I Know Ive Already Read These But I Was So Excited Reading Them Again 😭

i know ive already read these but i was so excited reading them again 😭

Trying something new!

I'm going to attempt to post something Silly Squad related - be it headcanons, one shots/fics, or art - every Saturday! Because Silly Squad Saturday has a nice ring to it and it eases into OC Sunday pretty nicely :)

That and I want to try and motivate myself to do more with these guys because I post about like,, 10% of the collective lore I have about them while the rest of the 90% stays up in my brain.

So welcome and hello to the first-ever Silly Squad Saturday!

We're kicking off with some excerpts from the first chapter of fics I have planned for them and the Bad Batch (plus the headers for the fics)!

Each fic is dedicated to either Jung, Viram, Khea, or Tay and goes into detail about their lives before meeting the Bad Batch, their families, and what lead them to finding a home with our boys :)

Enjoy!

A forgotten relic of a fallen religion.

Jung can remember the fire. 

The blinding lights of red and gold. Of blue fury. Of an indescribable heat that could only be described as pure and utter hatred; burning hotter than the brightest stars.

He remembers the smell of smoke that followed from that fire. That sickly haze that still haunts him like a ghost and suffocates him in the silence of the night and his mind.

He remembers the weight of his saber in his hands. How the once familiar cool of metal felt heavier than any burden he’d once carried, suddenly foreign during a time he so desperately needed it to protect like it was designed to do. 

But worse than the sight of the flames, the smell of the smoke, and the weight so heavy in his hands were the sounds of screams. 

Of cries that pierced the night. Calls of confusion. Of desperations, betrayal, and fury. Sounds that should have never echoed against the Temple walls. Sounds that would now forever echo inside Jung’s head. 

Jung could remember it all. 

The sound of sudden blaster fire. The relentless pursuit of a blue blade radiating pure anger and fear. The sight of dozens of familiar helmets hiding what had once been men behind visors that only reflected the terrified faces of children and the desperation in those called upon to protect them. 

Those like Jung. 

In robes of hold and white, with intricate masks to hide his face. White to surrender his identity. Gold for knowledge and commitment to the Order. And a mask–like the rest of them–to conceal what had once been a person. 

Jung had served his Order well. After all, he knew of no other life. No other path. No other name. Nothing but white and gold robes, a mask, and a pike in his hands. He’d done his part, but nothing could have prepared him for the day that the Order fell. 

Everything he had known–everything he once was–fell away to fire and smoke from a blade wielded by one of their own and blaster bolts from their own army. 

A religion, millenniums in the making, nearly completely destroyed overnight.

A medic who helps everyone but herself.

Since Viram could remember, she wanted to help people. 

As the oldest of four, she’d always been in charge and had the responsibilities of looking after her siblings and taking care of them. She cooked, she cleaned, she made sure they did their academy work and stayed out of trouble. With her parents out more often than not, Viram assumed the role of ‘mom’ and ‘dad;’ growing up much faster than those her age. But it was okay, at least to Viram it was, because she understood it was something that had to be done. 

And while some would crumble under the weight of expectations, Viram thrived. There wasn’t anything the Mikkian couldn’t tackle and everything she did–she did it to honor her parents. 

Her father was a well-renowned doctor while her mother was an inspiring teacher, and Viram respected and admired them from the very start. They were the perfect picture of an Inner and Mid Rim family. Well off and respected, her parents were shining lights in their communities that were constantly helping those in need with their skills and talents. Viram so desperately wanted to be like them. 

So, she did what she could to follow in their footsteps. She excelled in school and at home she looked after her siblings when her parents worked late. Some might’ve pitied her and thought she was forced into her duties and dreams by her parents, but Viram didn’t care or listen to them. It was her life, and she wanted it to be just like her parents’: 

Perfect. 

Well at least, Viram thought that was how it was and would forever remain. 

For a good part of her life though, that’s how life was. She graduated with honors, watched her siblings grow up and follow their own dreams, and she started to work under her father and learn his practice. She had studied to become a medic at the academy on Coruscant and as soon as she had graduated, she took everything she had learned to her father and started to learn even more from him out on the field. 

