Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What a crock of bantha shit he’d stepped in this time.

It had been about nine rotations since he watched the Marauder depart the platform and fade into the atmosphere. By then Kamino was a little over halfway through its current day cycle, the sun just beginning its descent toward the horizon, and off in the distance he could sense the next storm moving in on its heels.

Crosshair shifted on the ground to turn his back to the wind, hunched over his thighs with his head between his knees, and folded his hands over the back of his head and neck. The sea spray and wind battered him with unrelenting force and chilled his unprotected head to the bone. If not for his thermo-regulated blacks, he’d have long been hypothermic and halfway to a chilly death; he couldn’t remember missing his bucket so much in all his life.

When they’d resurfaced on the last untouched structure of what used to be Tipoca city, the Empire was nowhere in sight. He’d activated a distress beacon shortly after the batch’s departure, expecting to be retrieved, but after several rotations with no sign of ships breaking the atmosphere, Crosshair resigned himself to the reality that they had abandoned him, just like Hunter said they would. It didn’t surprise him as much as it angered him that he had been lied to and discarded again by people who claimed loyalty meant more than duty, which seemed to be a recurring theme since the war’s end. That they had fired upon Tipoca city while he was still inside said enough for him to understand that in Rampart’s eyes, he was as disposable as the rest of the regs, superior or not.

Crosshair bristled at the thought of that smug osik’sheb gloating at his failure. He’d been on thin ice since he returned from Bracca empty-handed, but when they’d brought Hunter in from Daro he could feel the Admiral’s patience wearing thin by the way he whispered behind his back. His decommissioning had been a long time coming, no matter how hard he fought it, he just wished the coward had told him to his face (instead of firing from orbit) so he could spit in it. Nothing worse than a leader without spine.

Still, it could have been worse- they could have stationed him on some backwater dirtball where his skills would have rotted along with his dignity. A quick death would have been preferable to his current trajectory of freezing to death, starving and alone, in the last place he ever wanted to see again, with no way off of Big Stormy. Maker only knewif he’d even make it off Kamino alive at this rate.

A wave capped over the platform, dousing him in cold water, and his lip curled as a heated flurry of curses castigated his decision to stay behind for at least the tenth time in the last day. He shot to his feet as he shook the water from his arms and wiped it off the back of his head, and paced the platform in an attempt to burn off some of his angry energy. 

Why hadn’t he just gone with them…? Why in the nine Corellian hells had he allowed himself to be marooned where he was unlikely to be discovered by anyone other than the Empire? Had he really been sure the Empire would come back for him? Or was he just so ashamed of everything he’d done in their name, against his better judgment, that he couldn’t stand the way his brothers looked at-

Crosshair paused mid-step, snarled and grimaced as a familiar stabbing pain pierced straight through his brow into the back of his eyes, derailing his train of thought before he could finish. He wasn’t sour about being left behind- at least, not like he was before. They had saved his life when Tipoca was attacked, and twice more during their escape. Hell, they’d even offered to take him with them, despite their glaring reservations, but in the end—this time— it had been his decision to stay behind, not some overclocked chip’s.

At least, that’s what he’d been told.

After the accident on Bracca during his recovery, Nala Se diagnosed that his inhibitor chip had been damaged beyond repair by the radiation from the ion engine, and allegedly removed before it could cause irreparable harm to his cognitive function. Based on the report from an isolated instance where another clone’s malfunctioning chip had degraded and left him in a catatonic state, he had no reason to doubt the validity of her claim, but the way her pupils contracted when she relayed the information told him she wasn’t being entirely forthright.

Crosshair never had been the introspective type, but once he suspected she was lying, suspicion turned to paranoia overnight. Every thought he scrutinized against every action, searching for inconsistencies in his conduct, until he found traces of warped words. Despite the reclaimed autonomy and the Kaminoan’s thinly-veiled lie about his inhibitor chip being removed, it just wasn’t adding up. He knew himself well enough to know that something was still influencing his behavior, like the day he lost himself on Kaller. 

The memory of Order 66, and how violently the inhibitor chip had seized control over his conscious mind, was still a gaping wound on his psyche not easily ignored. It had devoured his free will like a bad fever dream and imprisoned him within his waking mind while an imposter puppeteered actions that weren’t his own. Communicating with anyone was like processing language through a filter that dictated what he could or could not say, and spit out predetermined responses when his thoughts conflicted with orders. He didn’t even recognize himself when he spoke.

