Wolffe's eyebrow shot up. "And how do you know that?"

You shrugged. "Saw them together in the turbolift. Very handsy. His boyfriend is a Twi'lek."

A raspy chuckle reverberating through his chest. "Well, cyar’ika, there goes your fantasy threesome."

"Who said anything about a threesome fantasy?" you propped yourself up on an elbow to look at him. "Maybe I was thinking about a foursome."

"Hmm, I'm not sure how I feel about sharing you."

“What about making me a jogan tart?”

"You're not going to let that go, are you?"

"Nope," you grinned, popping the 'p'. "I've been craving it all week."

He sighed in exasperation, but you could see the affection in his eyes. "Fine. Let me clean up and I'll start on it."

You beamed, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before rolling off him. "You're the best."

"I know," he said, but before you could get too far, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you right back in, kissing you slow, indulgent, giving you all the time he had in the galaxy.

Then, with that military efficiency, he got off the bed and headed straight for the kitchen, already on his next mission. You flopped onto your back, grinning at the ceiling, the warmth of the moment still cocooning you. The episode of Sex and the Ecumenopolis that had been playing in the background was long over, replaced by the holoseries app’s main menu, idly looping trailers for other shows you had no intention of watching. You grabbed the remote and switched off the holovision. No need to waste credits on unnecessary power - especially not when Wolffe was already rolling his eyes at the last utility bill.

GAR ALL PERSONNEL BROADCAST

📌 PINNED MESSAGE (edited 3 hours ago by Jesse):

Welcome to ALL PERSONNEL BROADCAST – this is the official GAR-wide channel.

Rules (because apparently we need them):

1. No thirst trap reviews.

2. Use threads. For the love of Prime.

3. Be kind. No inter-unit war. Mods will smite you.

4. If you see General Kenobi or General Skywalker join, act normal.

5. No one wants to hear your datapad mix at 0300

6. Any dream involving General Mundi is a YOU problem.

7. DO NOT EVER add civvies, Jedi, or your Mandalorian buire (looking at you, Skirata’s sons).

8. Please remember: Alpha-17 is reading AND modding.

9. Emotional breakdowns permitted on Primeday only.

10. The “clones tier list” thread is banned. Forever.

(This week’s special rule: If you see Marshal Commander Cody typing, stop what you’re doing and reflect on your sins.)

Current mod on duty: Ordo Skirata

Most recent muted user: Dickies from the 41st Elite Corps (for sending an unsolicited Niamos karaoke as a bit).

Server uptime: 99.7% (dropped after Marshal Commander Fox rage-quit and rebooted the network)

——

CT-339821: i texted her “what if we kissed in the AT-TE maintenance hangar 🥺👉👈”

CT-898421: real ones know there’s no better first date than taking apart a blaster

Ridge: y’all got dates??? 😐

Hardcase: i got RIZZ

Echo: please stop using that word.

Jesse (mod): no he’s right tho. hardcase got this weird situational rizz. 3 seconds max and then he self-destructs

Kix: idk what’s worse, the medbay smell or watching y’all exchange your pickup lines in this chat like it’s 79’s fresher line at midnight

Sinker (mod): just woke up to 6,902 unread messages what the actual kriff is going on here

Scorch: *sends tooka memes*

Cody (mod): STOP SPAMMING. THIS IS NOT FOR MEMES.

Boil: but sir we had an important discussion about if clones could beat a rancor with bare hands (probably buried. scroll up for context!)

Boss (mod): No. You could not.

Fi (mod): I could

Niner: Omega fucking wins again

Ordo (mod): No you couldn’t, Fi. You whined when you stubbed your toe on Dar’s gear bag.

Alpha-17 (mod): If i see one more picture of some shiny’s helmet next to a mug of caf and a datapad with the caption “just Centaxday tings” I’m purging this entire network

Parts: sir u just don’t understand ✨aesthetic✨

Gree (mod): boys, boys. please. some of us are trying to maintain a reputation here.

Bly: Reputation as what gree. The funky lil trooper figurines collector???

Wolffe: YOU PROMISED YOU’D STOP MENTIONING THE FIGURINES

CT-8364: With all due respect, sir. That’s such an L

Wolffe: Trip, right? Latrine duty. Now.

Bacara (mod): What’s an L?

Jesse (mod): ok ok back to business. shinies been saying some wild shit. translation thread starting now. drop your questions sirs

Boss (mod): What does “ate” mean? What did Rex eat on Umbara?

