Back by popular(-ish) demand!

Though it's something between a Side- and a Passion Project, and it won't be part of my "Rotating Lineup", I'll update whenever inspiration really hits me. Writing self-inserts faithfully takes a little more work than "power fantasy" stories where the MC "has the answer to everything", after all.

Anyway, let's get back to me in this far, far away galaxy~!

*STAR WARS*

The first time I got off-world in my YT-1000, I felt like a real-life astronaut; at least from the perspective of my own home dimension where I was at least two-dozen tax brackets beneath being able to afford the quote/unquote "commercial" flights.

Of course, you make Hyperspace Jumps enough times, and eventually the novelty will wear off; especially for a Star Wars fan like myself living in the halfway point between my "nerdy fantasy" and my "absolutely-worst-fucking-nightmare".

Thanks to an after-market Autopilot upgrade (circa the Clone Wars) I got a while back, I was fairly confident in the Not Yet Dead's ability to handle Hyperspace Jumps on its own. Safety features would still drop us into real-space as soon as we arrived within proximity of our destination or the next-nearest gravity well, so after staring into the tunnel of star-lines for a while to relax myself, I went back into the dining area.

"Wow, you… really went to town with that electric razor, didn't ya?" I asked after crossing paths with my new crewmate.

"Yeah, well… Fresh start, you know?" Max returned stroking his now-hairless chin, his scalp shaved to match. It really did take a decade off his face; though even then, that still left him pretty old.

Cloning + Accelerated Aging = Bad Mix

"Well, it's good to see you in top form, soldier," I said snapping up the best salute I remember from my father.

"If there's anyone who deserves a salute, it's you, Captain," Max said returning the gesture.

Bestill my nerdy heart

"By the way, noticed you had quite the arsenal back there. Some of them're pretty rare. Where'd you get them?"

"Odds and ends mostly. Sometimes a client threw one my way after a job well done, or to close a bill when they were short on Creds. Other times when one dumbass shoots another dumbass in a cantina and the chairs start flying, I… happen upon a few choice pieces~"

Was it morally questionable to steal firearms off of bodies moments before expiration via blaster bolt to the chest?

. . .

No comment.

"You a good shot?"

Oof. Loaded question.

"From a 501st Legionnaire, that's a bit of a high bar… Honestly, my best defense has always been running like hell, but when I'm backed in a corner…"

Back home, the most I ever shot was a sidearm, and even then only at stationary targets; never at clay pigeons or anything like that. The closest I got to the sort of gunfight that'd prepare me for the Star Wars universe was games like Borderlands and its numerous sequels, and all that really helped with is getting me into the headspace of "they're just like the Psychos in Borderlands, killing them isn't wrong".

That and laser tag; but all I really did then was run around corners screaming like a maniac and shooting them point-blank when I startled them.

"Well… I'm more or less in one piece, aren't I?"

Been shot a couple times, usually in a limb, or a grazing shot. Put that Auto-Doc through its paces for sure, whether it's a Blaster wound or from a Slug Thrower.

Honestly, the fact that I'm still even alive after getting shot so many times is, quite frankly, amazing.

"Hmmm… Well, next time we're planetside, I'll show you some pointers. Can't have my new captain up and dyin' on me, now can I?"

"That… would be really great…~"

Being a Courier who only occasionally dabbled with the cartels and crime syndicates, my best quality was my punctuality, my get-in-get-out mentality, my never-look-in-the-box attitude, and my politeness. The latter didn't cost me a thing, but it always "bought me my life". When it came time to shoot someone, I aimed for center mass even while running like hell, and while I'd gotten lucky so far, pure luck wouldn't hold out forever.

Not when I'd reincarnated as the "Villager Class" at least…

"Also, random question… Why're all your books in High Galactic?"

The answer to that of course was that Aurebesh, the most commonly-used language in Star Wars, was not my primary language. And this served to really ostracize me in the workforce for a while when it came time to turn in my first job application.

Sure, it was kind of flattering to have people think I was noble-born, but given I had nothing to my name at the time, and well… Let's just say I got called a "bastard" a lot, and leave it at that…

*STAR WARS*

The deliveries to follow went smooth as glass. When it came to the reputable clients, all I had to do was empty the cargo bay, drop the crap off, sign some documents, and head off after pinching my next job from the Guild. When it came to the less-than-reputable clients... With them, I was always scared as hell, but didn't let it show on my face thanks to the cough and the sick mask I'd always wear to avert the eye. With Max at my back, now I was able to handle those jobs with my head held high and shoulders squared.