Cross remembered the duality of expressing displeasure at Hunter for disobeying orders while asking himself over and over why it mattered so karking much. He’d never questioned Hunter’s judgment before, he’d always followed his lead even if it was contrary to Command, because they were above regulation and reported to no one. If something about the assignment didn’t smell right, they had the authority to change the mission parameters or investigate and pursue methods that would produce more favorable results. Never in his life had he given a damn about protocol or insubordination, so for him to suddenly start questioning every decision he made with the insistence that ‘Good soldiers follow Orders’…? 

The way the mantra defensively snapped out of him like an arc flash when he tried to voice his approval made his skin crawl, and it had only gotten worse after the Kaminoans enhanced his inhibitor chip.

How he’d remained lucid enough to consciously fight back while fully under its control was a matter of sheer willpower and spite for being robbed of his autonomy, one of the only things a clone could truly consider their own. He’d learned the hard way when he resisted the initial enhancement of the chip, that it was too exhausting to spend the mental energy thwarting every programmed impulse. The harder he struggled against the chip’s influence, the more it hurt, and the more it hurt, the more draining it was on his resolve to resist. 

By the time he’d armed himself in the Empire’s digs and confronted his brothers, he was too enervated to stop himself from turning his weapon against them. Cross watched with trepidation as Wrecker—the strongest among them—crumpled to the ground, helmet rolling across the floor, and felt the ire and distress evaporate into a deeply unsettling state of impassive restraint. It was clear if he was going to beat the chip, he’d need a better strategy.

It didn’t take long for him to figure out its game, but learning how to work around it was the tricky part. Holding onto his motivation in the form of riotous fury helped him to bide his time and pick his battles more tactically, which meant letting Imperial Slave Crosshair follow orders when it didn’t involve his brothers, no matter how heinous his crimes. 

He bridled his tongue as he killed one of his own men and ordered his team to terminate civilians. He’d allowed himself to rat out his brothers’ location and accept the kill order on Bracca. He’d listened as he spun his tale of deception over comms he knew Tech was listening in on and led them into a trap, and beamed with pride when his brothers thwarted his best-laid plans-

But when he saw Tech and Hunter on the other end of his scope, Crosshair lashed out against the inhibitor chip’s control and unleashed every ounce of reserved strength he had, to make sure he botched his shot and hesitated on the follow-up. It was all he could really do to ensure they’d live to escape the hunt. There was no doubt in his mind that they’d outwit and survive whatever came next, but even in his wildest expectations, Crosshair couldn’t have predicted the spectacular disaster that followed the ignition of the ion engines.

As the thermal-plated cone crashed to the ground, he stared into the exhaust and breathed a sigh of relief for a brief moment before he was knocked off his feet. Ironically, in spite of the severe burns he’d suffered, the accident had done him more good than harm. Helping them survive in-turn helped him regain some semblance of control over himself by damaging his inhibitor chip, and though branded by an unsightly scar, he proudly bore it as a tangible reminder of his successful rebellion. Because Empire and overclocked inhibitor chip be damned, he’d saved what was important to him under the worst of circumstances. How many could say that of their fortitude?

Although most of his actions on Ryloth had been deliberate to alleviate Admiral Rampart’s growing doubt that he was still loyal, there were moments where what he said or did didn’t match up to what he’d had in mind. Between that and the occasional splitting headaches following breakthrough moments of vivid clarity, he could tell he was still fighting the chip’s influence. Why else would he be so ready to give up on his family to serve an Empire that made him work so hard to prove his worth when it was so well-documented? For stability? For purpose? He didn’t remember caring for any of that before, but then again he’d never had to consider what hardships lay ahead of a defector.

He could only imagine Clone Force 99’s struggle since leaving the security of active duty. Without a direct line to the Republic or the Empire for rations, supplies, fuel, and spare parts, they’d have been running on fumes after a dozen rotations. Factor in having to conceal their identities, scavenge for work, and ditch the bounty hunters on their tail that were after Omega… none of it added up to a pretty life on the run, especially not for the kid. But, at the very least, they still had each other and they had their loyalties, which was more than he could say of the spineless shebiise on his squad. And after seeing how the Empire truly operated, he couldn’t really blame them for choosing to leave, even if the chip in his head cried otherwise.