Rex: rations and sterile milk

Fives: shut the fuck up rex you can’t be that dense

Dogma: Wow, ARC title allows you to talk osik to your superior?

Jesse (mod): shut up dog

Echo: shut up dogma

Fives: SHUT UP, DOGMA!

Nax: Thanks, guys, he’s sulking again and stole the console. It was supposed to be my turn to play Battle Star.

Hardcase: i WILL beat him and he will SULK even more

Sinker (mod): “ate” -> Translation: He did well. Usage: “Captain Rex really ate during that campaign on Umbara 🔥”

Boss (mod): What’s the significance of eating and performing?

Fixer: @Scorch get him

Scorch: On my way! 🫵🏾🤣💥

Fi (mod): Okay i’m starting a new thread called “Fever Dreams” for funsies! Drop your weirdest dreams. go!

Comet: I dreamt I was a loaf of bread being sliced by General Plo. He was gentle.

CC-IMMUNE: dreamt i had to re-certify my shooting skills and the blaster was a frog. General Yoda had to tame it

Nate: Dreamt that Kit Fisto told me he was proud of me. I woke up sobbing

Jangotat: CT-92-1786, oh you’re the one who adopted my former name.

Bacara (mod): Not gonna happen, kid. @Nate

Advisor: Dear all, please avoid going to Mess Hall B98 at the Republic Military Base from 1300 to 1800 tomorrow. There will be a demolition experts meet up.

Cody (mod): Thank you, Addy.

Bacara (mod): Well noted.

Fox: Thanks. Please contact Thire for all base announcements.

Sev: what did i miss i was asleep

Jesse (mod): dreams. drop yours and be weird about it.

Sev: i dreamt i was in a hot spring on hoth with the Delta Squad. but the water was beer. Fixer had eggs for eyes. Scorch was a sentient kettle. Boss was Boss.

Fi (mod): EXACTLY the kind of sick shit I wanted

Ordo (mod): I always pick the wrong time modding

CT-78927: one time i dreamt we were all assigned emotions like that animated holofilm. i got “mild disappointment”, CT-78928 got “suppressed anger”

Bacara (mod): @Keeli aren’t those your kids?

Keeli: Yeah. The weird ones are mine, sir.

Hound: I had a dream where I adopted at least 60 massiffs

Wrecker: I DREAMT I WAS DATING A THERMAL DETONATOR and SHE WAS SHY BUT SWEET 🫵🏾 WHEN SHE BLEW UP, SHE SAID “I’M SORRY IT HAD TO BE THIS WAY” AND KISSED ME. BOOM! DREAM!

Crosshair: I’m banning you from sleeping in the armoury

Parts: dreamt i was in 79’s, but the band was made of Jedi. Obi-Wan on drums. Anakin on bass. Kit on guitar. Plo on keys. Mace crowd surfed. i got kicked in the face and thanked him 🫡

Thorn: i dreamt i was chasing paperwork and every time i got close it changed into a new form. i woke up and it was real

Fox: We shared the same dream, vod.

Gree (mod): last night i dreamt i was a lamp in the Jedi Council chamber.

Boss (mod): All of you need psychological help

Jesse (mod): Boss pls drop ur weird dream or we’re revoking ur mod card

Boss (mod): I dreamt I got demoted and had to lead base tours for civilians in @Part’s drag sash. Walon Vau hugged me, and I woke up sweating.

Ordo (mod): weirdest part is Vau showing affection

Fi (mod): ok that concludes Fever Dreams. you lot are unwell. i’m proud of us.

Alpha-17 (mod): Everyone logging into this thread is being scheduled for mandatory psych eval. Even me. Especially me.

Tup: okay but hear me out, what does it mean if i dreamt the clones were all in a musical called Buirmia! and Captain Rex had a solo called “Order 69” whilst Commander Fox tap danced in a turbolift in 1313 and Commander Cody did a duet with General Kenobi

Echo: it means we all need to go to sleep and never wake up

Omega: This looks fun! What are you guys talking about? 🤭

Echo: CLOSE YOUR EYES

Echo: WHO GAVE THE KID ACCESS?!

