When in doubt, detpacks.

ARC-77, also known as "Fordo", was an Alpha-Class Advanced Recon Commando Captain notable for his straightforward tactics and frequent use of overwhelming firepower.

[arc-77]

Independent // Selective // Mutuals Only // Crossover and OC-Friendly RP Blog for Captain Fordo from Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003). Mix of canon, legends, and headcanon. As directed by Fordo-mun (He/Him). Established 2016. Tracks #arc77 / #arc-77.

<< About/Rules/Dossier/Verses. >>

<< Interest Tracker. >>

[arc-77]

to: 'Captain Fordo' <[email protected]>

from: 'General Kenobi' <[email protected]>

re: Meeting

Dear Captain,

It has come to my attention that we are overdue for an in-person meeting.

Should you have the time this evening, I would like to invite you to my quarters in the temple for this discussion. Please note it will just be the two of us and you are expected to bring nothing but yourself.

Yours,

Obi-Wan Kenobi

to: 'General Kenobi' <[email protected]>

from: 'Captain Fordo' <[email protected]>

re: Meeting

General,

Attached is a list of texts I believe to be present in the Jedi temple archives. Please requisition copies for our perusal this evening. I will be present on landing pad four at 0630 hours. Do not mention my name to Master Nu.

Regards,

ARC-77.

[iconaclysm]

it’s been what feels like a millennia since they’ve had to take a moment to wait to fully heal. it has been millennia, in fact. the realization makes revan laugh, which cuts off sharply into an irritated hiss as they stress still-forming muscle and tissue, which turns into an awful gurgling sound as they expel all the blood that had settled into their stomach. like a drunken fool they are hunched over themself in the filth of a side alley, head swimming and ears ringing as their body stitches back together under faded and dingy lighting and in the silence that only comes after uncontrolled violence.

“ how embarrassing, ” they mumble to the blood-soaked dirt beneath them, “ to be laid low by amateurs. ” a weapon is only as useful as the one that wields it, and a mishandled grenade in the hands of a random fool can be far more dangerous than any perfected blade. “ fear makes even the would-be innocent a threat. and everyone in the place seems afraid. ” a miscalculation on their part. in hindsight, they should’ve went with more armor ; a friendly face and open hand has reached the limits of their use. better yet to —

 |||| “Don’t give these nobodies any sympathy.” ⸻ @arc-77

they shake their head and quickly regret the movement. “ that’s not what i — ” revan goes still. “ you’re angry. ” they hone in on his tone like a bolt of lightning to a grounding rod, casting aside pain to turn bright and curious. this development was far more interesting than the fates and motivations of their paltry opponents, or the state of revan’s own repairing body. “ i don’t think i’ve ever heard you angry before. ” irritated, most definitely. even at them. but the arc trooper controls his temper like a whip, only ever cracking it in a brief moment as warning to direct the errant and cumbersome. they never doubted there was something roiling beneath, but to see it was another thing entirely.

there is a brief, selfish worry that they've disappointed him. that the misshapen, mortal thing they are once again falls short of whatever legacy was made in their wake, and it's in the pieces of themself they never recovered that contains the difference between the two. revan quashes the thought just as quickly as it appears and laughs again, the shake of their shoulders already easier to bear on their chest. “ as i've said — i heal quickly. ” this might be the first time he’s seen it, but he still knows. ( he’s still angry. ) they don’t trust themself enough to turn their head to him quite yet but reach out instead, fingertips ghosting across his helm as they wind their hand around the back of his neck where panels meet his bodysuit. “ give me a few more moments and it shall be — ” they have to stop to wheeze again, and they can taste blood still in their mouth, “ as if nothing happened. hardly my best moment, i know. ”

[arc-77]

"—Cut the chatter and focus on breathing."

In spite of their repeated assurances, the ARC Captain continues to perform first aid. His training is deeply ingrained, second nature. He picks flakes of shrapnel off of exposed skin and does what he can to staunch the bleeding, even as their flesh slowly sews itself together before his eyes. A light spray of bacta to further accelerate the growth—they can't afford to stay here long, not after an explosion like that.

"Di'kutla shabuir. He's lucky the blast got him. I would have kicked him to death."

To either side of them, Fordo's lieutenants guard the entrances to the alley with guns drawn and braced against the walls. Behind the perpetrator's grisly remains lie two more bodies with blaster holes in their centers of mass, gone before they could fully grasp the utter fiasco that just occurred. They look young, for the profession. Too young.