When they’d brought Hunter back from Daro, he tried explaining that to him the only way he knew he could: through out-of-character displays of carefully coded self-awareness and emotional expression. Working within the lines of ‘things he’d never say’ and ‘things that wouldn’t be considered the chip’s influence’ was critical to conveying his hidden meaning, and he spoke in sober, downtrodden tones. Crosshair was flat-out tired of fighting- his chip, his brothers, the Empire… one way or another, he needed it to end, and he could only hope Hunter would be smart enough to decode the message behind the chip’s censoring.

They don’t leave their own behind… most of the time.

You tried to kill us. We didn’t have a choice.

Hmph… and I did?

It was just so damn hard to get anything through that di’kut’s thick skull sometimes. For being the one with enhanced senses, he had a lot of trouble sensing when something was amiss, but at least that time he seemed to be looking for it.

It’s that inhibitor chip in your head.

Crosshair had meticulously planned every last detail of the confrontation right down to the placement of each soldier and reflective disc in the room. Telling them they wouldn’t need their weapons was an assurance rather than a statement, because he’d never intended to hurt them or let them be hurt by his squad.

So this was your grand plan…? Bring us here and kill us?

He softly winced as the fear that he may not succeed at getting through to them shook the foundation of his resolve, and the chip’s programming seeped through the cracks.

If I wanted you dead you would be, not that it wouldn’t be justified. You betrayed everything we stood for- and for what? The Republic?

We’re loyal to each other, not some Empire.

You weren’t loyal, to ME.

The words growled out with overwhelming urgency and snatched him by the throat. He was one of them once- and in all his time spent with the Empire among soldiers and commanding officers who questioned him at every turn, he hadn’t forgotten the feeling of true camaraderie. Every time he’d returned to their sterilized barracks, he’d been made devastatingly aware of how badly he wanted to be back with the people he trusted most and who trusted him in return to have their backs. All he’d wanted was the opportunity to talk to them, to give them what they hadn’t given him: the chance to choose him, to help free him, because he could not free himself. Not without their help. 

Sir, I’ve found the girl.

Crosshair hadn’t spent enough time with the kid to form an attachment, but neither did he want her to fall into the Empire’s hands. When his brothers were clueless to his struggle with his inhibitor chip, she had shown him compassion and understanding, something he had never known he needed or wanted until it was offered. If there was one thing both he and the chip agreed on, it was protecting her at all costs. 

Send her on a shuttle off-world.

Crosshair- DON’T.

It’s for her own good, and yours.

Omega belongs with US.

He understood his attachment well enough, but he couldn’t agree with that sentiment. Omega deserved stability, which wasn’t something they’d ever be able to afford her, Empire or no. She wasn’t a soldier, she was a child- the further away from them she was, the safer she’d be.

Living among fugitives where she’s in constant danger? You want to protect the kid, then let her go! Stop pretending to be something you’re not, Hunter. We’re not like the Regs… we never have been. 

For a moment his thoughts drifted to Cut Lawquane and his family, and he wondered if Hunter had considered domestic life, if he even had a plan at all. It would have been more suitable for a child than Mercenary work, but it wasn’t something they’d ever be able to settle into and stick with. The itch to fight would always draw them back into the heart of conflict one day.

We’re superior. The Empire can’t protect the Galaxy without strength.

It wasn’t a lie, but he wasn’t so naive as to believe that the Empire wanted to protect the Galaxy, after seeing how Ryloth had reacted to their occupation. What they were doing was wrong, and he knew it, but… 

This is what we were made for. Think of all we could do, together. We were brothers once, we can be again.

For a brief moment when he cut him loose, Crosshair saw a familiar flicker of recognition flash behind Hunter’s eyes as he listened to his words and analyzed the mismatched tone. He was so close to understanding, Cross nearly lost his composure. It was right there, screaming him in the face. 

Please just see it.

Why should we trust you…?

Crosshair grit his teeth as he gave the order for his ES Troopers to stand down, but when they refused, he took them out with a single premeditated shot, leaving himself in a position of four-on-one with men he knew damn well he wouldn’t be able to overpower on his own. It had only been a contingency plan in the event that he had to choose between his squad and his blood, but he wanted his loyalties to be clear. He was desperate to regain their trust, and if that wasn’t enough to convince them of his intentions, he wasn’t sure what would be.

Does that answer your question?