Hunter, Tech, Crosshair, and Wrecker left

Sister: This is why I told you it was a bad idea to join this broadcast @Emerie

GAR ALL PERSONNEL BROADCAST

📌 PINNED MESSAGE (edited 3 hours ago by Jesse):

Welcome to ALL PERSONNEL BROADCAST – this is the official GAR-wide channel. Rules: 1. If you find a DC-17 in the mess hall, it is NOT "finders keepers." Post it in the #Lost-and-Found thread. 2. No recording yourself doing stunts while on duty. General Plo Koon is "disappointed," and we all know that’s worse than a demerit. 3. We know the ration packs taste like shebs. Stop tagging the Coruscant Guard; they don't cook them. 4. If Commander Tano joins the chat, cease all profanity immediately. This is a "No-Kark Zone" for the duration of her session. 5. If you’ve seen the latest episode of Love Planet, do not post the ending in General Chat. Always use the spoiler function. 6. Kix is not your personal search engine. If you vomit blood, go to the medbay. Do not "thread it" for opinions. 7. Any attempt to "accidentally" invite General Skywalker to the #Vent-Ress channel will result in an immediate, permanent ban. 8. No trading expired bacta vials for extra rations. 9. Referencing High General Windu as "The Motherfucker" is now a mute-able offence.  10. If you find yourself talking to your helmet, please report to Rule 9 of last week (Emotional Breakdowns). (This week’s special rule: If you see Marshal Commander Neyo typing, do not attempt to outsmart him or fight him. Not only will you lose, but you will also lose a limb.) Current primary mod on duty: RC-1262 Scorch Most Recent Muted User: Hardcase (For uploading a 4-hour loop of “Droid Popper ASMR”). Server Uptime: 84.2% (Major drop-off after Commander Ponds accidentally deleted the "Logistics" category during a skirmish).

Anakin: okay but who’s hosting game night this week?? Dogma: Not you, respectfully, sir. Tup: last time you played sabacc you ignited your saber and screamed “NO MORE RULES” Anakin: yeah and?? i won 😎 Cody: Should I inform my general about this?

Rex removed Anakin from the broadcast 

Rex is no longer a moderator

Rex: Thank me later. We’ve had him for four days, that was more than enough. Jesse (mod): booooo -hc Cody: There was a reason why you were banned, Hardcase. Jesse (mod): HA! No one can get rid of me -hc Jesse (mod): Okay, in my defence, I was in the fresher, and Hardcase stole my datapad. Fives: Doing number two after Rex’s disciplinary action, Jes? 50 laps around the base? Comet (mod): YIKES. For once I’m glad I report to Commander Wolffe Wolffe: For once? Comet (mod): i mean, sir, you are no Commander Bly Wolffe: and what does that entail? Comet (mod): @/Sinker @/Boost help a brother out Sinker: RIP Comet. We’ll tell the shinies you died a hero. Boost: @/Comet I’m busy "polishing my helmet," which is code for not being anywhere near Wolffe’s range of sight right now. Boil: polishing your helmet or polishing your dih Waxer: Nice one vod Wolffe: I am literally standing five metres behind you @/Boost. Get off the broadcast and back to preparing the gunship. Sinker: HAHA BUSTED. Wolffe: That goes for you too, Sinker. And Comet. Jesse (mod): Oof. 104th is having a rough Zhellday. Gree (mod): Can we circle back to why Comet thinks being under Bly is a "vacation"? Lucky: (audio) Because there’s a rumour going around that Commander Bly spends 90% of his time "strategising" with General Secura. By which I mean, they are sitting on a tree K-I-S

Bly removed Lucky from the broadcast

Bly (mod): No one ever told me how powerful being a mod makes you feel Scorch (mod): EEEYUUUUCK SOMEOBE IS ON A POWER TIRP 🤣🫵🏾💥 Rex: I love when I don’t have to mute my own men Boss: This is exactly why I didn’t sign off on Scorch for mod privileges. Look at those typos. Sev: he’s literally typing with one greasy hand.

Scorch: at least it’s grease not BLOOD!! 🫵🏾💥🤣🤣😹😭 Fixer: Petition to confiscate his datapad again? Niner (mod): Honestly, I like whatever is wrong with Delta Squad. Atin: It is very satisfying to see, but never satisfying to experience. Sev: @/Atin. Qibbu’s Hut parking lot. Now. Bly (mod): @/Scorch It’s not a power trip. It's a disciplinary action. There is a difference. Scorch (mod): YEA RIGHT 🙄💅🏾 u just like the little shiny badge next to ur name!!! makes u feel TALLER 🤏🏾💥🤣 Boss: Scorch, if you use one more emoji, I’m letting Sev eat your worm sugar gummies for two months Sev: already ate them. Scorch (mod): WHAT!!!!!!!!! 😱😱😱 GROSS!!!! ILLEGAL!!!!!! YOU SHOULD NEVER 👎