Fordo's kicking himself, too. He should have been more proactive, and now his VIP's blood stains the ground of this backwater world. He could have popped them as soon as he saw the frag grenade, but he hesitated, deferred to Revan's judgement. They had the force, after all. Lot of good it did them all in this moment.

A voice like Fordo's comes through the comms. "We got a crowd forming over here." Time to move. "Jazz, get the ship ready to go. Prep a medical bay." Rifle slung over his back, the Captain draws a blaster pistol and puts his right arm under Revan's legs, lifting them off the ground in a bridal carry. He grunts—they're heavier than their height would suggest.

Closing ranks, the squad hustles down the other end of the alley, further from the street and the preceding confrontation. Blinds open and locals emerge onto their stoops, looking at the white-armored troopers and their injured friend with immense suspicion—this was not a Republic world, not officially. "Stuns only," Fordo orders. He wonders if they knew the dead gunslingers, if his Phase One helmet would be remembered on this world mostly for murdering a handful of troubled young men. His side of the story wouldn't be told. They'd never know that dumb bastard blew himself up.

Save for some emergency sirens in the distant behind, the rest of the walk is uneventful. Their ship is only a few blocks away, landed in a dirt lot, engines already glowing as they arrive. The ramp opens, they board, and it closes again in smooth fashion. The ARC Captain lays Revan down in a nook in the bulkhead and is about to stick the needle of a bacta bag in their arm when he notices the near-miraculous extent of their rapid healing. There's a moments pause as Fordo's visor meets their gaze. He preps a standard bag of IV fluids instead.

"Doing that must take a lot out of you."

[arc-77]

[arc-77]

[arc-77]

[arc-77]

@spokewar cont.

"How long was she there, since you were a youngling?"

"We first met our training sergeants when we were cadets," he corrects, "just old enough to hold a blaster. Jango recruited them to fill out the gaps in his knowledge and to train the RC's. Many were specialists. Sergeant Faelon's tests were survival scenarios that lead into sniping challenges. Taught us patience."

Taught him a lot of things. Sabi Faelon was one of the Cuy'val Dar's dozen-or-so female members. Without their influence in his early life, he could have turned out a very different man. Worse, he figures.

His head turns and he gazes off for a moment as he works out the math. Clones had a stranger relationship with time than most humans, especially if they spent time in cold storage, like Fordo's batch had.

"At least eight years that I personally witnessed. Likely arrived beforehand to help design the training regimen. No clue how long she stuck around once we went into stasis. Gone when we woke up, but the war was already on by then, and we had more pressing concerns."

He couldn't find it in him to hold it against her, for not being there. She was a Merc. Training the clones was her job, first and foremost. The Cuy'val Dar weren't expected to stay involved once it was done.

"Don't be too upset she didn't tell you, General. You should know better than most that the whole affair was top-secret. A lot of money changed hands to keep it that way."

She wouldn't have been able to find him, anyways. They wouldn't have let her back onto Kamino, not if she'd changed faces. And just for him? For her other boys, that she'd watched grow up, that adopted bits of her culture? Unrealistic. But it didn't matter. She was back in contact, and he wasn't going to let that slip away again.

[iconaclysm]

he forms a dangerous silhouette in the doorway — dark chrome seeming to both reflect and swallow light in equal measure,  promising to strain the eyes if one follows their twisting forms for too long.  revan appreciates the design of him.  they've learned much since their re-awakening, but appraisal is not a skill bound to any timeline. the act of shaping that makes an individual an instrument,  that balances one between soldier and weapon, is a careful and deliberate thing.  the success of such a process sits not in the harmony between shifting mechanisms and the pulsing of blood through flesh, but in the gait, in the way a lethal touch manifests in posture and tone. they appreciate it, and even dare to take comfort in it and the universal truth it offers them.