The look of alarm that painted Hunter’s face as Cross removed his helmet and stepped toward him wasn’t promising, nor was the silence that followed. Killing his entire squad probably hadn’t been the best way to demonstrate his alignment, but he was out of options and short on precious time.

You are all meant for more than drifting through the galaxy, it’s time to stop running. Join the Empire, and you will have purpose again.

The stress had loosened his control over the chip. If that hadn’t sounded like a conscripted recruitment advert straight from the Admiral’s mouth, his follow-up didn’t help.

Don’t make the same mistake twice. Don’t become my enemy.

It was meant more as a plea than a threat. Hunter would have known how furiously he was trying to choose family over duty if he’d just paid attention to the anguish in his tone, in his eyes. If they left again he wouldn’t be able to protect them, from himself or from the Empire.

Crosshair was surprised when Hunter jumped him first, and he fought back expecting the worst; but after several failed attempts to get the upper hand and one hard toss that slammed him into the ground, he looked up and realized he was trying to save his life.

He fell back into sync with the squad as if they’d never left, and for a few minutes, it felt like old times: Wrecker leading the charge, Echo and Tech watching his flanks, and Crosshair and Hunter watching their backs. He’d saved Hunter’s life twice already that day, and again two times more throughout the short-lived fight, but when the last droid fell and that splitting headache screamed at him to take back control, they still turned their guns on him. 

They had to be kidding. There was just no way that after everything, they still couldn’t see what was right in front of them, written all over his face, holding his rifle close to his chest.

But there he was, blaster raised and lip curled, still trying to convince him of what he already knew. 

Crosshair… forget the Empire! This isn’t you… it’s your inhibitor chip. We can help you.

Just what did he think he’d been doing all this time? Why did he think he’d lured them all to Kamino, murdered his squad, and saved their lives? Because he wanted them to join the Empire? Was that what they really wanted to believe…? And if they knew he was under the chip’s control, how did they expect him to accept their help? How was he supposed to even ask?

Crosshair’s resolve calcified as he realized he’d been chasing his tail for a pipe dream long dead, and that unless he could address his struggle directly they’d never see the nuance. Having his efforts to rebel thrown back in his face as if he hadn’t even tried to resist the chip fractured the foundation of his motivation with every passing denial, until it could no longer suffer the weight of his transgressions in the name of defiance.

It had been too easy to give in to the chip’s impulses then and let them think it had all been his decision, just to put an end to the way they looked at him with patronizing pity, but he was just so karking tired- of trying to fix what had broken... He’d always been the trenchant mir’sheb, after all, what was one last jump to become the monster they saw?

Wrong, he’d lied, as naturally as he breathed, I had my chip removed… a long time ago.

Pushing them away before they could reject him again was a last-ditch effort at self-preservation, however toxic the habit. Hunter’s anger was palpable, and Cross saw the way Tech glared at him from behind his goggles, but the lie had left him feeling too numb to be bothered.

… Since when?

Does it matter?

YES.

This is who I am.

Part of him had hoped they’d leave him to die in that simulation room, but when he awoke to Omega trying desperately to save his life, moments from drowning, he realized how stupid it would have been to let himself go out like that after everything. Perhaps all he’d needed was a nap, a hard fall, and one person risking their life to prove his meant something to them to knock some sense into him, but when Hunter confessed they weren’t going to leave him behind ‘again’, regret began to gnarl in his gut.

Like the stubborn di’kut he was, however, instead of thanking him in his own way, he’d doubled down hard on the condescension, picking and poking until one by one, each one of them gave up on saving him from himself. But when even Omega—despite being the only one who’d still had faith that he’d overcome the chip’s influence— finally admitted that she had been wrong about him, he knew he’d made a mistake. She had been his beacon of hope since the beginning of this waking nightmare, and her rejection was easily the most emotionally devastating blow he’d suffered all day. 

But,it also made him desperate enough to wrestle back full control over his chip, because if that was the last she ever saw of him, it wasn’t how he wanted her to remember him. 

He still cared for his former squad, his aliit, and their survival had and always would be his top priority. So despite his reservations about intentionally destroying the one room keeping them alive, he’d chimed in to help solve the problem of navigating the debris field. 

The droid- he can do it.

And do it he did, even to the detriment of his continued functionality. He wouldn’t have spared a second thought to his loss had Omega not recklessly opened her tube and gone after him, but when Hunter started to panic and Crosshair saw her sinking beneath the murk, he took the only shot at her he ever would, without a second thought.