Fixer: Technically, according to Rule #57, Sev confiscated them as a potential biohazard due to their flammable packaging. Niner (mod): Again, I like whatever the fuck is wrong with the Deltas. Legit the only reason I check this broadcast. Fi: FREE ENTERTAINMET FOR US WORKING LADS Sev: @/Fi shut up or you’re next at Qibbu’s. Cody: Can we return to professional standards? I am trying to coordinate a multi-sector offensive and the notification pings are compromising my focus. Fox: then MUTE THE CHANNEL, Cody. some of us have to deal with at least three senators asking why there’s a wanted poster for Dogma near the Senate Plaza Thire: @/Fox ...that would obviously be the 501st. Specifically Fives. Thorn: Fourth time this month Fives: HEY! NOT EVERY DOGMA PRANK WAS CREATED BY ME. Rex: Fives. Put the datapad down. Echo: @/Rex He’s using a second compact datapad in his vambrace, sir. He’s not going to stop Fives: I’m PRETTY SURE that was Echo’s doing Echo: I didn’t do anything Fives: youuuu SLIMY BITCH. You’re literally THEE brain for these pranks Rex: Echo would never, Fives. Jesse (mod): Why would Echo do that??? Fives: SEE! He’s getting to your brain Echo: 🤷🏽‍♂️ Dogma: Does anyone want to eat? Fives: no one is talking to you dog Jesse (mod): Yep, no one. Also, I want fried catfish Rex: the one near the Entertainment District? Cody: Oh that one is elite Jesse (mod): No, the one behind 79’s Dogma: That one is my favourite Fives: No one asked, Dogma. but... hard agree. the spicy dipping sauce is the best one across the Core Worlds Howzer: i’m currently eating a locally sourced, fire-roasted nerf steak seasoned with actual forest herbs and you lot are arguing over reconstituted sludge from a Coruscant gutter? Howzer: Honestly, the Core has no taste. Fox: Your food is probably covered in dust Keeli: Speak on it, brother! Coruscant food is just monosodium glutamate and prayers Fireball: @/Howzer. Don't listen to them. They think flavour is just how much hot sauce you can dump on a greasy meal Hound: Excuse me? Have you ever had the street side Nuna-kebabs on Level 1313? Howzer: @/Hound. The one served on a rusty metal skewer by a droid that hasn't been oiled since the High Republic? Tragically, I have Hound: ...Yes. That's where the flavour comes from. The rust and the old duros’ sweat Howzer: Sounds like lunch for Grizzer Fives: @/Howzer. Enjoy your forest herbs. I'll be over here eating my deep-fried catfish that was probably harvested from the gutters. They’re high in calcium Boost: and BOOST immunity! I haven't had a stomach ache since Abregado Fox: All of you shut up. The best food is the one you don't have to pay for because you crash a Senator level party pretending to be a bodyguard for hell — idk, Senator Chuchi. Ponds: That’s just called a cheapskate, Fox Fox: it’s called being smart about your money Thire: That’s why Coruscant Guards always have the best tasting meal Dogma: Isn't that a violation of Rule #98 Fives: DOGMA. ZIP IT. Wooley: @/Cody Sir, General Kenobi just asked me what "ratio'd" means. Which one of you did this? Boil: @/Wooley It was Waxer. He’s currently teaching the General how to use holonet slangs Cody: I am going to find a quiet moon and stay there until the war ends. Waxer: ratio’d is when [redacted]

