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Fox hated working the night shift when there were GAR units on R&R.
Technically, he didn’t need to work the similar shifts that the Coruscant Guard’s Commanders did. He was Marshal Commander over an entire karking corps, he had to regulate the coming and goings of four legions, one of which included the Guard. There were troop movements he had to report and approve, internal conflicts to resolve, negotiations with suppliers and the Senate Treasury to make sure all 40-some odd thousand troops were fed, watered, and armed. There were reported enemy sightings along trade routes that needed investigating, spies and assassins to track down, warehouses, factories, and R&D projects to protect. There were dozens of Core planets and thousands of square lightyears to defend and prep for a defense if necessary while trying to argue with the local politicians and their Senators as to yes, a barracks on your homeworld is vitally important since it falls right next to a very popular hyperlane-
So no, Fox didn’t have to pick up shifts. But he did anyway, because he wasn’t a total heartless bastard, and several of Thorn’s batch were in town and he deserved to sit down and drink a few beers and compare scars with his brothers and not be stuck babysitting drunkards.
Most nights Fox didn’t mind. Despite being in HQ, most of the problem districts had their own satellite stations where the drunk and disorderly were taken to instead of dragging them across the planet. The only exception were other clones, as it was simply easier to collect them all in one place before passing them off to their CO (they used to make the CO go to each and every station until they got wise and slipped in the condition of containing them in Guard HQ into the next update of the GAR Regulations because too many departures got delayed from fishing their wayward troops out of holding cells). Regardless, it usually gave him few people to document and ample time to sit and work on his more demanding reports or, if his brain decided it was done cooperating, he would scroll endlessly through the many chat channels various GAR units had developed and lurk for a few hours.
Tonight, however, he already knew he wouldn’t get an easy night.
The 501st were planetside, and already two ARCs were lounging in their holding cell.
“Really?” Fox peered over the datapad to give the pair a Look. “Couldn’t behave for even an hour?”
“How was I supposed to know pulling credits out of the fountain was illegal?” Fives protested, which caused his fellow ARC- Echo- to roll his eyes.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fence in the way was some sort of clue?”
“Echo! How could you? I thought you were on my side!”
“In battle? Yes. When you get us both arrested before I could even have a drink? You’re on your own.”
Fox left them bickering, already feeling the impending migraine lying in wait in the back of his skull. But even the door between them didn’t seem to be enough as he dropped the datapad onto the intake desk where he hoped it’d spontaneously catch on fire and give him an excuse to get out of working by burning the whole building down.
Unfortunately, Fox rarely gets what Fox wants. Because when it rains, it fucking pours.
“Of fucking course,” he groaned, barely an hour later, as Potshot and Prim came rolling in with a trooper in bright, caution orange kit- bucket missing. “Just when I thought I was unlucky having to deal with Rex’s clutch of ingrates, I have to deal with you idiots too.”
“Love you too, Commander Fox!” the trooper said with far too much cheer, a purpling bruise on the left side of his face to match the purple hair with an undercut on only half of his head. “It’s been such a long time seeing your handsome mug!”
Fox merely grunted, pulling up the intake report.
“Sergeant Hazard-“
“Captain, now.”
They made this idiot a Captain. Of course they did.
“Congrats,” Fox drawled dryly, autofilling several blanks before glancing over at Prim. “What’s he in for?”
“Punching a civilian for spitting at one of the shinies.”
Hazard looked entirely unrepentant.
Fox wanted to pinch his nose and sigh.
“I think sitting in a cell overnight and then releasing you for punishment by your CO is sufficient.” Officially it should be a docket against his file for attacking natborns, but no one reads these things anyway, and Fox doesn’t get paid enough (or at all) to care so long as it gets the troublemakers off his planet faster.
“Just put him in the cell with the other two. We’ll be filling up the rest before midnight,” he grouched, waving a hand to dismiss Prim and Potshot.
“Can’t wait,” Potshot grumbled, but did as he was told by escorting Hazard towards the holding cells.
“See you later, sweet cheeks!” Hazard crowed, voice echoing as the door slid shut behind the trio.
And so began Fox’s No Good Terrible Very Bad Bad Night.