And hit his mark.

He’d looked up as Hunter hoisted them both into the tube to find four guns staring back at him, and at that moment he lost all hope for reconciliation. 

That was the reason why he couldn’t bring himself to go with them in the end. Not just because the inhibitor chip wouldn’t allow him to consciously make the decision to leave or tell them he wanted help getting rid of it, but because the scorn in their eyes conveyed that they’d never be able to trust him again. That ship had jumped when he lied about his inhibitor chip. As much as it hurt to let them go—especially after Omega had said her piece—he had to let it be. 

So he did. 

And here he was- helpless and alone, with the storms closing in, and no shelter to welcome him home.

A deep sigh emptied his lungs as he sat down, sank over his knees and leaned his chest against his thighs. To hell with all this emotional bantha fodder , he sneered as another headache split his skull in two. If he was going to die, it would have been easier if they’d just left him in the training grounds. 

The boom of a starship breaking the atmosphere drew his attention as it cracked above him, and Crosshair’s golden-eyed gaze turned up to see a modified Darvro-class light freighter headed straight for him. FINALLY, someone had picked up his distress call, even if it wasn’t the Empire. A ride was a ride, and all he wanted at the moment was to leave Kamino and never look back.

He picked himself up off the ground and wobbled a little bit on his feet, hoisted the pack up onto his back, then slotted his rifle into the nook behind his shoulder. By the time he’d collected himself, the ship had come around and hovered near the edge of the platform with its cargo ramp open… to greet him with one raven-haired Night Watch soldier flashing him a coy grin as she hung from one of the loading ramp support pistons. 

“Hey there, Trooper…!” her voice cracked over the rumble of the engine. “Need a lift?”

Chapter Text

Mandalorians? Was he having a fever dream? 

Well, this was certainly a surprise.

Crosshair stopped in his tracks and took a suspicious step back from the approaching craft. Of all the wayward ships he’d theorized might have picked up his distress beacon, the Night Watch—who had been busy staging their own uprising against the Empire on Mandalore, at least twelve thousand parsecs from Kamino—wasn’t even an honorable mention. 

There was no reason for them to be out this far on the opposite side of the outer rim. And even if they were already within range, the reasons why the rogue warriors of House Vizsla would respond to an Imperial distress beacon were few- most of which did not bode well for his survival. 

An Imperial Commander ranked high on the rebellion’s list of targets, not only as a necessary piece to remove from the board, but as a valuable source of intel. Fortunately for him, all commandos had been rigorously trained to resist interrogation; unfortunately , he’d just spent nine days exposed to constant battering rain, on minimal nutrition and little-to-no sleep. He was starving, sick, weak and paranoid, and high on his last stims. Even the most hardened ARC’s would crack if their Jedi General was to get her hands on them in this state.

Suddenly his ticket off Big Stormy didn’t look so appealing.

Cross squinted, shakily slipped a toothpick into the corner of his mouth, and kept a safe distance from the edge. “You’re a long way from Mandalore,” he drawled with pointed apprehension.

“And you look mighty miserable, standin’ there all by your lonesome.” She grinned with such familiarity it made his stomach churn. “Why don’tcha come in outta the cold and we’ll take you to the nearest starport?”

Hunger pains nipped at his resolve but he didn’t bite. He shifted the pick from one corner of his mouth to the other and further narrowed his eyes as she moved between the support pistons.

“Somethin’ wrong, trooper?”

“You could say that,” he answered with a crooked nod. “Why are you here?”

The Mandalorian furrowed her brow. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“ Humor me .”

“We were passin’ through and picked up your distress beacon,” she explained as the freighter lowered just enough for him to hop onto the ramp, if he chose. “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of anyone else for at least ten parsecs… nonna whom were rushin’ to Kamino to respond to an Imperial in distress, anyway.”

And there it was, the hook: no ships in range that would consider braving the Kaminoan storms to rescue one lone Imperial. If the Night Watch were convinced enough that they were safe risking a stop, then the Empire really must have abandoned the system.

One arm trembled as he crossed and tucked it under the other, a tell that he needed food and rest soon. “And why did the Night Watch decide to rush to my aid?” he sneered. “Are you really doing this out of the goodness of your hearts? Or are you just hoping for a hostage?”

