Echo grew up in the Bronx, the child of immigrants from New Zealand, and lived a few streets over from his cousins (the quadruplet brothers who would later become the Bad Batch). He and his twin brother Fives had been on their own since college, after they lost their parents, and had managed well enough between the two of them.
He started his bachelor’s degree at Columbia in 1938, the same university where, two years later, he’d meet a first-year student named Riyo Chuchi. She was sharp and certain about many ideals, and they agreed on enough of them that it turned into something more. By the time he graduated in 1941 he was putting her name down as his emergency contact on his draft registration.
When the draft came that same year, Echo and Fives went together. Both were assigned to the 501st Infantry, with Echo as serial number 1409. They shipped out the same way they’d done most things: side by side. While he is away, he writes to Riyo every week without fail.
High quality art images, authors note, references, and taglist below the cut! ~
authors note: Hey guys!! So I know this isn’t much backstory written for Echo. That’s because he is one of the more main characters I will be telling the story about and didn’t want to give too much away! 💕 Hope that is cool with you guys. You can expect much more content about him in the future!! Also, I know not a ton of people ship Echo and Riyo. I personally love most ships Riyo is in, so no bias here! I just feel like their dynamic would fit a 1940’s setting really well. So in my mind it just makes sense for this AU! Hope you guys agree! Love you!!
Anakin: I'm trying to juggle family life and work life but I can't seem to find a balance. What do you suggest I do to keep everyone happy?
Palpatine, deadpan: Quit your job, kill your family.
Hey guys.... so.... after AU day yesterday, I have become entirely obsessed with bartender Tech... please enjoy this mild thirst, especially you @immoralfibers!!
I also think I finally figured out how to do this digital art thing! I tried to limit my style at the start of @clonexocweek to be super simple and cartoony thinking it was be easier and faster given my corporate schedule. I was wrong. This more semi-realistic (?) style is WAY easier and faster to render, for me at least. It also looks way better IMO. Man, what someone can learn in a week!! Jumping from this to day one, it doesn't even look like I am the same artist. So thank you, @clonexocweek for allowing me to get out of my comfort zone and actually pick up adobe fresco and crank out some art. I still don't know when to smudge out my shadows and when not to BUT I feel confident that I have greatly improved.
Crosshair grew up in the Bronx, New York, the son of New Zealand immigrants. His family had brought Māori with them (the indigenous Polynesian language of the Māori people) and it was as much a part of the household as English was. He and his three brothers were quadruplets, and they grew up a few streets over from their older cousins Echo and Fives, who were twins. Multiple births seemed to run in the family.
Their parents died while the brothers were still in high school, leaving them to raise their younger sister on their own. In 1942, the draft age dropped from 21 to 18, and all four brothers were conscripted into the Army at once. She was around nine years old when they left. All four brothers listed her as their emergency contact, because there wasn’t anyone else.
They didn’t stay in the general ranks for long. Captain Rex noticed that the brothers each brought something distinct to the table. One handled demolitions. One could work out a technical problem faster than most people could identify it. One kept the other three pointed in the same direction. And Crosshair shot things that needed shooting, at distances that shouldn’t have been possible. They also spoke fluent Te Reo Māori, which was not a language enemy forces were likely to crack. Rex flagged them for the Office of Strategic Services, and the OSS agreed. The four brothers were designated the 99th OSS Operational Group: a small, self-contained unit built around their particular mix of skills. Among themselves, they called it the Bad Batch.
After the war, Crosshair spent a fair amount of time at the Copacabana. He’d found that a billiards table was a reasonable place to make money. This was, of course, enabled by his steady hands, good read on angles, and enough patience to let the other guy think he had a chance. It wasn’t so different from what he’d done during the war. Just quieter, and significantly more lucrative.
High quality art images, references, and taglist under the cut! ~
I bring you our boy, Crosshair!!!!! (confession: i finished this a while ago and then got scared to post it for a couple weeks….) i love you guys like him!
The Bad Batch When You Want Their Attention (HEADCANNONS)
Individual Bad Batch members x GN reader
Warnings: None, pure fluffy cloudsss, comfort, sweetness
not proof read lol it’s 3am 🥲😅
Headers by @moosgraphics 💖
HUNTER
Hunter sits on the floor of the Marauder, leaning his back against the cool bulkhead with a datapad balanced on his knee, deeply concentrated on sorting through the squad's supply logistics. His brow is furrowed, and his entire posture carries the heavy, tense weight of a stressed out leader. You don’t say a word to disrupt the silence at first. Instead, you simply walk over, slide yourself right under his arm, and tuck your head perfectly beneath his chin, wrapping your arms around his torso like a koala.
He freezes for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard by the sudden weight, before a massive, soft sigh escapes his chest. You look up, resting your chin on his chest, and murmur softly,
"Hunter, I want your attention."
Hunter moves the datapad onto the workbench next to him, his heavy, armored arm instantly wraps securely around your shoulders to pull you flush against him. Because of his enhanced senses, your sudden presence completely grounds him. He buries his face into your hair, breathing you in deeply, and begins making an incredibly soft, rhythmic humming sound in his throat, trait he only ever displays when he is one hundred percent relaxed.
"The datapad can wait," he whispers, his gravelly voice dropping to a soothing, private register as he presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head. "You're much more important to me, cyare.” He gently rubs his thumb against your arm, completely content to stay frozen in that exact position for hours just to keep you comfortable.