For every Torrent Blue that came through the doors, there were at least four in vibrant warning colors of something poisonous if said colors came only in obnoxiously bright orange. And they never came as individuals like Hazard, oh no, they insisted on causing trouble in packs:
Corporal Jackpot and Trooper Coins- caught exploiting a trick in several of the Lower Level casino’s slot machines and then caused a disturbance when they refused to return their “hard-earned winnings”.
Troopers Bomb-Out, Skifter, Flush, and Fold- disturbing the peace of a wealthy neighborhood by drunkenly singing (and continued to sing even now, dragging in an overly enthusiastic Fives and other members into cheery slutty jaunts).
Sergeants Ante and Jack- brought in with two Torrent Blues and one Wolfpack Grey for trying to score a wall with crude images using their blasters’ stun setting (“I have pics,” Rusty whispered to Bushtit, who had joined Fox in this hell of manning the intake desk while Banger stood watch inside the holding cells. Fox pretended he heard nothing).
ARC Lieutenant Queen, Lieutenant Acorn, and Sergeant Ace- escorted to HQ by the Senate Blue Guard for “suspicious activity” (a loud cheer of “QUEENIE!” rattled the door to the holding cells as the ARC was escorted through, driving a spike through Fox’s eye socket).
Corporal Snake-Eyes and Trooper Tarot- conducting illegal fortune-telling scheme outside of one of the wealthy gentlemen’s clubs (Tarot stared right through Fox’s very soul with an unblinking stare and Snake-Eyes living up to his name with very reptilian pupils leaning over the desk and giving Bushtit a smirk which almost sparked a fight right then and there if Bushtit had the same lack of sense as the rest of the GAR seemed to possess).
Specialists Sandbag, Black, Discard, and Wild- caught trying to sell moonshine to locals (again, Fox pretend to hear nothing as Wild forked out an honor dear with a 212th medic who’d been arrested for throwing a glass at someone’s head in the cell right next to the door).
Field Medic Lieutenant Moderation, Field Medic Sergeant Balance, Specialist Datapad, Trooper Pool, and ARC Sergeant Chance- arrested for breaking the automated routing system of several public taxis and illegally racing them (no traffic accidents or damage reported).
CMO Captain Demise- not arrested, but had come in on his own terms and locked himself in with the rest of the idiots “Since apparently this is where we’re all karking at anyway”.
“You got to be kidding me,” Fox couldn’t help but groan as a fucking damn Jedi Temple Sentinel came in, with Troopers Kibitzer, Doubleton, Bettel, Knave, and Sergeant Solitaire toddling after them like ducklings.
“Hiya Commander Fox!” Kibitzer beamed, entirely unfazed in being escorted by a Jedi to a holding cell.
“Do I even want to know?” Fox ignored the troublesome Oranges in favor of looking at the Sentinel, who merely tipped their masked head slightly to the side.
Fox knew from Hacksaw’s own silent head tilting to know that meant no, he didn’t want to know.
Now it was well into the hours of the early morning, and both the influx of people and the ruckus within the now packed holding cells had simmered down. But by then, Fox’s migraine had made an appearance, hammering away against the inside of his skull with every heartbeat and subtle movement.
“Sir?” Bushtit sounded concerned even with his bucket on, leaning in to speak softly to him instead of trying to use internal comms and have the high-pitched hum send needles right into his brain. This was why Bushtit was his favorite most days. “I can take over from here if you’d like to lay down.”
“It’s fine,” Fox grunted, as a little message icon pinged in the corner of his datapad. Someone finally checked their messages. “I’ll go to Hacksaw when the idiots get picked up within the hour.”
At least unlike Wolffe, Cody, or Rex, he comes and picks up his wayward men at the exact same time before dawn- making them groan and complain if they were trying to sleep off their hangovers.
“I don’t think I’ve met their Commander,” Bushtit admitted, and he could imagine the trooper wrinkling his nose. “I don’t know if I want to.”
Fox could sympathize. Meeting what felt like the entirety of the 760th “Sabacc” Legion in HQ’s holding cells was certainly an experience for someone who hadn’t faced them before. Bushtit had been around with the Guard long enough to not be considered a shiny anymore by a long shot, but it’s been some time since Sabacc Legion and their blazing bright orange paint had any shore leave on Coruscant.
Sometimes he could almost dream they found themselves a nice swampy hell-planet to disappear into, but alas, they notoriously liked to come back and remind him that they weren’t dead yet.