I guess having "muscle" with a full set of Clone Wars era armor and a DC-15A Blaster Rifle carried a decent bit of weight around the shadier sides of town.

Not that I was dumb enough to ever try and intimidate anyone. Deliveries were business with the Courier's Guild acting as the intermediary, and as long as I gave them their cut, they'd keep the jobs flowing, which in turn kept the money flowing. Old Republic credits were next to worthless following the Clone Wars, but at least the Imperial version always cleared; even if Palpatine was churning out play money at an absurd rate to build up his navy.

Then, about a week or so into our partnership, a malignant problem I should've seen the signs of beforehand had made itself apparent.

Max… had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder...

Given all he'd endured, both before and after the execution of Order 66, well… It made me feel really fucking stupid for not realizing this was going to be an issue sooner.

The Stress Relief meds would be easy-enough to get over-the counter. In a toxic and oftentimes fatal work environment tainted by Sith sensibilities where your over/under of A) making it to the end of the billable week, or B) getting cycled through a "malfunctioning" airlock by a promotion-hunting peer, was about 50/50… it only made sense that a large portion of The Empire would be popping anti-anxiety medication like Tic-Tacs.

What would not be easy to get my hands on… was an accredited shrink who could talk Max through his problems so he could spend the remaining years of his life in PTSD-free comfort as a mentally coherent person… Because for all their vaunted ability as clone masters, the Kaminoans were shit at regulating the mental health of a genetically fabricated workforce.

Of course, the Jedi quote/unquote "Generals" shared a hefty amount of the blame as well, with how much of a complete and unmitigated disaster the first battle of Geonosis was… On top of all the battles that followed until they actually got a grasp on what the fuck they were doing...

At the very least, if Max had anything going for him… it was that I would never be stupid enough to order a frontal charge across miles of open terrain with no cover in sight through a horizontal deluge of live blaster fire…

*STAR WARS*

"Just keep squeezing that stress ball, Max! We're almost at our next port of call!"

"Al, it was one freak-out in the middle of the night. I'm not going to spaz out on your or anything…" Max said from the co-pilot's seat, a novelty Ewok-shaped stress-relief squeeze ball in his gloved hand.

As for the reason he was still wearing his armor even though I'd gotten him clothes that would fit… Understandably, he only really felt "safe" behind a carapace of Plastoid body armor…

"Max, this is your mental health we're talking about here. This is not the sort of thing you just stick a pin in and wait it out."

And I spoke from deeply personal experience on that front. As soon as I realized when in the Star Wars timeline I'd landed, I burned through stress balls like coffee filters.

Oh, I'm sorry, 'caf filters'…

" . . . I'm sorry. Guess you weren't banking on taking in 'damaged goods' when you saw the uniform, huh, Captain?" he asked self-deprecatingly.

"You aren't 'damaged goods', Max. If anything, I'm the one who's mentally damaged."

Would a mentally-sane person spend hours and hours of their free time trying to make objects float with the power of his mind…?

No. No one would not… And it doesn't help that the Auto-Doc in my ship telling me I had a Midichlorian Density of zero-per-cell made me feel even dumber

As if such a thing were even possible.

" . . . So where're we going?"

"Mos Eisley, my home-away-from-home. It's hot as a motherfucker down there, but you can find just about anything."

"Even PTSD meds?" he asked with a bit of hope, and I was thankful he was receptive to the idea of not freaking out in the middle of the night anymore.

There were only so-many holes Clank was willing to patch in the walls before he put his foot down and gave me an earfull.

"Especially those," I chuckled. "We have enough 'softie' Imperials catching the Boonta Eve Classic every year, that the general goods stores have the 'Imperial Brand' goods that keep them from eating a Blaster bolt every other weekday."

" . . . Thank you. For caring…"

"No problem. If I were the one spazzing out, I'm sure you'd do the same for me."

"Even still… This means a lot," he said turning to face me. "You put hot food in my belly, gave me access to a refresher, a warm bed… and through it all, you never once treated me like a Clanker."

"Heh, I don't even treat the Clankers like 'Clankers'~"

Note to self: Do not tell him about the time I ferried a homicidal B-1 with a spiffy red paintjob off-planet…

" . . . Is it really alright for me to be so-blessed, when so many of my Brothers aren't…?"

Oof… Loaded question…

"I don't think I really have an answer that would satisfy you."