they wave their hand, beckoning fordo in and to come around the table they are seated at. artifacts lay scattered across its surface in organized chaos, placed aside careful notations and tools with small handles and even smaller tips. their reluctance to look at him, aside from the brief glance upon his arrival, is due to the delicate nature of their current work. molten metal is a fickle medium, and even with their deft hands they must be careful while soldering. “ many wonder why someone such as you has chosen to follow me, ” they remark, peering close at the holocron's edge as the new inlay is set and reconnected to old, “ enemies and allies alike. i wonder which of us, if either, is supposed to be insulted. ” there is a bitterness there, but it is hardly new, or unique to fordo. the revanchist typically alternates between caustic and cold. “ or, which of us should be wary. ”

so they say, but they do not flinch, or move from their work as fordo approaches. his looming over them, like the rumble of his voice, is simple math. a measure of space and sound. “ did i not come to you on my knees with a kingdom in my hand? ” ⸻ @arc-77

his words give them pause, but they are still forced to wait for their work to cool before they may place the holocron down and look to him fully. “ so you did. ” revan wastes no time dressing their words in feigned, idle airs or sharp edges of warning. the simplicity of conversation with him is another, more personal aspect of his appeal. “ a most impressive offering, for simply a place at my side. ” there's still a question in the tone they cannot help but add, to which he does not reply. but fordo does not move, either, which they suppose is answer enough.

humor colors their voice in warm hues as they rise from their seat. “ i did not call you here to cast doubt. ” there was little need for that kind of evaluation now, not with the darksaber strapped to their side. action has always outweighed dialogue, and promises made could only be measured by what is sacrificed to keep them. it was only proper that they answer action with reaction. “ i called you for your opinion. ” revan rounds the table, hand ghosting across fordo's armor as they pass him. “ i had planned to give it to you in ceremony — which will come later, should you accept it. ” they move through the room like a shadow, frame swallowed by the heavy fabric of their cloak, smooth gliding only betrayed by the sound of shifting armor underneath. on high shelf sits a metal box with simple, clean inlay that mimics the patterns of their own armor, and revan pulls it from its place with care. they speak with a pleased kind of softness, opening the container before fordo to reveal a single lightsaber inside, cradled in velvet. not a reward, but a response. these are the conversations the revanchist prefers. “ but i want to be sure it suits you, first. ”

[arc-77]

His visor's gaze falls upon the velvet-lined case, hand reaching hesitantly for the lightsaber. A glance towards Revan, communicated intentionally by the turn of his helmet, verifies that he has their permission.

Digits of darkened chrome wrap halfway around the saber's hilt. It is angular, boxy, Mandalorian—not unlike the darksaber sat upon their hip, a prize that, in another timeline, may have been his to carry. Its design was a clear homage, rendered in the same metallic tones of their armor, a partner to the blade he had willingly given up. A clear acknowledgement of the sacrifices he'd made to earn his seat at their table.

In his grasp, the hilt is one-handed. Its size and ornate lines make it appropriate for court-wear, but by no means is it a purely ceremonial piece, as the beskar's weight is unmistakable. Despite the ovoid cross-section of its grip, no doubt to aid in edge alignment, it handled remarkably similar to the Jedi order's lightsabers he'd had the chance to hold during the Clone Wars. It is a nimble, classical weapon, and would be a potent backup in a pinch.

His thumb lingers on the switch. As much as the curiosity burned, the thought of igniting the blade for the first time at his conferment ceremony held too much symbolism to subvert. Instead, he moves the hilt through a series of ready stances that have clung to his muscle memory all these years. Wielding a lightsaber was a potentiality he had prepared for early on.

Fordo places the hilt back into its box. There was little doubt before that his gift, of the Darksaber, of the Arc Hammer, of Mandalore, had won him Revan's respect and loyalty. There was none now.

"I accept."

[arc-77]

"Can you hold this for a moment?" Obi-Wan hands him a live animal. It is either very injured or naturally ugly. He means to come back for it, but gets distracted and leaves the room without thought.

"General. General!" He calls out after Obi-wan with an uncharacteristic hint of distress in his voice. "I don't deal with cadets!"

Fordo holds the horned creature under one arm while attempting to contact Cody via commlink. "Commander, get over here ASAP. Kenobi left the y—do not touch that." He bats its hand away from the dangerous implements on his belt. "—Kenobi left the youngling in the wrong person's arms."

[arc-77]

// A headcanon I've held for a long time but never touched on it is AlphaNet, the private messaging service of the Alpha-Class ARCs. Their hundred-strong family group chat, if you will.