Cody is now a moderator

Cody removed Waxer out of the broadcast

Blackout: @/Cody Can I come? I’ll bring the good stuff Neyo: Dammit, bring me along. Bacara: Me three. Gree (mod): Oop, the grumps are out and about today. Bacara: Hey now. Cody: Your people @/Wolffe Wolffe: Shut up. Scorch (mod): WAIT HOLD UUPPPP 🛑✋🏾🚨 DID SOMEONE ADD ADMIRAL YULAREN TO THE #MEMES CHANNEL??!?!?? Ponds: WHO DID THAT? CT-8939: With all due respect, sir, I was just doing why my superior asked me to do. Appo: I vouched for the kid and his typo. Yularen insisted. Ponds: Okay whose shiny is that? Appo: @/Rex’s Rex: What Hunter: I can smell the stress levels through the screen. We’re signing out. Wrecker: BUT WE HAVEN’T SEE A FIGHT!!!! 👊🏾💥🥧 Crosshair: Log off, Wrecker. These regs are rotting your remaining brain cells Rex: Shut the fuck up, Crosshair. I will personally deck you and use your toothpick to skin you one cell at a time. Jesse (mod): 🍿 Fives: 🍿 🪑 Sinker: Selling tickets 🎟️ 🎟️ Commanders pay extra Neyo: I shouldn’t have joined this broadcast. Mine is betterr. Scorch (mod): YOU AND YOUR LITTLE HOLONET DISCORE FANDOM 🫵🏾🫵🏾🫵🏾🫵🏾🫵🏾😹😹😜🤣🚓@Neyo Tech: I’d rather not log off @/Crosshair @/Hunter @/Wrecker. The dynamic in this chatroom is actually quite fascinating from a socio-cultural perspective. Sev: @/Tech Qibbu’s Hut. 5 minutes. Bring your goggles so I can break them Scorch (mod): OOOOH SEV IS CRANKY!!!!! 🔪🩸🤣 someone give him a hug!!! (not me i love my ribs) Neyo: One more word about my server @/Scorch (mod) Boss: Or what? @/Neyo, none of the RCs are scared of ya Fives: 🍿 🍿 🍿 AT THIS POINT JUST SEND ME THE CREDIT VIA GARPAY AND I’LL SEND YOU A BUCKET OF POPCORN Sev: all talk no walk. come to Qibbu’s and I’ll wipe that reputation off your shebs @/Neyo Kix: Whoever’s responsible for the commando’s health and wellbeing, I pity them. Fi: ME! IT IS ME! People always seem to forget that not only am I an EXCELLENT sniper, I’m also a medic! Kix: Oo Fi: COME ON, KIX! Kix: My condolences Ordo (mod): Maybe it’s time for me to do my mod duty and kick some people off this chat Sev: you and your breadstick @/Ordo Neyo: Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be? @/Boss @/Sev @/Scorch Fixer: Delta Squad, we really don’t want to mess with this one. Rex: I didn’t know Commandos have their own issues Gregor (mod): HEH. That’s why I hangout with you boys. Boss: Why the late reply? Bad signal on Hoth? Or are you too scared to face us? @/Neyo Bacara: Alright, folks, take a chill pill. Scorch (mod): WHEN BACARA TELLS YOU TO CHILL THAT’S WHEN THINGS GRT REAL💥💥💥😭 CT-9902 (Pips): Is this the channel for reporting missing socks in the 212th barracks?

CT-9902 (Pip) has left the broadcast.

CT-7603 (Squeak): @/Pip wait come back i found one but it’s so dirty… CT-7603 (Squeak): oh kark. wrong room.

CT-7603 (Squeak) has left the broadcast.

Jesse (mod): LMAO THE SHINIES ARE RUNNING FOR THEIR LIVES Appo: @/Bly (mod) @/Jesse (mod) @/Cody (mod) can we lock the #General channel? Some of our boys are currently en route to Qibbu’s to bet on the fight Jesse (mod): No, and stop being a traitor Howzer: This is highly unprofessional. Alpha-17 (mod): @/Howzer. Shut up, pretty boy. I’m actually enjoying this. Cody (mod): If anyone, and I mean ANYONE, mentions this to General Kenobi, I will personally ensure your next rotation is on a planet made entirely of dust and bugs and starts with a G. Wrecker: BUGS?! 👊🏾💥 I LIKE SMASHING BUGS!!!! Scorch (mod): YOU CAN’T DO THAT, CODY 🤣🤣🤣 Cody (mod): Oh, some people seem to forget that I’m in charge of a looot of things in this war machine

Hardcase joined the broadcast

Hardcase: I’M BACK AND I BET 50 CREDITS SEV WINS THE FIGHT Neyo: *sends a picture of Qibbu’s Hut entrance*  Neyo: Good thing I’m planetside Sev: finally. get out of the speeder and let’s see if that stupid tough guy persona is just for show @/Neyo. Scorch (mod): OOOOH HE’S OUT!! HE’S ACTUALLY OUT!! 🏃🏾‍♂️💨📸 Scorch (mod): REPORTING FROM QIBBU’S HUT. A FIGHT IS ABOUT TO START. IF YOU’RE PLANETSIDE, COME SEE! 🫵🏾🫵🏾🫵🏾🫵🏾 Hardcase: SOMEONE START A LIVESTREAM!! I CAN’T SEE FROM THE BARRACKS!! Jesse (mod): @/Hardcase I’m trying but the bandwidth is kriffed because @/Fives is already at the front row trying to holostream the fight in 4K!! Fives: ONLY THE BEST FOR THE PEOPLE

