#the gar

the GAR views their lack of tattoos, dyed hair, marks on their armor as a dismissal of the individuality all clones hold dear. in reality, the guard want individuality, but they know it would be their downfall. the more alike they look, the less identifying features they have, the harder it is for senators to target them. standing out is a death sentence in the core.

they don't communicate with their brothers, don't meet up for drinks? less chance for their brothers to get dragged into the rot in the core. the GAR doesn't see it that way, of course.

... and if I said that this song is Mandalorian-coded in its concept and sound design, but also applies just as well to the GAR, what then?

Can we imagine a Mandalorian teenager, newly an ori'vod, fighting off a wolf, scrambling with all they have, teeth and vibroblade bared to protect their adopted vod'ika? I can.

Can we imagine someone like Din Djarin, young and lost and trying their best, ready to die to protect their child? I can.

Can we imagine the older clones, the Alphas and the Commanders, drawing the attention of the trainers and the longnecks, purposely making themselves bigger and louder to shield their younger siblings? I can.

Can we imagine them purposely putting themselves in danger to keep the shinies out of the line of fire? I can.

Can we imagine Fox, implacable in red, lying to the face of the most powerful man in the Republic to protect the new recruit who screwed up his report, and paying the price for it more than willingly? I can.

This is the anthem of both the Mandalorians and the GAR, to me.

The jedi order's commitment to truth and justice leads their gossip circles to be as truthful and accurate as the gossiper can make it; it's just sharing information!

Chosen Bird: Red-billed Queleas

Also Known As: Red-billed weavers, Red-billed dioch

Bird Facts

Scientific name: Quelea quelea

Sparrow-like; weaver family (Ploceidae)

Pictured: Breeding male

12 cm long (4.7 inches)

15 - 26 grams (0.53 - 0.92 oz)

Native to: Sub-Saharan Africa

Migratory

Reasoning:

Numbers.

Queleas have an estimated populace of 1.5 billion in the wild post breeding-season, traveling in tight flocks up to 2+ million strong that often take on the appearance of smoke or clouds in the distance.

We don't have exact numbers when it comes to how many Clones were ever made, including any defective Clones that would be culled, or matured/maturing Clones that would later be decommissioned. All numbers I can find on the total sum of created Clones are essentially estimates. We do know an order was placed for 5 million more at some point in the three year duration of the Clone Wars, which would have padded out the total count rather significantly, too.

Millions of troopers serving at the bulk of the Republic's fighting force feels best represented by likely the most abundant, wild/undomesticated bird on Earth.

I'm kind of having a writers block at the moment, so I decided to put a few chapters of some of my fics here in hopes of getting a little feedback. I don't mind criticism so please don't hold back

Ca’nara at slanar- Time to Go

The waves of stormy Kamino battered the smooth-edged platforms which made up the Prime Minister’s cloning facility. Inside, the facility remained unshaken, the bright white lights illuminated halls whose inhabitants moved like clockwork with every hour of the rotation. Battalions of Fett clones marched to the simulators, or drills, or returned to their barracks when they’d finished with either. At the head of his battalion, Cody, a tall, amber-eyed youth, like all of his brothers, did his best to march in step as he returned from drills, though his mind was occupied elsewhere.

Two weeks, Jango had told him, when even a month wouldn’t be enough to pull off something of the scale he had in mind. Often, despite being the man’s genetic clone, Cody still found himself surprised by the bounty hunter’s recklessness.

“Kote!” a little voice drew him out of his thoughts, accompanied by a tug on his sleeve.

“Me’copa’ni*, Boba?” he asked without looking. There were only two people who still called him by his given name, though he preferred his nickname many times over..

“A Jetii came to see Buir,” the boy whispered in a voice heavy with fear, “He sent me to tell you, Ca’nara at slanar**.”

“What!”

Cody nearly stumbled into the the vod’e behind him.

“That’s impossible” he whispered, crouching nearer the boy’s height, “We were supposed to have two weeks at least!”

“The plan’s changed,” Boba shrugged, “Buir says now.”

As they rounded the corner into the armory, Cody pulled off his helmet, and reached up to ruffle the mess of sweaty hair beneath,

“Kriff!” he murmured under his breath. In comparison to this, two weeks to plan seemed like a lifetime. Why couldn’t the jetii di’kut have held off just a little longer? Cody drew a long breath and leaned back onto the wall of the armory. Jango would tell him he couldn’t change the past, only learn from it. The Jetii had come, and there would be no turning back.

“Boba,” he sighed as he crouched to the boy’s height. This had better work, or they’d all be karked, “Go on, and find Omega. We’re getting off this dump.”

Boba nodded and hurried cautiously away. Cody stood, watching him until he’d turned into the hallway, before returning a few of his brother’s curious glances with a nod.

“Ca’nara at slanar,” he whispered the phrase they’d learned from Jango, and listened as the vod’e to his left and right took up the whispered cheer as they set their armor away.

*What is it? or What do you want?