Conceptualized while they're still on Kamino, the more tech-focused Alphas build it for them not long after their collective entrance into the Clone War. It's a highly encrypted IRC-like protocol that only they know how to access and use. If an Alpha-ARC needs emergency slicing assistance, he'll hit up AlphaNet. If he hasn't posted for a few weeks or months, he'll check in and let others know he's still alive and what he's been up to.

Aside from basic communication, it's secondary purpose is to serve as a information repository. If an Alpha-ARC obtains military intelligence that would help ensure their collective survival, it will get uploaded to AlphaNet. These are things like technical readouts on Separatist materiels, the locations of safehouses, documentation for false identities, slicing tools, bank accounts, et cetera. Fordo sometimes shares research he's done into the Jedi and Sith. Others upload recommendations of places to eat on Coruscant. It's all very illegal, but it's for their eyes only. No outsiders are ever allowed to so much as glimpse it.

AlphaNet becomes very important in the aftermath of Order 66 as they try to make sense of what happened. While some like Fordo stick with the Empire, other Alphas start spreading out amongst various mercenary and rebel groups, resulting in an underlying tension. There comes a stated rule: do not use the information shared here against your brothers. If you know an attack is coming somewhere an Alpha is stationed, it's common courtesy to warn them to get the hell out of dodge before it happens.

Intel becomes more of a traded commodity rather than something shared freely—rebels will exchange resources for technical readouts on Imperial equipment. Fordo has disseminated a fair amount of info on Imperial capabilities in this way, while keeping the more personally sensitive things like the Death Star, TIE Avenger, or his Dark Troopers hush-hush. AlphaNet becomes his primary means of contacting the Rebel Alliance when the need arises, and he has used it to organize defections for his allies wishing to leave the Empire.

[arc-77]

Off-duty, no orders, no squad, just you. What’s one small habit you’ve picked up since you've left Kamino? How'd you think you got it? And did you get it from anyone in particular either deliberately or inadvertently?

"What are you, a journalist? Ne shab'rud'ni."

[arc-77]

@iconaclysm continued from here:

they tilt their head at the accusation, as if craning slightly to hear better. “ such certainty, commodore. ”  comes the observation. revan seem to split in two — gaze half-lidded, hands absently draped on their knees while their voice remains alert and razor-sharp. their affect is still partially a mimicry of his own, but the undercurrent of their own cadence grows more prominent with every passing day. “ i'm curious to know what has convinced you. ” and then, with less elegance and more mirth, they add;   “ though you do look terrible. ”

In that warped reflection of his own voice, Commodore is not a hard-fought title of esteem, it is a reduction. There is no name and face behind it. From where they sit, he is their latest minor antagonist, their prison warden. He wouldn't matter in a week or so when they escape, having decided they'd learned enough.

Building this bridge was going to be difficult.

Fordo blinks a few times, rubbing his temple, before leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. They have worn him down enough that he does not bother to maintain the posture of an Officer; they did not respond well to it regardless. Perhaps informality would prove more effective in breaking through their barriers.

"Deductive reasoning. You are the only new variable." He folds his arms, gaze lost somewhere in the air between them, unfocused. "And personal experience. Been around enough force-sensitives to know what it feels like when they're tugging at your mind. Received formal training on how to recognize it—and ward against it." His eyes flick back to their face. "I imagine you've noticed."

The amusement was a start. Fordo shifts in his seat slightly, cocking his head.

"Been having fun?"

[arc-77]

The silence on the ship was getting to Wanda, evident in how she consistently tapped her fingers against the metal wall. Finally, she could take it no longer; she unbuckled her seat belt and stood up. She gave Fordo a mischievous look over her shoulder as she stood up, walking towards the door. She pressed the button, allowing the door to open, causing items within the ship to get sucked into the vacuum of space, including herself. Just as Wanda was taken into outer space, the door was shut on its own. After a moment of silence, a tapping sound came from outside. Wanda smiled as she tapped her index and middle fingers on the cockpit's windshield. (From Earth 616 Wanda’s days of space exploration with Fordo!)

Alarms blared and emergency lights flashed as soon as the airlock opened. Fordo yanked on the control yoke without hesitation, pulling the ship into a hard u-turn and decelerating rapidly with Wanda clinging rather gracefully to the windshield. Sliding over to the sensor console, he begins queuing up a series of long-range scans. At the megalight they were traveling, those items could already be hundreds if not thousands of kilometers away.