“He’s an… acquired taste,” Fox sighed, wishing he could take off his bucket and have Hacksaw’s large hand ease the giant knot out from the back of his neck. Maybe get an ice pack. Mostly he just wanted a nap, but like hell he’d leave this mess with Bushtit and Banger, who was still keeping watch inside the holding cells.
As they waited, however, like the intuitive hive mind of idiots, the holding cells started to stir to life once more.
“The Evil One, the Evil One,” the low chanting began somewhere in the back, rippling across the rest of the cells. “Arise, arise.” They repeated it, over and over, like feral, deranged cultists.
“Uh, is this normal?” Banger asked, cracking open the cell block door to speak through instead of risking Fox’s migraine further (Banger, although usually accidental prone, was Fox’s second favorite right now for being considerate).
“Ignore them,” Fox grunted, closing his eyes in the safety of his bucket as the low drone became a rumble even as the door slid back shut with a shrug from Banger.
Another ten minutes slipped by, and heavy bootfalls rounded the corner to approach the intake desk.
“I don’t know how in the karking fuck that the only semi-normal person in the entire 10th System Army is a guy who wields a sword,” Fox stated as Commander Evil of the 760th stomped up to the desk.
“Our Marshal Commander’s name is Nippletop, what the fuck did you expect?” Despite the gruff tone, he accepted the datapad and signed the release forms with a flourish of the stylus without argument. “Excalibur says ‘hello’, by the way.”
Fox winced. He knew that meant “please stop lurking like a kriffing moron and answer your DMs once in a while so we know you ain’t dead, you stupid workaholic antisocial bastard” in Evil speak, but translated into Excalibur speak because Evil would never admit to missing anyone even under threat of death. It was possibly a similar discussion he’ll get from Cody, Wolffe, or Rex if he stuck around after Evil left with his gaggle of misfits, and so made a note in his aching brain to not stay any longer than necessary.
“I’ll message him when I get the chance.”
“Hm.”
Passing the datapad back, Evil gave him a curt nod before turning towards the door. By now the chanting at reached a crescendo, the peaks of “ARISE! ARISE!” clear even through the door. The cheer that roared out as the door swished open revealing their Commander rattled Fox’s skull, and if he had a scrap of sympathy, he’d feel almost sorry for the non 760th members locked in with them who were clearly left in the dark on what was happening.
Rex’s ARC problem cadets looked like they were enjoying themselves in the chaos anyway, clapping and chanting and cheering along with the others despite not knowing what was going on (anyone who thought Echo wasn’t just as much as a shithead as Fives clearly needed to get their head examined).
“ALRIGHT YOU PISSANTS!” Evil roared, silencing the orange miscreants. “IF YOU DON’T LINE UP IN FIVE SECONDS, I WILL BE PERSONALLY REVERSING YOUR PUBERTY BY RELOCATING YOUR BALLS BACK INTO YOUR BODY WITH MY FOOT.”
“But I need those!” some poor soul whined, yelping as someone kicked them in the ankle.
“You need them like you need a slugthrower round in your head! Now- LINE UP, or do I need to baby-chain you ingrates?”
The troopers in bright orange scrambled to order themselves neatly at breakneck speed, all perfectly at attention behind the barriers as they waited with baited breath as Evil cast his eye over them all.
“Let them out, son,” Evil finally deemed them acceptable, glancing over at Banger who nearly punched his knuckles on the control box instead of activating the switches. With the barriers flickering out, the troops filed out until they were in a neat line down the corridor, almost as if they were a functioning unit of troopers out on inspection and not in the middle of the holding cells after a night of trouble.
“Now, what do we say?”
“THANK YOU FOR YOUR HOSPITALITY!” they all stated at once. “SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.”
Wordlessly, Evil turned on his heel, leading the march as he escorted them out of the holding cells and to the front doors. As they passed, the men broke file as they nodded or waved or smiled at Fox, Bushtit, and Banger, cheerily saying “Goodbye!” and “Thank you!” or “I miss you already honey bunches!” from Captain Hazard who manned the end of the line, barking out a laugh as Bushtit answered for Fox by flipping him off.
“I love those guys,” Fives chimed in from his cell, and Banger yelped as he did punch the control box this time trying to reactivate the barriers to contain the remaining occupants.
Fox took this chance to flee from the intake desk and straight for Medbay IV. Hacksaw, at least, wouldn’t make his head feel like it was two seconds from exploding.