She was taken aback by the heat in his assumption, but he wasn’t wrong to be skeptical of their intentions. The Night Watch was about as friendly to the Empire as the Republic had been to the Confederacy during the Clone Wars, and it was unheard of for Mandalorians to offer help to their enemies.

“We heard comm chatter about Tipoca’s destruction, so when we saw where your beacon was comin’ from, we didn’t really think twice. The clones helped us once, and we wanted to return the favor.”

He was almost inclined to believe her. These do-gooder rebels were known to have taken in clone deserters and sympathetic parties. If they weren’t looking for a hostage, they were probably hoping to convert one more disillusioned soldier to their cause, the irony of which wasn’t lost on him. They would have had better luck recruiting Clone Force 99 into their ranks, had they come across his brothers rather than him. Swearing allegiance to the Night Watch would have been an easy transition for men in their position- aside from fulfilling their need to ‘do the right thing’, they’d have the security of the clan to protect Omega, stable sources of food and work, and clarity of purpose-

All of which he could have provided, had they just returned to the Empire.

The Empire that had just destroyed their home? The Empire that turned their noses up at the very soldiers who had single-handedly eradicated the Jedi and seized control of the entire Galaxy with one order? The Empire that had made it very clear that the future of their service, their very survival, was not guaranteed…?

Why in the nine hells had he chosen this over his family? For purpose, for stability, for influence ? Fat lot of good that had done him.

Crosshair grimaced, reached up and pressed the heel of his hand into the piercing headache as it shot through his temporal lobe. He hadn’t had a single independent thought that went unpunished, nor a moment of painless clarity, since his chip had activated. 

“... hey- you okay?”

“Do I look okay ?”

He caught the way her face lit up in recognition out of the corner of his eye but didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t need her sympathy—it wouldn’t have helped him anyway—and he didn’t want her empathy. 

A deeper feminine voice boomed from inside the cargo hold, beckoning Trinn to get inside and close the hatch so they could leave. After gesturing back to them to ‘Give me a minute’, she turned her attention back to him and tried again.

“Look- I can only imagine the week you’ve had, but I’d hope you’d still have enough sense t’not look a gift-fathier in the mouth.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he replied before he could change his mind. Leaving now—after all that time spent gaining ground with Rampart—would be a waste, and he wasn’t about to concede.

“You sure? Maker knows when your next chance will be. Do you really want to sit here for another…” Her voice trailed off and she rolled a shrug to illustrate.

Fierfek , she was right. Not even pirates or scrappers would have bothered withstanding Kamino’s hazards for the promise of a mediocre payday. Crosshair’s throat bobbed at the thought of being stuck on Kamino any longer. Due to his accelerated metabolism, he was already running dangerously low on rations, despite his best efforts to make them last. He could stretch them maybe another week if he bit off just enough to keep himself from starving to death, but he could already feel the weakness creeping into his bones. He was losing muscle density, ketosis was setting in. At this rate, it was either stay and risk an unpleasant death, or leave and possibly be taken prisoner. Had he been at full strength, he had no doubt he would be able to fight back in the case of the latter, but the number of soldiers aboard the craft was an unknown variable. 

And who knew if the Empire would really be back.

His voice cracked as he forced the question. “You’ll take me to the closest starport, no strings attached…?”

“So long as you don’t rat us out.”

The lines in his forehead crinkled, arms dropped and balled his fingers into fists at his sides. He’d have plenty of time to rehearse the conversation with Admiral Rampart about how he had gotten his team killed and survived an orbital bombardment on a city that was now completely underwater. Lying about Clone Force 99’s survival wasn’t an issue, but crawling back empty-handed yet again wouldn’t earn him any favor. At the rate his failures were piling up, he’d be lucky to get an early retirement.

Don’t fool yourself- all you'll ever be to them is a number.

Trinn’s boots scraped as they shifted against the durasteel and turned away. “Fine, I’ll just tell my pilot to turn around-”

“ No ,” he finally conceded with a low, snarling growl. If the objective was survival, the strategy was obvious: control what you can. Even if he ended up in a cell, he’d have food and shelter. His odds of survival were better if he took the gamble of leaving with sympathetic enemies. 

So long as he gave them no reason to distrust him, and nothing to work with. 