Fives started a holostream in the #LIVE-AND-LEARN channel

Boil: I have prepared the seats!!! General: 🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑 VIP: 💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺💺 Accessible: ♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️♿️ Snacks: 🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫 🍿🍿🍿🍿🍿🍿🥤🥤🥤🥤🥤🥤 🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔

Cody removed Boil from the broadcast

Cody (mod): I am counting to three. If the 501st does not cease this holostream, I am authorising a reboot of this channel. Rex: Cody, wait— Cody (mod): One. Echo: @/Cody Sir, please, some of my files are on here! Cody (mod): Two.

[SYSTEM ALERT]: High-Priority User "ANAKIN" has requested access to #General-Chat. [SYSTEM ALERT]: High-Priority User "GENERAL_KENOBI" has requested access to #General-Chat.

Rex: OH KARK Cody (mod): Great, someone leaked this fight to the generals. Fox: I TOLD YOU ALL. I LITERALLY TOLD YOU OVER AND OVER AGAIN! WHY ARE YOU GUYS SO FUCKING DENSE????? Alpha-17 (mod): This is about to get hilarious. Popcorn’s out. 🍿 Scorch (mod): WAIT WAIT WAIT!!!! NEYO JUST TOOK OFF HIS HELMET AND 😱💥💥💥🤣🫵🏾 Bly (mod): @/Scorch WHAT?! WHAT DID HE DO?! HELL, I HAVE POOR RECEPTION HERE ON SALEUCAMI Neyo: [Attachment: Image_Not_Found. Error 404] Cody (mod): THREE.

Cody (mod) has initiated a reboot.

[BROADCAST TERMINATED]

----------------------------------------------------------------------

[SYSTEM REBOOT COMPLETE]

Cody (mod) started a #General-Chat channel.

Server Uptime: 0.1%

Rex is now moderator Bacara is now moderator Wolffe is now moderator Niner is now moderator Boss is now moderator Bly is now moderator Gree is now moderator Ponds is now moderator Blackout is now moderator Hunter is now moderator

Anakin joined the broadcast

Anakin: NOOOOOOO!!! 😫😫😫 Anakin: I’m gone for FOUR HOURS and I miss the fight of the century?! Anakin: Seriously?! I literally just got back from a date Anakin: No, I mean, a VERY intensive study session at the library Anakin: Ahsoka was there, you can ask her Anakin: Anyway, NOT THE POINT. REX. @/Rex. Tell me everything. Who won? Did Sev break Tech’s goggles? Is Neyo dead? Anakin: I’ll give you my pudding for a week. I’ll even do the maintenance on your deecees. JUST GIVE ME THE FOOTAGE. 💳💳💳💳💳 Rex: Sir. It is past midnight. Anakin: I don't care what time it is, Rex! I saw the reboot notif and I nearly fell off my speeder. Cody is such a buzzkill!!! Anakin: @/Cody (mod) Why are you like this? Cody (mod): General, I am currently explaining to General Kenobi why there is a crowd of our men, some from the 212th, some from the 104th, some from the Coruscant Guard, some from the 41st, MANY from the 501st, and a handful of shinies - fresh off Kamino - betting in a parking lot brawl. Please. Stop. Typing. Anakin: @/Cody (mod) boringgggg. @/Fives @/Hardcase someone DM me the fight! I know you recorded it!! Rex: Sir, with all due respect… Anakin: Don't "with all due respect" me, Rex! I'm the General! I have a right to know if my men are winning fights in a parking lot! Rex (mod): No, you don't. And no, we’re not a part of the fight. Fives: WE’RE CHEERLEADING SIR AND THE CURRENT SCORE IS NOW… DRUMROLL PLEASE!!!

Rex removed Fives from the broadcast

Rex removed Anakin from the broadcast.

Rex: If Skywalker asks, I accidentally hit the kick button while cleaning my datapad. Jesse: @/Rex Nice one, sir. 🫡 Kix: @/Rex He’s definitely standing outside your door right now, isn’t he?

General Kenobi joined the chat

General Kenobi: Hello there. Was it really an accident?