TECH
Tech is completely in his element at his workbench, goggles securely on and wires spilling across the table as he hyper focuses on fixing a broken terminal interface. His fingers move at lightning speed across the keys while he mumbles rapid calculations to himself, totally lost in his own world. You walk up directly behind his chair, lean over his shoulder, and gently rest your chin right on top of his head. When his typing doesn't stop, you take your hands and softly cup his face from behind, your fingers resting right over the strap of his goggles.
"Tech, I want your attention," you say softly, your voice cutting through his frantic muttering.
His hands instantly hover over the keyboard as a bright, geometric pink flush creeps up his neck and spreads across his cheeks. "I am currently handling live electrical currents, which makes this specific positioning highly illogical and potentially hazardous," he squeaks out, though he makes absolutely no effort to move away from your touch. The second you gently nuzzle his hair, he lets out a defeated little huff, carefully powers down his datapad, and pushes his goggles up onto his forehead.
Turning his chair around to face you, he grabs you by the waist and pulls you right into his lap, burying his face in your neck. "If you required companionship, you merely had to state the parameters," he murmurs, his voice dropping to an incredibly soft, shy register as his heart beats a mile a minute against your chest. "I will always adjust my schedule for you. The terminal interface is a fixed variable and your presence is... significantly more time-sensitive."
CROSSHAIR
Crosshair is lounging lazily on his bunk, chewing on a toothpick while staring blankly at the ceiling of the hold. He looks entirely unapproachable, radiating his usual cynical aura that effectively keeps the rest of the galaxy at a distance. You completely ignore the invisible barrier, climbing onto the narrow mattress and crawling right over his long legs until you lie down flat on top of his chest like a human blanket, resting your chin on his sternum.
You look straight up at him and say clearly, "Crosshair, I want your attention."
The toothpick immediately stops moving between his lips, and he rolls his eyes dramatically while letting out a small, possessive smirk. "You are incredibly needy today," he mutters, his voice a low, lazy drawl that lacks any real bite. He pretends to be annoyed by the disruption, but his large hands immediately find their way to your waist, tightening their grip to pull you up until your face is perfectly level with his.
He plucks the toothpick out of his mouth, tosses it onto a nearby shelf, and uses his long, steady fingers to gently tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "Fine," he whispers, another tiny smirk forming on his lips as his thumb lingers to trace your cheekbone with uncharacteristic gentleness. "You win. But if you're going to use me as a mattress, you're trapped." He rolls over just enough to tuck you securely against his side, wrapping his long limbs over you completely so you can't escape even if you wanted to, before resting his chin on your head and closing his eyes.
WRECKER
Wrecker is sitting cross legged on his bunk, happily sewing a loose patch onto Lula while humming a loud, clunky clone marching cadence. He is absolutely bursting with physical energy, completely occupied with his favorite tooka doll. You walk directly into his line of sight, tug gently on the hem of his tank top, and open your arms wide.
You give him the absolute highest concentration of puppy-dog eyes you can muster and say, "Wrecker, I want your attention."
His eyes go wide as saucers, and he instantly drops everything he is holding. Lula falls to the floor and his sewing kit rattles against the frame, as a massive, radiant grin splits across his face. "CUDDLE TIME?!" he booms out at the top of his lungs. He immediately catches himself, clapping both hands over his mouth with a guilty look to ensure the noise didn't scare you, before whispering loudly, "I mean... cuddle time?"
He scoops you up into the biggest, warmest bear hug in the galaxy, lifting your feet completely off the deck and spinning you around once in the air before falling backward onto his bunk with you safely tucked on top of his chest. He acts like a walking radiator, making you feel like you've been wrapped in a heated blanket fresh out of the dryer. He reaches down to tuck Lula right between the two of you, rocking you gently from side to side. "You're the best, you know that?" he beams, wrapping his massive arms securely around your back. "We're staying like this forever! No one's allowed to wake us up!"
ECHO
Echo is standing near the cockpit threshold, intently reviewing tactical flight maps on a datapad in full soldier mode, his posture perfectly straight and serious as he checks off standard maintenance protocols. You walk up to his side, slide your fingers into his human hand, and gently interlock them.
You lightly tap a quiet cadence against the cool metal plating of his prosthetic arm, look up at him, and whisper, "Echo, I want your attention."
He blinks rapidly, his highly trained tactical brain completely short-circuiting at the sudden sensation. He looks down at your joined fingers, then up at your face, his cheeks turning a lovely shade of crimson in the dim lighting of the ship. "I... I was just completing the perimeter logs," he stammers, but the datapad is shut off instantly and clipped to his belt anyway as he squeezes your human hand back with an incredibly tender, protective grip.
He leads you over to the main bench, sits down, and pulls you right into his side. Because he is always a little self-conscious about his cybernetics, it completely melts his defenses when you take his prosthetic arm and comfortably rest it over your shoulder, showing him you love every single part of him. He leans his head against yours, letting out a soft, contented breath he didn't know he was holding. "I was getting tired of looking at those maps anyway," he admits softly, his thumb gently rubbing over your knuckles. "Thank you for stopping me. I'd much rather focus on you."
I don't know how the night might change us
Fox x Padawan!Reader / Fox x fem!Reader
⪻ Series navigation post ⪼
Status: ongoing
Series warnings/tags: NSFW 18+; the plot got in the porn; smoking; alcohol; Fox is a cocky bastard; lots of angst; overprotective big brother Cody; awkward!Reader; soft!Fox; fix-it of sorts
Summary: A chance encounter with a certain Commander in scarlet armor will change your life forever.
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