Vertigo hit him as he lunged onto the swaying ship. One leg staggered and buckled, and he hit the deck hard as Trinn reacted and reached for his forearm. It slipped out of her grasp until her hand caught at the neck of his wrist and tightly gripped the plating over his hand. His body lurched with all of his weight pulling at his shoulder socket, and whipped his head around to bring him face-to-face with the Kaminoan deep. Sickness rose in his gut as the swell crashed beneath him, and just as he started to black out, he was yanked back into the safety of the cluttered cargo hold with incredible ease. Crosshair groaned as he hit the ground and pressed his fingers into his eyes, writhing on the vibrating floor beneath him.

Another heavier pair of boots approached him from across the room and came to a stop inches from his face, and he looked up into the face of a behemoth of a Mandalorian woman—as thick as he was tall, yet dwarfed him in presence alone—staring down at him with a steely blue, unyielding gaze. Impervious didn’t even begin to describe her.

“Weapons off, Comms and beacons out the ship,” she demanded with a curt nod over his shoulder.

Crosshair sat back on his heels. “Is that really necessary ?”

“Not dealing with you reneging on our agreement, or having your Imperial friends tag us mid-flight.”

He couldn’t fault them for being thorough, but he still hesitated and grimaced in protest as he pushed himself to his feet. He reached for the backup deecee pistol first, then Hunter’s knife which he’d tucked into the plate over his calf, and set them down on the fold-out lockup bench to the left of him. As he reached for his Firepuncher, he leaned forward to give it enough room to swing over his head without hitting the bulkhead, and set it down next to the others with a more reverent touch. 

“Commpad and distress beacon.”

Crosshair grit his teeth and held her gaze with a curled upper lip, unclipped the comm-pad from his vambrace and thrust it out the ship behind him into the raging sea. “Beacon’s wired to the power in my kit.”

“I’ll handle it.” Trinn stepped up behind him and unseated the pack from the mag-plate in his cuirass, then motioned him forward and raised the loading ramp as the muscly woman reached for the vibro-blade and let out a low whistle of approval. 

“I want that back,” he muttered under his breath as he pushed past her into the staging area of the cargo bay and smothered the urge to share that it held sentimental value.

The redhead gripped the hilt and flipped it around and over between her fingers with practiced ease, testing the balance with marveled interest. “Who wouldn’t ?” 

Trinn set his pack down at the workbench against the wall to the right and raised her commpad to signal to their pilot. 

“Sentry-one, we’re clear.”

“ Copy .”

The miniscule shift of directional force as the ship departed the platform disrupted his equilibrium mid-step. One hand instinctively reached for the bulkhead handrail but he instead caught himself on the cargo webbing strung along the walls. His shaky legs wobbled as he pulled himself over onto the bench in the corner beside the interrior blast doors and dropped with all of his weight onto the bare durasteel. Crosshair’s tired eyes fell shut as he drew in a deep breath and released it with a relieved grunt. Circumstances aside, this was already infinitely better than sitting on that platform in the rain.

The female officer folded the bench containing all of his weapons into the wall and secured it for hyperspace, then cast him a skeptical glance before she passed through the doors. Her heavy footsteps receded deeper into the ship until the vibration could be heard no more, and she greeted someone with a curt “ Commander .” 

“ Captain ,” an androgynous voice replied, equally as curt. “ Report .”

“ Found one Imperial, right where they said he’d be. ”

They…? Someone had sent them here for him…? The only people that even knew he was still alive was Clone Force 99, who—as far as he knew—had no affiliation with the Night Watch. If they had friends like that, they wouldn’t have been scurrying from job to job like rats. So who would they have told…? Rebels? The clone underground made the most sense. So they did have contacts somewhere out there looking out for them. 

And he did as well, it seemed. Despite leaving him behind, his brothers hadn’t given up on him after all. They were still giving him chances he didn’t deserve. 

“ So he’s not a clone? ”

“ Doesn’t look like any clone I’ve ever seen… ”

“ Then why are we taking him with us? ”

“ We’re already here, the chakaar looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. You really gonna leave him here to die? ”

“ He’s an Imperial , we gain nothing by helping him, bringin’ him on board the ship is a huge security risk to us. ”

“ Trinn’s disabling his beacon, he has no comms. We’ll be fine. ”

Trinn kicked at the toe of his boot to get his attention and snapped him out of his focus.

“Plates off.”

“Buy me dinner first,” he sneered back without looking up. 

She puffed out a low chuckle. “Savin’ your sorry shebs wasn’t enough?”

“I know what I’m worth.”