" . . . Well, thanks for being straight with me."

"You're welcome."

Better he be here with me than in the Empire who would probably recycle him into protein paste at the first opportunity.

*STAR WARS*

After arriving in orbit above Tatooine and announcing my intent to flight control, or what passed for it in the heart of Hutt Space, I dove toward Hangar 3-5 at the Mos Eisley spaceport. With my trusty Autopilot online, I decided to get out of my loungewear, lest my appearance scream "tourist" to some of Tatooine's degenerate population.

Stepping into the "Captain's Cabin", which was just a slightly-nicer duplicate of the crew quarters that Max now lived in but suited for "the lone wanderer", I opened up my wardrobe and garbed myself in my "working man's clothes"; black leather boots with hidden magnetic grips, long pants made with what passed for denim in this universe, my "Star Wars Utility Belt" of odds-and-ends including a Thermal Detonator in case I need to go out in a "blaze of glory", a short-sleeve black T-shirt over which I wore a Plastoid cuirass with hidden plates of second and third-hand Beskar underneath, a long coat made with leather, and a wide-brimmed hat

I'd like to say I emulated that smuggler from the Star Wars: The Old Republic 'Return' Trailer.

But then I'd be lying if I said that in the affirmative sense because I wasn't nearly that cool…

The Not Yet Dead making its final approach, the ship PA announcing as such, with mechanical precision Max completed his last-minute check of his gear. His armor had been cleaned, and while far from restored to pristine condition, it was unmistakably the Mark II Clone Trooper Armor of a man that genuinely cared for the "outdated" model, instead of something salvaged from the garbage. I'd seen a few mercenaries and the like wearing similar armor, but only a clone of the genuine Jango Fett could really pull it off as well as a Clone Trooper.

Probably helped that the armor only came in "one-size-fits-one".

"Ready to disembark," the Clone Trooper stated, a used but well-cared-for DC-15A Blaster Rifle he'd picked up from a curmudgeonly vendor with the first of his wages held across his chest.

"Don't worry, we aren't going straight into the Rankor's den. We're among friends here. As long as you don't have a problem with Droids."

At least I assumed my friend didn't have any Separatist models in retainer…

The boarding ramp lowering, as soon as I left the climate control of my ship, the low humidity and high temperature of the Tatooinian day hit me like a wall. Sure, it's a nice… decent… sub-decent place to visit in moderation, but I would never want to live here.

It was a wonder Obi-Wan didn't go off the deep end, because Anakin definitely did…

"Lex! Hey, man, how are ya!" a familiar voice called out from the living space of the ring-shaped space port.

"Peli. Good to see you again," I waved in greeting toward the short, brown-haired Human in leather mechanic's scrubs approaching me, a litany of small Droids at her beck and call. More than twice my age, she'd still be able to handle life on this planet better than I, any day of the week.

"It's been ages since you've been back. What, the space lanes get too boring for ya?" she grinned.

"More like I needed to get away from the Mid-Rim…" I returned. "Things went tits-up right before I left."

"You sure you're not a Jedi~ You sure got a knack for getting out of trouble before it happens~"

"No, and don't even joke about that," I said brusquely.

The Inquisitors attacked people for far lesser comments of the damning variety…

"I'm joking, I'm joking~" she smiled before she sucked in a breath. "Holy shit, is that…?! Is that a clone? Like, a clone-clone?" she gawped as Max came out into the open, eyes sweeping behind his visor.

"The genuine article. He's got a little wear-and-tear, which I'm hoping to remedy while I'm here. Gonna grab some PTSD meds so he won't spaz out on me screaming 'Clankers!' in the middle of the night."

Peli Motto was one of the few people in this galaxy I could genuinely say I trusted. Sure, maybe it was because I always had money on-hand when I needed her services and I never had to say "I'll get you your money"… but all friendships are transactional in nature. That's just the way of things. No-one really asked if my new "bodyguard" was a legit Clone or just one in stolen armor, and I didn't tell, but I knew that if Max wanted something special for the dorsal turret, I could trust her to cater to his needs.

"Oof, yeah, can't even imagine what it was like, being on the frontlines for so long…" Peli said morosely. "Well, while you're here, you want me to give the ship a once-over?"

"Couldn't hurt. The Spooling Mod for the Hyperdrive's a little syrupy," I say fishing out some Credits. "By the way, would the Jawas happen to be interested in another trip to Lotho Minor? I'm pretty in the black for this month, but I've had one close call too many, so I'm hoping for some 'choice' after-market Mods; those guys can sniff out the good shit like bloodhounds."