She could finally help people in the way that she forever had wished that she could, with every wound treated, every assessment diagnosed, every bandage so delicately placed, Viram was achieving her dreams. Everything was perfect. 

And then the war started.

A little starbird with no way back home.

Khea wished she couldn’t remember her roots. 

She wished the beskar she wore wasn’t her own, that her tongue didn’t speak foreign words and her mind didn’t know ancient legends and myths. Khea wished that the blood in her veins didn’t burn bright like the fires in the Great Forge and that the last name she carried wasn’t shared with any clan. She wished that everything she ever was and everything that came before her would fade to stardust and leave her with a blank slate.  

Because to be a Nultez was to be a wanderer. To be a Nultez was to be cursed to forever be…

Lost. 

Her father started the curse, when he left Chandrila to escape an ancient tradition, only to find himself as a lowly performer in a traveling circus until he met her mother. Her mother then shared the curse when she decided to marry him and take his last name–leaving her clan to start her own and finding love and life outside of Mandalore. Then they gave it to their children–Jovaz, Khea, and Mitcan. 

Jovaz Nultez, the zealot. Khea Nultez, the wander. And Mitcan Nultez, the dreamer.

Siblings bound together by a last name, but not bound to stay together.

A destiny that was decided before they were even born, fate woven into the stars; something so out of Khea’s control yet something she felt at fault for every waking day and every sleepless night. Because she had made promises to her brothers: To Jovaz, she promised that she would always stick with him–no matter what. To Mitcan, she promised she wouldn’t leave him–that she wouldn’t let him down. 

But when Jovaz came to her, speaking of honor and ancient ways, asking her to join him and run away from all they’d ever known–she couldn’t bring herself to go with him. What he spoke of was something she couldn’t stomach and like a coward she refused and let him go down a dark path, leaving her with guilt and the new burden of being the oldest child. 

It was a guilt that was haunting, one that pushed her to try and bring him back, only for her to break her promise to Mitcan in the meantime. 

She hadn’t planned on it, but Mitcan wanted to go with her to bring their brother back. For a few years they searched for him and when they finally found him–Khea broke her promise to Mitcan. She couldn’t protect him. Couldn’t save Jovaz from himself. Couldn’t be the big sister Mitcan saw her as. She let Mitcan down–and it led him to his death. 

Khea wishes she never made those promises, but they weren’t the only promises she had made.

A merciless merc all caught up in strings.

Tay doesn’t remember much from his past–and that was probably a good thing. 

He didn’t know exactly how he ended up in The Cauldron–a colosseum that had always felt so giant and grand to him when it should’ve been seen for what it was; a cage. He couldn’t remember how he–a chagrian with nothing to his name– found his only home to be one of cages and chains. 

However, as he got older, he had his theories. Theories that all boiled down to one obvious claim: his parents–whoever they were–didn’t care about him enough to keep him. Instead, all he was to them was a quick paycheck, sold to slavers who took him away to the colosseum to train and fight until the inevitable day he died a gruesome death in the name of entertainment and credits. 

And maybe he should’ve died a gruesome death the first time he was put into a match once he was old enough, but he was determined to prove something. He was determined to prove he was more than what was assumed of him. To prove to his bastard parents he was more than a paycheck–wherever they were. To prove he deserved every right to exist in the galaxy like the rest of them. 

So he fought. He fought and he won. Again and again.

And the cheers and praise that came once he’d won his debut match? They were addicting. 

It didn’t take Tay long to thrive off the attention and acknowledgement that came with winning matches. Suddenly he was more. He had a purpose. And to the young, cocky chagrian, it felt an awful lot like respect. But most importantly, it felt like love. 

The people loved him. They couldn’t get enough of him. Every fight. Every opponent. Every win. Tay was addicted to the crowds and they were addicted to him. 

Tay brought crowds. He brought in money. He was more than anyone who had bought him could’ve imagined. That’s because more than a fighter, Tay was a performer. He could put on a show. He had learned how to capture the audiences with his natural charm and it wasn’t long before his ‘holders’ began to see use for him in areas outside of the ring. After all, there were a lot who would pay a pretty credit or two to be up close and personal with Tay’kaa, the reigning champ Chagrian...

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Thank you so much for reading!! 🩵💫