“C’mon,” she persisted, dropping his pack next to him on the floor. “You wanna stay on the ship? I need to disable that beacon. Then you can sleep as long as you want.”

Crosshair grimaced and turned away from her in protest. His entire life, his plates had been the only thing between him and an untimely death. It didn’t feel right being out of them, much less in the presence of his enemies. 

“What’s the matter, you shy?”

“Forgive me for not trusting that you won’t shoot me in the back the moment I do.”

“We could still shove you out the airlock at any time.”

He stiffened and bristled instinctively before realizing it was a joke. She was joking with him.

“I’ll give you a minute to yourself,” she said as she double-checked that the weapon stores were locked up tight on her way to the door, then turned on heel and pointed back his way. “But don’t try anything, or you’ll have my sister t’answer to.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes and gave her a sarcastic two-fingered salute as the door shut behind her before reaching up to unclip his breastplate. He’d lost track of the conversation between the Captain and Commander once Trinn interrupted him, but without the distraction he could hear them again clear as day.

“ I don’t get why they’d send us out here for one stormtrooper. ”

“ Well, maybe we’ve got it wrong. Maybe he is a clone. ”

“ Oh, for sure he is., ” Trinn proclaimed without hesitation, drawing a snort from the Captain.

“ What makes you so sure? ”

“ Well, for one thing- I don’t think a teekay trooper would have survived that mess on their own.”

Crosshair set his chestplate down on the floor and almost laughed at the thought. The TK’s had been trained by Clone Commandos for infantry combat and security. They hadn’t undergone the rigorous survival training that had killed many clones before they had even deployed. 

“They’re not exactly bright, I’ll give you that.”

“ Exactly, and this one’s too smart- gehatyc, ramikadyc.”

“A Commando? You think so?”

“Yeah, they all have the look in their eye- resentment, guilt, instant distrust of anyone that ain’t a brother... ”

“Could be the shell-shock.”

“Or, it’s ‘cause he’s still chipped.”

“And you left him alone!?”

“Relax, Reina. Mal can handle him.”

He wasn’t the only one that was smart. Trinn was observant ( too observant for his liking ), the Captain was cautious. If he’d learned anything about Mandalorians from Skirata and Vau, it’s that they were not to be underestimated. Each was a Commando by their own right, their entire culture had evolved around survival. Mandalore’s heritage had made the Clone army, without their training he and his brothers would have been long dead. 

And this crew was well-trained. If the rest of the Night Watch was half as competent—and he was certain they were—it was no wonder they were giving the Empire a run for their credits. Though their rebellion against the Imperial occupation of Mandalore had just begun, their notoriety had already spread to the farthest reaches of the Galaxy, inspiring other Separatist-allied planets like Raxus to follow suit. 

It was dangerous for him to linger for too long.

“We should have Noei take a look at him.”

“No way. We’re not taking a chipped Commando back to base.”

“Just drop me off at the nearest starport and I’ll find my way,” he cut in from the doorway behind them. 

All three heads snapped around in unison. Trinn’s hand flexed over the blaster on her thigh, Captain Mal braced herself for a fight, the Pilot fixed an intense gaze on him from behind their goggles. His vision blurred, he swayed on his feet. For a brief moment of confusion, in the dimly lit hallway, he saw the faces of his brothers staring back at him in cautious apprehension…

Then Trinn straightened up and shoved Mal back onto her heels with a muttered udesii as she passed. Their pilot-Commander exchanged a glance with Captain Mal, grunted and finally ceded.

“We’ll drop you off at Capital City on Uyter. It’s about a day’s flight out, but you shouldn’t have a problem gettin’ in touch with your friends there.”

“Works for me.”

Trinn motioned him back into the cargo bay, stooped to pick up his armor as he carefully lowered himself back onto the bench, then sat down at the workbench and popped open the backing that protected the circuitry. The distress beacon in his kit exhaled a low, digitized squeal as it powered down minutes later. He was truly on his own now, no one else was coming for him.

And yet, part of him couldn’t help but feel like he should be making better use of the situation he’d found himself in. 

“I knew you’d change your mind,” Trinn offered in the silence that followed.

“You did, did you…?” Stars, this one was as irritating as she was cute. He was starting to wish he was alone again. The sooner the better.

Crosshair sank down into his seat until he was laying flat on the bench with his legs stretched out long, folded his arms, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t see her face, but the silence was telling. He knew she was grinning.