Wanda's safety during this little stunt was never his concern. In the short time since he had met her—or was reunited with her, he supposed—she had already demonstrated a level of nonchalant durability that even he could envy.

It took a minute for him to work up the resolve to even look at her, and when he did, he was fuming.

"Don't go scattering the contents of my ship across half the star system! You're lucky we weren't in hyperspace, or I'd be dropping your ass off on a barren moon! Dini'la jetii." He groaned. This witch was exactly like her.

"Now go get it all back!" He pointed into the starry void over her shoulder. "You can do that, can't you?"

[arc-77]

“ i would not have you think me noble. ”

"If you truly believed that, you would not have allowed so many to crown you their King." He applies brushstrokes of sealant to a beskar rerebrace, recently painted in shades of gray, red, and gold. "You are obligated to say such things. A good leader practices humility."

[arc-77]

slides him a pulse rifle.

It is sitting on the table fully field-stripped by the time Obi-wan looks back at him. Fordo's hands are folded politely.

[arc-77]

I know they aren't under your direct supervision, but can you try to corral this winged safety hazard in full body armor? Captain Kes thinks my orders are optional.

"My current understanding of this dubiously legal situation is that all former GAR personnel are here as volunteers. You can no longer rely on threat of institutional force to make them follow your orders, you must compel them through softer means. That being said—"

He cracks his knuckles.

"I am in the mood to grapple."

[tidalhaired]

Taking a hold of the adorned clay bowl, Elrond shows Fordo the light mint green content. "I enjoy experimenting with concoctions. This one contains Kingsfoil, mint, honey, kelp and river clay, as well moon stone powder." It's of a thicker consistency and catches the light of the nearby candle like a pearl. "I treat patients who got injured at sea with it."

As for a flying ship..Elrond's gaze turns wistful for a brief moment and he hands Fordo the bowl so that he may examine it himself. "There's a tale. Eärendil the Mariner, who is my father. His flying ship is the only one we know of. By now it was turned into a star that he steers in the sky with him at the helm."

Elrond walks over to the window and looks up into the starry sky. He only needs a brief glance to find the brightest spot in the sky, twinkling down at him. He points up towards it. "Gil-Estel. Our most beloved and brightest star."

For a moment Elrond admires the familiar sight. Yearning, joy and reverence mingles in his chest. Then he turns his attention towards his curious visitor. "I have a feeling that your ship is constructed very differently. It's not made from wood, right? And it's meant to be flying, wheras my Sire's ship was meant for the sea." Now the wooden ship meant for the ocean waves sails the sky and the sky ship meant to fly among the stars swims in the depths of the sea.

"Do you think there's a chance it can be repaired if we pull it from the depths?"

[arc-77]

Fordo stands, gingerly, from the bed on which he sat, following Elrond to the window and his gaze to the star. The tale of Eärendil as it is described in short is at first preposterous to him, something from the mythology of the planet's ancient history. That a man—an elf, rather, the capabilities of which he would need to investigate—could claim to have first hand account of such a foundational myth?

And yet, there is a wistful look in the elf's eyes and truthful quality to his voice that Fordo cannot deny. Perhaps in falling to the sea, he has traveled not only in space, but in time as well. Something else is at play in this world. He was not attuned to the Force, but he had long since learned to recognize its signs, and in this valley, they were everywhere.

But again, the matter of his ship. As he recalled, the malfunctions it had suffered in the upper atmosphere were not catastrophic in nature, rather a suspiciously ill-timed failure of the engines and maneuvering systems. His star yacht was Nubian in design, aerodynamic, and had pierced the water's surface like a diving bird, sinking safely to the ocean floor. He had assumed it did, anyway, as he had leapt from the airlock in mid-air, clutching an inflatable raft that would further fail to deploy. That evening was a cascading sequence of failures that he would never forget.

So: repairable? Possibly. He has faith the ship's hull integrity would hold long enough for him to figure out how to retrieve it, yet if any critical components were damaged in the crash, it did not look at a glance like this civilization had the means to recreate them.

"My vessel is mechanical in nature, constructed of many exotic metals." Fordo shakes his head weakly. "It's too early to speculate until I've seen the damage." He looks back to the night sky, and Gil-Estel. "But should I live to see this through, perhaps I'll pay your father a visit."

[perkyshelley]

chose a hill but i won't die on it. feel free to come and be killed on my hill