Though in the context of this universe, they may as well have been mythical creatures…

"You any better with your Trade Languages?"

"No, but that's what I have Mimir for."

"Still pretty morbid, carrying that thing around on your hip like that."

"Like I said, I couldn't afford the whole body~"

" . . . I'll get in touch with the little guys, see if any of the tribes are interested," Peli shrugged. "Honestly, I thought you were just nuts, offering to take them up in your ship like that, but I guess an entire planet covered in scraps looks like a treasure trove to the right species."

"Yeah…" I grinned, remembering how after that whole quasi-fiasco I'd been able to barter for some choice military-grade Mods. And with a carrying capacity of 70 metric tons, there had been plenty to choose form in barter.

Honestly, my opinion of Jawas was pretty neutral. As long as you didn't leave your shit lying around with no "cops" around, they were relatively harmless. And though their spoken languages tended to be complete gibberish, that was what I kept Mimir around for. Their ability to source "diamonds in the rough", even if some of them were stolen from Crimson Dawn, Black Sun, Crymorah Syndicate, Hutt Clan, and/or Pyke Syndicates, were second-to-none, making it well worth the headache of putting up with them.

Of course, now that I had Max on hand to watch them, maybe I'd actually be able to hold onto my good flatware this time around…

"So, any news on Han Solo?"

"Guy's off-planet. Remind me again why you're so-fixated on the guy?"

"He's bad news, and a trouble magnet to boot, so I prefer not to be in the same city that he is. Let alone the same building."

The guy hadn't cheesed off Jabba quite yet… but the moment I saw Chewbaka rip a guy's arm off over a board game dispute…

Yeah, there's reasons why the "Villager" doesn't mingle with the "Hero's Party".

*STAR WARS*

With the Not Yet Dead in good hands, Rex and I set out for the "convenience store" most-frequented by softcore Imperials on-leave.

As had become our practice, I took point, while Max stood two paces back and one to the right. At first no-one had taken him very seriously, but after he'd gotten an armor cleaning kit and fixed that little problem with the smell

I guess even if the "Boys in White" propaganda stopped showing, some people still remembered what terrors the Clone Troopers could be, even on a solo basis. And thanks to all their media exposure as "General Anakin Skywalker's" entourage, the blue stripes of the 501st might as well have been the poisonous markings of a dart frog.

Or whatever fresh hell existed in this galaxy to emulate…

Arriving in the store itself, thankfully, there were no Imperials nearby, so it was a trifling matter to get the anti-anxiety meds my crewmate needed. His blue-on-white armor got some looks, but no-one tried anything, and the good thing about out-of-date armor was that only the stupid and/or desperate tried to ever shoot him for it.

Not that it would've worked. Artificial aging aside, he was still a Jango Fett clone, and I'd seen him quick-draw hooligans and the like with the best of them.

Credits changing hands after I checked the labels for any side-effects, Max and I stepped out into the hot Tatooinian air, me pulling the rim of my hat down, while Max was probably cool as a cucumber with his armor's climate control. The thing probably wasn't GAR-sanctioned, but then again, it wasn't the pencil pushers on the frontlines, and with the whole of the Republic barely more than a memory, it wasn't like anyone would come at him for breach of protocol.

"So… We good, Captain?"

"One more stop."

*STAR WARS*

A hop, skip, and a jump, and we were in Mos Espa.

Why here exactly? Well…

"Is this a… a Mod Parlor…!?" Max gasped, repulsion audible in his tone as he beheld the surroundings.

Shit, should've warned him in advance. Of course he'd take umbrage with anything to do with Droids. Even if it was just Droid parts.

"Relax, I'm not here for any add-ons," I said disarmingly. "Modifier!" I called out, a man with yellow-dyed dreadlocks and a cybernetic right arm looking up from his tinkering.

"Well if it isn't Big Al! Finally decided to try on a little Chrome?" the Mod Artisan beamed.

"What's he talking about, Captain?" Max whispered, a hint of anger in his tone.

"I thought about getting a robot arm with tools and a holdout Blaster, but I chickened out at the last minute," I whispered back. "Modifier, unfortunately, I'll have to deny you the canvas that is my body."

"Oh? Then why are you here?" the man asked before turning toward my crewmate. "Your hired muscle looking for a little something… extra?"

"Can you keep a secret?" I asked jangling a handful of Credits.

The Modifier, getting the message right away, locked up and shuttered the blinds. Probably turned on some coded exterior lights that meant he was with a VIP customer.

"Of course. My word is my bond."

"My friend here… He's got some Soft that needs taking out, but for eventually-obvious reasons, I can't take him to a regular Auto-Doc?"

"Hoh?" the man asked, eyes widening a little as he beheld Max's face when the helmet came off. "Big Al, I gotta say, you keep interesting company~! A genuine Jango Fett clone; the closest thing to a Mod sans the Chrome~"

Huh. Guess even Mod Artisans can appreciate what's contextually a mass-produced bioroid…

"That Soft I'm talking about? It's a Behavioral Modification Biochip," I explained pointing to the right side of my head. "Thing is though, Max has outlived his initial 'warranty', so all it's doing to him now is making him spaz out in the middle of the night putting holes in my walls."

I might not've been a huge buff on Star Wars lore, but I knew enough to know that the persistent nightmares the Clones suffered under, were a direct result of the Biochips laying down the chemical groundwork for the execution of Order 66. The anti-anxiety meds were a good start, but some cancers can't be cured with weed or chemotherapy. Sometimes you gotta put it under the knife.

"Shit, man, those things are real…?" The Modifier blinked. "I mean, I know they have Chrome for that, but for them to make that sort of thing out of Meat…?" he gasped, shuddering in revulsion at the thought. "Yeah, even if the Empire doesn't use Clones anymore, I can see how one of Skywalker's old boys being off the reservation could be a problem."

Guiding us to the back room, The Modifier led the two of us toward a second-hand but-well-cared-for CT Scanner. Or at least that's what it looked like to my eyes. And it made sense that he'd have something like this on-hand. You want to install a communicator or something in the 'belfry', and you'll wanna know where all the 'furniture' is before you start 'remodeling'.

"I trust you know what'll happen if he doesn't pull through," I said putting my hands on my hips, the side of my coat pushed aside to reveal my Blaster.

Whenever shit went biblical & pear-shaped, I was always running away from the guys I was shooting at, and even though I never saw any of them go down for good, I didn't delude myself into thinking I'd never killed anyone for good… And if I wasn't willing to kill someone over my crewmate, when could I be motivated?

"Believe me, I want him alive and Biochip-free as much as you out of sheer principle," The Modifier replied as he spooled up the machine. "Alright, Jango. Hop on in."

*STAR WARS*

Watching a Biochip get sucked out of a person's head through CGI media, and watching it happen in real life, are two completely different animals. The technique is the same, but the sheer viscera of the whole thing… is not…

"Damn… The power to make an army of super-soldiers go completely ape-shit in one tiny little strip of Meat…" The Modifier shuddered as he turned over the glass slide in his mechanical hand. "I can see why you wanted this thing out."

"Hey, Max… How're you doin', buddy?" I asked as the Clone came to, a familiar Plastoid skullcap on his shaven cranium where the Biochip had been extracted through.

"Is… Is it over…?" he blinked, the last thing he remembered being The Modifier's hypnotizing strobe light.

"Why don't you take a quick power nap, tell me what you think in an hour."

"That… That sounds… good…" the Clone let out an unashamed yawn, before laying down in the CT Scanner.

It was only once we were out of the room that The Modifier spoke to me again.

"So… A real-life 'Boy in White'… How'd you manage that?"

"Ugh, It's a long story…"

"Al, this is Tatooine. I got nothing but time for long stories~"

"I'm still not getting that robot arm… At present."

"Fair enough~"

*STAR WARS*

As my Beta, Spaceman, pointed out, the Imps are bound to be hopped up on all kinds of anti-anxiety meds due to the toxicity of the Sith-tainted workspace. Hell, I can imagine the janitorial staff on whatever ship Vader or the Inquisitors are serving on playing the Star Wars equivalent of Rock/Paper/Scissors to decide who will drag away the most-recent in a long line of dead bodies dropped to the Bridge floor in open view of Force God and Everyone.

As for the plug about the importance of mental health, I haven't personally seen someone crack, but I've seen the after effects, and whether it's the Before, During, or After, it is never pretty if you leave that shit unattended.

As for my chat with The Modifier, the Lingo is a bit of hidden dialogue and a cameo from another series: Anyone wanna guess which one~?

My allegiance is to the Republic, to democracy.